Reality Dawns. Again.

It used to be that ‘The Big C’ was the boogieman of illnesses but something else has taken its place for we non-smokers, but indulgent eaters.

I blame the quality of food in Catalonia for the fact, and it is a heavy one, that I need to lose weight.  Again.  My weight loss the last time was prompted (a euphemism if ever I heard one) by the results of a blood test and an out-and-out warning from my doctor.  Now that warning has been uttered to Toni and I am scurrying along in the penumbra of fear from that threat.

The warning was stark.  Lose weight or be set down as a Type 2 Diabetes patient with the consequent repercussions on life style and the lifetime taking of medication intravenously.

So, this lunchtime, the condemned man (he has until the end of the month to get the asterisks off his blood test results) ate anything but a hearty meal: salad, fish fillet, followed by nothing but a cup of coffee with saccharine!  As his blood-sugar level is too high he has been told to stay off fruit as an in-between-meals filler and instead drink some sort of tea, the name of which he has, in self defence, already forgotten.  Now, everything is going to be checked for sugar and I fear that we are going to find that sugar is second only to salt in its omnipresence in food, both prepared and natural.  We will probably both end up on a diet of water!

To be fair, this is only Day 1 of the New Regime, and I am hoping that sense, compromise and sheer indolence and tiredness might make the road to an asterisk-free life a little less bumpy.

My own situation is barely better than his.  I weighed myself this morning and discovered to my horror that I am some 16 kilograms over my ideal (or skeletal) weight.  If I actually lost that amount of weight I would look gaunt to the point of concern, so I have decided that a more reasonably horrific target is 10 kilograms.  That is a lot.  But there are ways.

At lunch today I had cool, still, H₂O to accompany my food.  Gone was the red wine and Casera that is my usual tipple.  Water.  Pure and simple.  And, I have decided, this is not just for today, but rather for the number of todays it takes to get me down to my ‘target’ weight.  I have made an executive decision to make an exception for Cava Brut.  The grounds for this exception are that Cava is a white, and therefore less calorie challenged drink; and also that the Brut nature of the Cava I drink means that it has even fewer calories than the other types.  I can therefore drink toasts with a clear conscience.

I am also cutting down on nuts.  One of my friends told me that when she was slimming she ate nuts: she allowed herself half a walnut every other day.  This is not, I have to tell you, how I eat nuts.  I take the generally accepted ‘healthy’ and ‘protein’ aspects of them and let that cover the fact that my consumption is markedly more than half a nut every other day!  That will stop.  Nuts and dried fruit will be added to the all-bran/Special K mixture that comprises my breakfast cereal.  And that’s it.  Honestly!

As I do not eat that much chocolate I am not too disturbed by its prohibition.  Added to that is the fact that I went into the fridge and threw out any chocolate I could find, just to give my self-restraint that extra edge of protection.  And I now quicken my step when the excellent selection of chocolate in supermarkets is near.

Bread is not too much of a problem either.  I love bread, but I can resist and I have restricted myself to pre-packaged 99 calorie multi-grain ‘bread’ that I pretend is good for me.  Whenever I feel like complaining, I merely have to remember one of my mother’s diet Energen Rolls (?) a form of what I could only describe as what ‘whipped bread’ might have tasted like.  That actually tasted like nothing at all, and offensively so as well!  At least my ‘bread’ is better than those were.

My problems are rice and pasta, and indeed potatoes – and any other form of carbohydrate that you care to mention.  I have been told on a previous occasion that these forbidden pleasure could be allowed as long as they form no more than a third of the plate, to which I respond by saying how high can you build?  To which the response was that I wasn’t thinking along the right lines and that suggestions have to be followed within the spirit of the advice as well as the word.  That doesn’t get you the calories you need, he whimpered quietly to himself.

Anyway the meal austerity has started and we are both thoroughly miserable.  Which is a bad way to start because I have also been told that no eating programme is going to work that does not have your enthusiasm behind it. 

That might well be true up to a point, but having fear as a driving force behind the need to lose weight is also a strong incentive and it might well do.

I will keep you informed about my weight loss or (tell it not in Gath) gain.  This is my desperate attempt to engage a wider observation of my efforts in order to ensure success.

I hope!

If you have enjoyed reading this post, please feel free to click the 'Follow' button on the top right of this page or feel equally free to leave a comment.

If you would like to read drafts of my recent poems please go to smrnewpoems.blogspot.com

Here we go again!

