I read once that dreams help you to process experiences, and that you cannot dream about someone you don't know or haven't met. I can't say how true this is, but as I can't recall strangers in dreams it could be true.
I am scraping the barrel here. I have determined to write a blog post today, and my mind has gone blank, and a quick delve into my subconscious, has dragged up this really weird dream I had last night. Something must be going on, but what it is, I have no idea. I was back in a school that I worked in forty years ago, and I was incensed because I was the headteacher, but had just been ousted in a coup led by my good friend and all round lovely person, Angela.
A little background here. I was never the headteacher of Newtons School, nor did I aspire to be. Angela is the sweetest person I know, and Pauline, a complete nonentity that I didn't know I remembered.
I was mad! I reasoned, cajoled, threatened, but Angela was adamant, a decision had been made at a meeting of The Singing Group that I had to go, and that was that, Pauline was taking over, and would I like to see the Jobs Vacant list?
Being a dream, the job vacancies were on one of those rolling calendar ring-binder type of things that seemed to display only houses for sale. No-one thought this odd.
The situation was ludicrous, the plot incredible, but the FEELINGS! My, they were real! Anger, frustration, disappointment, futility, betrayal …
It was a relief to wake up.
Maybe there IS something I need to come to terms with here. Stuff I thought I'd dealt with …
Nope, not going there.
Happy Tuesday, everybody. See you in my dreams!
Grandchildren! What a delight!
When I, rather involuntarily, left work in 2009, one of my colleagues said, “Now you can spend more time with Rosie.” And a light came on. With almost total recall, all the things about being the headteacher of a very small school that I DIDN'T enjoy (teaching NOT being among them …) flashed before my eyes … Taking the temperature of the water and logging it, so that nobody died of Legionnaire's Disease, putting salt down on the playground on frosty mornings, explaining to an inspector who should have known better, that serious inferences cannot be drawn from cohorts of eight … And on and on …
Rosie is the eldest of my grandchildren: she was the only one, back then, but now there are five … And I adore them all. The latest addition to the clan was born a week ago today, and already it's as if he was always coming: we were just waiting for him to be here. He's the star in the photo below.
I have visited with them all this week. Here are the highlights:
Rosie, 9, now singing in her daddy's choir talking about the Christmas repertoire.
Abigail, 5, listening, wide-eyed through my dramatic re-telling of The Three Billy Goats Gruff, then remarking, “You used LOTS of adjectives, grandma!”
Sam, 2, running away and hiding under the table in the middle of a nappy change, “Go away! I''m busy!”
Frank, 8 months, giving me his stellar smile before crawling off commando -style to investigate the vacuum cleaner.
And now, Finley, a lovely warm bundle, sleeping soundly through all the fuss as he meets and greets his extended family.
I'm proud of them all, and very thankful to my amazing daughters and sons-in-law, for allowing me to be part of their lives!
Finley, Auntie Kate and Mum, Hannah.
Summer has arrived and my window is open and I am suddenly caught up in the joy of birdsong and for the first time this year, I smell lilacs.
It's good to be alive isn't it?
The Handyman's Tale
I answered an ad in 'Faryland Times' – I thought it a joke
Until a bear on a chair took me on : 'You seem a good bloke!”
So I packed up my kit and through forest and dale
I fetched up in Fairy Land: this is my tale
I don't get a mention, I'm sorry to say: my mythic employers prefer it that way –
But who do you think, when things go awry, arrives with his tools to save the day?
Rapunzel, for example, a delicate flower, sends for me frequently to unblock her shower
And that clever little pig despite all his tricks, needed an expert to point all those bricks.
The hooves of those billy- goats sure took their toll, but it a was ME, not them, that did for that troll.
I took out a plank on the bridge and he fell through the hole.
ITgey say that a woodcutter saved Little Red in her hour of need
But it was me that killed Wolfie, I did the deed.
Cinderella's coach? I put back the wheel that fell off when it went in a ditch
And with a dollop of Swarfega I made the glass slipper fit.
Those princes and giants have there place, there's no doubt
But there'd be few happy endings if I didn't help out!
First gather everything together
Into A Singularity
And blow on it!
That was a very, very,
Now wait 13.7 billion years and open a cook-book.
(My thanks to God.
Who did the Big Bang
And Carl Sagan, whose recipe this is!!)
Sounds of Home:
Crack and hiss of a spiteful coal in it's narrow hearth
Westminster chimes, Disneyfied, by the ice-cream seller in his pink-cream van.
” My Whippy” or “Tartaglia's”
I remember the day they had a fight and whizzed dollops of vanilla
Over our wondering heads.
Mum's industrial Singer treadle machine
Whine-hum tat-tat-tat d-D-D–d-D (She was fast, my mum, sewing
Collars, plackets, pockets, lapels … for pennies Piece- Work,
For Comptons, where she worked, before she married.
My dad's old 73's churning around on his ancient record player
In A Monestry Garden, In A Persian Market, Panis Angelicus.
My dad wasn't a church-goer, but Panis Angelicus made me one.
Mum breaks into song.
“Catch A Falling Star and Put it in your Pocket …
D-D–D ddddddddddddd d-D-D
And my grandfather's old clock ( seven shillings and sixpence, Woolworth 1913
Ticks on and on and on …
Ascends from Dirge to Ditty more's the pity
Bucolic, more peasant than pleasant
Definitely not Epic
Flarf! Don't make me laugh.
(Google it .. You'll see … )
A Genre for geeks if you ask me.
Haiku might suit you
If you're not into Hexameter
Which I'm not, because I forgot
How many beats I should encounter.
Possibly I'd be word-winning
If my Poet-heart tried Kenning
A Lyric for a Madrigal might be more my thing
Now there's a Metaphor for life or quolachrism
(Don't look THAT up
It's a Neologism … )
Alluring, isn't it, to delve into another
Life, to fetch up into the
Mystery of where,
And when, and how:
Nottingham, 1350, with Alan
A'Dale whistling through the beeches
Confiding secrets of centuries to come.
What a kuffufle: Hear the tirade!
The chef's ran off with the scullery-maid!
Her Ladyship's fainted, and when she comes to
No-one'll escape the hullabaloo!
“How could these ingrates do this to me?
They KNEW Lady Westmorland's coming to tea!”
The chauffeur, who loved her, won't leave his bed
And Pardoner, the gardener's, locked in his shed
(He had a crush on Monsieur, though nobody guessed
He stayed in the closet, at his lover's behest.)
His lordship has wisely left for his club
Constitutiinally unable to withstand the hubbub.
He was wounded in the whatsits during The War,
And leads a much quieter life than before …
Bounty, the mastiff's, rolls over, plays dead –
And King Henry's armour now stands on its head.
The Tweeny, when quizzed, swore not to know
That Nancy (the hussy) was planning to go.
And what, you might wonder was the fate of this pair?
Decamped, with no character, they might have despaired!
But no! Holed up in Brighton, renowned for it's looks
They're living off the proceeds of cooking the books!