-->

 

Back to school after the holidays!

That statement is both true and misleading. 

It’s true that I did go to ‘school’, or rather a place of education for those beyond the normal years of childhood - which is another way of saying that I am getting Spanish lessons in an Adult Education Centre, though it also appears to have near school age pupils too.  Confusingly.  However, there I go, which brings me to the misleading part.  My present day schooling is only twice a week for two hours - rather different from my previous experience as pupil or teacher!

I might add that the level of Spanish that I am supposed to be doing means that four hours a week is more than enough for my brain to take in.

In a direct proof of the existence of the ‘hand of god’ element in my life, I somehow managed to pass last year’s course and that ‘success’ was used as a direct threat-and-proof by my teacher, so I reluctantly signed on for the higher level course this year.

My horror has been compounded week-on week by the explosion of fiendish verb tenses to which we have been introduced and which stubbornly refuse to stay in my memory.  Of course, mere lack of knowledge does not stop my chattering away in class, ignoring the greying, haggard faces that have to make sense of my enthusiastic but ungrammatical exposition in Spanish!  But there will come a time when surface loquacity will have to pass an exam, a written exam, and smiling-faced gibbering in roughly approximate Spanish will not be enough - or even acceptable.

This year, I have therefore decided, will be the Year of the Verb (YOTV) [And you could read that acronym in Spanish as ‘I Television’, he typed irrelevantly] and I have therefore been vaguely busy in trying to rationalise my learning.

I purchased (and have very rarely used) a sort of book/bible called, imaginatively, “501 Spanish Verbs” that, unsurprisingly contains 501 Spanish Verbs fully conjugated!  Who would have thought!  But wait, that is not all.  There is much, much more - none of which you would find remotely interesting unless you are engaged in the study of the language.  If you are, then this book is indispensable.  Truly.

And it is going to be the key to my groping way towards Spanish verbal acceptability.  The idea is to photocopy part of the introduction that gives a clear and understandable guide to The Seven Simple Tenses and The Seven Not So Simple (Compound) Tenses with a Mood (Imperative) and use these pages as my Daily Readings.  In this way, I am fondly hoping that mere looking will allow the grammatical delights to seep their ways into my brain and become something that I can actually use with something approaching proficiency.

This introduction also tempts with a glimpse of the forbidden pleasures of The Future Subjunctive and the Future Perfect Subjunctive. It says, “The future subjunctive and the future perfect subjunctive exist in Spanish, but there are rarely used” and that is a good enough excuse to ignore them completely, even if I actually knew what they were!

All displaced persons keep referencing their distant homes, and all I want to be able to do is say, with confidence, in Spanish: “When I was living in Cardiff” or “When I used to play badminton in the Eastern Leisure Centre” or “Having been educated in Swansea University” or “I am thinking about taking another course in the Open University in the next few years” or simply “When I was younger” etc.  As well as dreaming about saying, in Spanish something like, “If I had known what it would have been like, I possibly might have” etc.  As it is at the moment, I attempt sophisticated verb tenses but end up sounding like a Tarzan figure whom choses random parts of a grammar primer and hopes for the best.  Which is something!

This morning’s lesson played to my strengths.  It started late, didn’t have any new grammar or vocabulary and all of it comprises various students speaking and responding!  The two hours sped by, and the most concerning element in the lesson was worrying about whether the battery pack on my electric bike would last for the homeward journey.

As it happens it did and the pack is now safely recharged and ready for insertion to get me to my swim tomorrow.

One thing that I note is that I used the term ‘worrying’ about whether the battery would last.  Basically, it doesn’t matter.  Without a working battery, my electric bike is, well, a bike.  It has seven gears and you pedal.  It’s a bike!  It works with sheer leg power.  But the electric bike is like the dishwasher.  I am tempted to let that last sentence stand alone and not give an explanation, rather in the Lewis Carroll “Why is a raven like a writing desk” (or vice versa) but that would be pointlessly cruel.

A number of times I have started the dishwasher and then found a cup or plate that should have been included.  Now, you have to stay with me here, as I did not discover that you could open up the dishwasher and insert something part way through the cycle.  And that knowledge was based on the very first dishwasher I owned where I assumed that breaking the cycle would not pose a problem, and flooded the kitchen!  I know that with water saving and eco-cycles the amount of water used is minimal, but that is not the point.  I would see the lone cup and think, “Damn!  If I had found that a few minutes earlier it could have gone in the wash and now it will just have to wait for the next load.”  What I didn’t think was, “Oh well, I’ll wash it in the sink and dry it with the tea towel.”

As a bike without a battery is still a bike, so a cup can be washed by hand rather than by a machine.

Then I started thinking of other statements that I know that I have made at some point or other whose link to reality is sometimes questionable:

“The hoover is not fully charged, I can’t clean.”

“I’m not going to the shops because it’s raining.”

“I didn't contact you because I mislaid my mobile phone."

"I am wearing this shirt because I do not have any others."

"I bought it because I needed it."

"We have nothing in the house to eat."

"You can never own too many tea spoons."

And I think I better stop there as perhaps I am giving too much away!

If you have enjoyed reading this post, please feel free to click the 'Follow' button on the top right of this page.

If you would like to read drafts of my recent poems please go to smrnewpoems.blogspot.com

The Lesson For The Day

-->

There is nothing like being in a gathering where you are the only person who does not have fluency in the language being used in fast, idiomatic exchanges to encourage you to focus on “unconsidered trifles” (and yes, I did look it up, and I thought it was from another play than the one I first thought of, shame on me!) and then to play around with the levels of irony that you can find in and around your place setting at the dinner table.

One such “trifle” was a bottle top (so to speak), from a bottle of Cava given to me because I was British because we obviously know everything there is to know about alcohol from its manufacture, through bottle opening, to astonishing consumption.  

All the Catalans that I know are, generally speaking, moderate in their drinking habits to the point of squeamishness.  Therefore, my ability to consume more than a single glass of Cava is regarded with something approaching pitying awe - though those last two words sound like an example of oxymoron, but let it pass.  The point is that I am deferred to on matters alcoholic, especially in matters Cava-ic, so I always open the bottles.

I have to admit that I am something of an expert now and pride myself on the efficient removal of all but the most recalcitrant of corks with the minimum of sound.  There are no ‘pops’ when I uncork a bottle of Cava, merely the merest of susurrations - if that!

As I am sure that any ful kno (and I am not prepared to give the source of that deathless quotation based on the Satchmo Principle) under the foil covering the cork is a round metal disc that stops the wire holding the cork in place cutting into the cork itself.  Usually these discs have some sort of design on them and have actually become collectors’ pieces!  Sad buggers, says the grown man who still collects British Commemorative First Day Covers!  You can buy specially designed folders with special pouched plastic sheets to display your treasures!  Says the man who has tens of filled folders with pouched plastic sheets to display his FDCs.

Anyway, a colleague in The School on the Hill in Barcelona once told me that her sister-in-law collected such things and that she would be grateful if I could keep my eye open when a bottle was un-corked and, if I remained sober enough, remember to keep the illustrated disc.  I dutifully collected the discs that I drank through, as it were, and in spite of the fact that my colleague’s husband now owns a restaurant and therefore is an unending supply of little discs, I still look and almost automatically put the discs into my pocket.  And then months later throw them away.  It’s a sort of domestic rite of passage.

The one illustrated above, however, caught my interest because of its innate preachiness.

I always maintain that I was virtually unique in the teaching profession by actually listening to each and every school assembly to which I went.  I mean really listening.  Elsewhere I have noted the extraordinary “quality” of what I heard.  The content ranged from the recited (from a printed book of assembly suggestions), through out-and-out gibberish, to one exceptional Christian assembly in which the basic tenets of religion were comprehensively rejected!   

No matter what was said, there was little to no reaction because people did not listen.  Never mind the kids who adopted the defensive ‘closed ears’ syndrome in an assembly situation, but also the adult teachers who I noted were able to look with empty eyes at the speaker on the stage while at the same time giving a vague impression of being emotionally engaged in what was being said.  One of the tricks to maintain sanity!

There were good assemblies in which well-chosen examples were linked to the kids' lives that, if only they had been listening, would have edified them.  But they were in the minority.

My favourite assembly speaker was, I have to admit, one of the worst.  He was a great aficionado of the “While listening to the radio this morning . . .” and the “On my way to school today I noticed” school of assembly giving.  Whatever he talked about in his free-flowing stream of consciousness, the delivery of the punch line of his words was always the same.  The content may have been conflict in Africa, or charity in India, or the perils of drug taking, or the need to plan your studies, but the punch-line, the denouement, the didactic thrust was always, “Don’t drop litter!”   

His greatest moment came when his topic appeared to be (nothing was ever clear cut) something to do with female hygiene!  Just the way to start the day!  After ten or so minutes of acute embarrassment wondering what the hell the point was that he was trying to make in his indelicate meanderings, we finally to to the  clear, concise and gloriously out of place summary: “Don’t drop litter!”

I couldn’t help thinking of him as I looked at the disc, while speedy Catalan flowed around me: “Sin ALCOHOL”, and I wondered just what he would have produced from such a ready-made stimulus for a student audience!  Perhaps he would have remarked the sinuous, sensuous, swash capital ‘S’ taking up so much of the space, spreading itself on the pristine white as though owning it, literally crowning the bottle!  And then the prosaic sans serif of ALCOHOL in small capitals: the capitals representing the importance of the substance, but the size a reference to the insidious nature of the product: no frills, just threat; there, yet at the same time almost inconspicuous beneath the flamboyance of Sin!  And so on, until the peroration and the exhortation to be tidy!

The real irony, of course is that interpretation only works in English, not in Spanish!

In Spanish the word for ‘sin’ is ‘pecado’ - which we retain in English in the word ‘peccadillo’ meaning a little sin.  Interestingly, though probably only to me, the word ‘peccable’ meaning open to sin, also exists, but this word is more commonly used as its negative as in ‘impeccable’ and therefore forms a part of the select group of words which include ‘gruntled’, 'whelm', ‘kempt’, ‘couth’, ‘ruly’, ‘corrigible’ and ‘wieldy’.

Anyway, in English the Spanish word ‘sin’ means 'without’, so the bottle top disc was actually from a bottle of semi-sec (ugh!) Cava-like liquid, without alcohol!  It tasted, I couldn’t resist it, as disgusting as you might imagine.

I suppose, if you were feeling in the right mood of mischievousness, you could work out a whole ‘assembly’ in which the revolting taste of the drink without alcohol, linked to the free forming and sheer exuberance of the word ‘sin’ and the solid reassurance of the black capitals of the word ALCOHOL are a direct encouragement to sybaritic excess.

But, please to remember, Don’t Drop Litter, and dispose of the metal disc in a container for recycling!

Now, go and learn! 

-->

If you have enjoyed reading this post, please feel free to click the 'Follow' button on the top right of this page.
If you would like to read drafts of my recent poems please go to:                                            smrnewpoems.blogspot.com

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

The end of the holidays!

The cake was the most important part.

Celebrations of religious festivals, even when the religious element seems to be more of an historical afterthought than the actual basis for the festivity, seem to be only to be justified in terms of what you can eat and drink to make the day(s) special.  And presents of course.

In Britain we do not take the Festival of the Kings quite as seriously as they do in Catalonia.  Kings is very much part of the Christmas Season and I suppose part of the reason why the Sales do not really get started until after parents have made all of their purchases for Kings.

Kings is basically for kids.  There are elaborate processions to welcome the Kings when they come into a town or city, and then there are a series of floats all of which have people on them throwing sweets at the young people who lines the streets to greet them.

In Barcelona the Kings come into the city by sea and then make a triumphant progress into the centre.  We missed the procession on the day before Kings in Terrassa and instead came for the lunch in which the kids (and as it turned out, we too) got presents.

But the highlight of the meal is the cake.  This is a circular cake with a hole in the middle, with the filling being of cream and, most importantly, little things hidden inside the filling.  The official name of this cake is the Tortell de Reis or the King’s Tart, and ours was a magnificent affair with a filling divided into cream and chocolate and hidden inside the filling, somewhere, two inedible things: a porcelain broad bean and a little figure of a king.

The cake is cut up so that everyone gets a piece and then they chomp down.  Carefully!  I did and was ‘rewarded’ by finding a cream covered broad bean.  The significance of that discovery is that you have to buy the cake for the next year!  The person who gets the king figure is rewarded with the golden paper crown that is set in the hollow centre of the cake and is made King of the feast.

If you want more information about the Catalan customs at Christmas then an extensive illustrated explanation may be found at https://www.elnacional.cat/en/culture/a-catalan-christmas-explained_221886_102.html

And I assured you that these are not obscure folk customs, they are part of the everyday life of everyone who lives here!  And if you do read through it all, then I can assure you that the Belen on the stairs by the entrance to our house did have a caganer discretely squatting at the side of the stable!

With the end of that meal, I consider the Christmas Season well and truly over, but we will not be taking down all the Christmas decorations.

As you know, Catalonia and Spain are in the grips of the worst political crisis to have rocked Spain since the Dictatorship of Franco.  The Catalan referendum about independence was blighted by astonishing violence from the police forces of the Spanish national government preventing peaceful people from trying to cast their votes.  Our Catalan President and a slew of political leaders have been forced into exile or have been imprisoned.  The government of Catalonia has been disbanded and the functions of government have been taken over by PP, the minority right wing governing party of Spain whose actual popular mandate in the last election was a measly 4 seats out of 135, their percentage of the popular vote 4.2%!

Political corruption in Spain is rife.  PP is the most corrupt political party in western Europe and hundreds of its members, including all past treasurers of the party, having been accused of corruption or are in the process of being tried or are waiting to be sentenced.  This is the political slime that is deciding the future of our country!

To show solidarity with the imprisoned Catalan politicians twists of yellow ribbon are being worn.  Indeed wearing anything of the colour yellow is now considered something of a political statement by the minority right wing government of Spain.  I wear a yellow ribbon on my shirt at all times and have recently purchased a yellow scarf.  Those of you who know me, know that I never wear scarves, so this recent (and difficult) purchase shows considerable dedication!

Although the national minority government maintains that there is separation between the executive and the judiciary, too many recent examples of unequal treatment and opportunism make such an assertion difficult to believe.  The national minority government also maintains that there are no political prisoners in Spain and that the political leaders have been detained on criminal charges not political ones.  I am reminded of some of the policies of Queen Elizabeth the First who always imprisoned Roman Catholics for acts of treason, never merely because of their religion, that was always a strange coincidence!

While our political leaders are in prison we will keep our Christmas tree up.  It is not decorated in the usual festive manner, but has a whole series of yellow ribbons on the branches and even the lights are yellowish!  It will stay up until Spain sees reason and releases the political prisoners.

These early January days are a low level prologue to the political activity that will take place later in the month, when the new delegates to a new Catalan parliament will take their places.  The election, called by Rajoy, the leader of the minority right wing PP (with a mandate of 4.2% in the popular vote in Catalonia remember) in the hope that the independence parties would lose their majority.  Well they haven’t - but Rajoy and his disgusting collection of corruption monkeys, PP, lost 7 of their 11 seats.

So, if the majority of the elected representatives vote for independence Rajoy has already said that he will ignore the democratic wishes of the Catalan parliament and keep Article 155 in place which allows his 4.2% mandate to give him the right to govern Catalonia.  And don’t get me started on the way that the Spanish Senate is packed with PP fodder!

So, later in the month, all the rites and delights of Christmas are going to be well and truly forgotten as the political cut and thrust lurches back into action.

To find more information about what happened in the last Catalan elections in December, 2017, go to

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Catalan_regional_election,_2017

If you have enjoyed reading this post, please feel free to click the 'Follow' button on the top right of this page.

If you would like to read drafts of my recent poems please go to smrnewpoems.blogspot.com

Before the bell rings.

Unease by proxy. 

That’s what I call this weekend.  The holidays are almost over.  Today is Kings when Catalan kids will expect their second (or third) tranche of presents, sweeping together the loot from Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, the sweets from the procession of the Kings and parental presents for the day itself.  And Monday, reality hits.

As a SRP, (BBLE) that is, Smug Retired Person, Baby Boomer Leading Edge, I regard the end of the holidays and the reopening of the schools as the start of the time when we can reclaim streets, shops, supermarkets and open spaces as the noisy neophyte life forms are herded back into the rightful (if all too brief) seclusion of secure institutions.

As a retired teacher, however I cannot fail to feel that familiar frisson of dread that comes with the looming opening of a new, long, school term.  In Catalonia the new school terms also comes with the deadly threat of Staff Meetings.  However awful you think your experience of meetings might have been, you have not truly suffered until you have undergone the trail by frustration of a Spanish staff meeting in a school. 

I have been to thousands of meetings during my working life and indeed before and after, and the range, complexity and variety of those meetings and the different sorts of people who managed them and participated has been exhilaratingly different.  I was just thinking about the range of ‘meetings’ that I have experienced and the proportion of time that must have been spent on them.  At every stage of my life committees and meetings have been a constant.  In school: clubs, societies, sports, library, Prefects, magazine, orchestra, brass band, charity, hobbies - all have demanded some sort of committee work.  In university: clubs and societies again, but this time with a more formal structure of committee work; student politics; senate sub committees; subject work; trade union activity.  Work: departmental meetings, faculty meetings, union meetings at school, local, regional and national level, educational meetings of all sorts, Heads of Department Meetings, Staff meetings and on and on and on.

And throughout my long and generally soul destroying experience of committee and meeting I have never, ever experienced meetings of such vicious vacuity as those that I have experienced in Spain.  Ever.

For me, the Patron Saint of Meetings is Girolamo Savonarola, (1542-1498) the Italian Dominican friar and Renaissance Florence troublemaker.  He was one of those historical characters where there was much to admire (his hatred of clerical corruption, his rejection of tyrannical government and the exploitation of the poor and his championing of Republicanism) while, equally there was much to be disturbed about (his ‘prophecies’, his iconoclasm, his extreme puritanism and intolerance).  However the element in his life that both appeals and appals is the concept of The Bonfire of the Vanities. 

This bonfire was literal and the flames were fed by the population, responding to Savonarola’s urging, throwing luxuries into the conflagration to show their rejection of the ‘vanities’ of the world.

I am no great supporter of iconoclasm, but the idea of a Bonfire of the Vanities is a powerful one.  Especially when you are sitting listening to people waffling on about nothing in particular in a meeting that is taking up hours of your life.

I am reminded of a Robert Heinlein story in which the ultimate authority in the known universe was a powerful female figure.  She was respected throughout the galaxy etc. and delegations came to her for advice that would be followed strictly.  I remember one example of her advice being that members of the delegation that came to see her be executed as the solution to their problems!

How many times in my life have I imagined a Bonfire of the Loquacious in various meetings that I have attended where selective burnings would have concentrated the minds and shortened the meetings (and all future meetings) considerably.  As well as giving real satisfaction at seeing the guilty burn.

As I’ve mentioned before, some colleagues were only able to survive the more infuriating meetings by watching me as the supressed fury that I radiated in the more boring sessions could (my colleagues hoped) suddenly burst forth in a glorious display of justified ire that would make attendance justified.

I never did ‘break’, but I came close on a number of occasions. 

The truly and unbearably awful meetings in Spain were only made tolerable by a stratagem that I devised for survival.  I took my MacBook Air into the meetings with me and wrote personal, unexpurgated and real minutes in which my true feelings found full expression through my touch-typing.  There is nothing more satisfying while looking and listening to some idiot waffle on while your eloquent fingers say exactly what you are thinking as you stare at the guilty!

Each piece of idiocy was loving described by my tapping fingers and each fragment of fatuousness was highlighted by venom infused description.  This literary scorched earth assassination made the meeting just about bearable, but there were dangers in such an approach. 

In one meeting, a member of the English Department was sitting next to me and she began reading what I was typing and laughing.  Each time something stupid was said she looked over at the screen to read my assessment: in this way we both managed to survive the meeting relatively unscathed.

The real moment of tension occurred at the end of the meeting when the person who was chairing (I use the term because I can think of no other, but what she did bore no relation to what I would understand even a marginally competent chair might do) the meeting said that she had seen me making notes and would it be possible for her to have a copy!  I explained, with a straight face, that the notes were personal and not for general consumption and were in English that she didn’t speak.  While I was convincing and composed, my colleague was convulsed by what might have happened if she had read (and understood) what I had written!

God knows, teaching is a demanding enough profession in the day-to-day interaction of teacher and pupil, without making the whole thing so much worse by having cruelly pointless meetings.

And we had one meeting on a Saturday morning!  Though that criminal occasion was years ago, I feel I cannot write about it, as the wounds are still too fresh to cope with!  Saturday morning!  I can neither believe that it actually happened, or that I actually attended!  The Horror!  The Horror!

So, I feel for my colleagues.  Today is Saturday and the real stomach churning will not get into gear (does that mixed metaphor work, I wonder?) until Sunday evening and the realization, as the bedclothes are pulled up to the chin, that the morrow brings work!  In a school.

The nearest I will get to a school on Monday is the pool where I take my daily swim.  Two schools are next to the centre and I have to admit that there is something deeply satisfying as I sip my tea, to hear young voices in the distance and know that I will not be teaching them and I will be paid for not doing so!


If you have enjoyed reading this post, please feel free to click the 'Follow' button on the top right of this page.

If you would like to read drafts of my recent poems please go to smrnewpoems.blogspot.com