Why don’t people just say what they mean?

I cannot bear people who try to patronise others by using incomprehensible jargon. Especially when it usually covers up their own lack of understanding of what is going on. So herewith my list of phrases that I find particularly annoying, although I am sure there are plenty more that can be added to the list!

Top Ten Annoying Business Terms Translated in to Real English

1. Going forward ; in the future/from now on
2. Big ask; something that may involve working past 6 pm
3. Stakeholder management: ensuring everyone is “bought in” to the project so the finger doesn’t point at you
4. Bought in: convincing people your idea is a good idea so that they can share the blame when the shit hits the fan
5. Empowerment :  the futile delegation of meaningless decision making by a boss to try to make you feel more important
6. To action deliverables: to do your job
7. We are on the same page; I have no idea what you just said but I just want to move on
8. Indicative: complete fucking guesswork
9. I hear you : I don’t give a shit what you think.
10. Scope that out for us : Just shut up, fuck off to a room and come back when you’ve thought it through a bit more.

And one that I actually like:

1. Al desco:  eating by your computer

Some patients I never forget

As a medical student one has little actual responsibility for the care of the patients one sees as obviously qualified doctors are overseeing everything. We are superfluous to requirements and there to learn rather than contribute. On the whole most patients were generous enough to let me study them. In fact, I don’t remember anyone ever refusing. Perhaps they were worried the doctors wouldn’t treat them as well if they did. I hope not. It isn’t the case.

My favourite firm as a medical student was Oncology. The cancer ward. I had already done Cardiology and Metabolic Unit, and hated the latter. It was run by two dry Consultants; one an academic expert in these rare diseases we were seeing and the other old and boring. The juniors called him ‘Shifting Dullness’  – a medical term relating to fluid in the abdomen but one which perfectly described his ward rounds.

Oncology on the other hand was brilliant. The consultant was fantastic. Inspiring. And the patients were incredible. Two I remember in particular. One of our jobs as students attached to oncology was that we had to administer all the intravenous chemotherapy . Nowadays one gets gloved up and puts safety googles on to handle these toxic chemicals, but we were just sent off to the treatment room to try to work out what to do by ourselves. Some of these medicines would cost hundreds of pounds  a vial. Even then.  Nobody taught us how to draw up intravenous drugs so we didn’t realise they were vacuum packed. What that means in practical terms is that if you stick your syringe in to the bottle to try to draw up the liquid you can’t pull the plunger back as the vacuum is fighting against you. What you have to do is inject air in to the bottle to break the vacuum and then withdraw the same amount of drug as you have just injected in air. If you don’t do this correctly the whole thing can explode and spray toxic chemicals all over the room. Yes, guess who managed to do that….
So we would spend quite a bit of time on the wards with the patients and get to know them well. And of course in the oncology ward, many of them had life-threatening diseases.

The first patient to make a fundamental impression on me was a man in his 80s. I can’t tell you his name although I’d like to so that he would get the recognition he deserves. But confidentiality extends post mortem so I can’t. I can see him now. Sitting up in his bed, leaning forward trying to catch his breath. He had lung cancer and at that time there were no successful treatments for the type he had. I was assigned him and had to take his history and examine him.

He had various scars and so I had to ask him what they were from. It turns out he had fought in the First World War. He was in the battle of the Somme. He watched thousands of men be killed or mortally wounded. He was in the medical corps. He was stationed at a kind of triage post where the casualties would come or be brought and he would decide whether to send them on to get proper treatment, giving them basic first aid as needed or if there was no point sending them on, then just making them comfortable. He had administered to thousands of young men and they still haunted him. He had tears in his eyes as he talked about the horrors of war.

The more he told me the about the awful the things he had witnessed, I was amazed he had managed to come out of it, get married, have a family and a normal life. The huge burden of trauma he was still processing sixty years later was humbling. He had never talked about it to anyone, not even his wife, but now he was dying and I had started asking questions, he wanted to let people know how awful it had been. I wish I’d known more history to be able to ask more pertinent questions, but it seemed he would just talk about it without much prompting.

I only saw him a couple of times as he died within days of our starting on the ward. Much more quickly than I had anticipated. I was surprised how sad I felt, as if he were a close relative or friend. He had reminded me of something that I already knew but the arrogance of my youth had decided to forget; these ‘old people’ I was seeing were much more than simply a sum of their current symptoms and signs. They were living history and had experiences and feeling that could not be guessed at by looking at their frail frames.

The other patient from that firm (as we called our time on a given unit) who stays in my head was a 26 year old with leukemia. She was amazing. Life affirming. Positive. Wasn’t taking this lying down. Shaved her head and sometimes dyed it bright punkish colours. Had to undergo horrendous chemotherapy which I would administer in to her bloodstream and she would feel atrocious for days. She was an inpatient for a long time and as she had no working immune system one had to get gowned up to go in to her side ward to try to minimise the risk of her getting an infection. So she didn’t have lots of people popping in to see her. But she was always great. I loved going to see her as it was like seeing a mate. We would chat about all sorts; men mostly. She was always smiling and laughing but she knew she was very ill. She wasn’t in denial, but coping incredibly well. Except very occasionally she would let the mask slip. I was probably too inexperienced to be any help to her, whereas she was able to help me understand the feelings she was wrestling with. And there would be tears.

After I finished the oncology rotation I still popped up to the wards to see if she was around and have a chat. Sometimes she would be well enough to go home, which was great for her, but I would be disappointed not to be able to chat to her. She died about eighteen months later. I hadn’t known she’d been admitted and had been on a rotation up in Bedfordshire so hadn’t been in for a couple of months. I was gutted. I felt guilty I hadn’t seen her during her final days and weeks. She had been a similar age to me, a fighter, had the best possible care and yet she had been taken. It was so bloody unfair.

I realised it was nothing more than luck that I was on this earth and she was not.

Responsible adults?

I’m lucky enough to be a freelance consultant. I work for myself (and my family if we’re having to be touchy -feely, nicey, nicey), but basically I am my own boss. I stand and fall by what I deliver. Or not. I get new contracts on the basis of what people know of me. (Similarly, I presume I don’t get offered other contracts on the basis of what people know of me, but I never hear about them!).

I am employed to give people the benefit of my opinion and experience. I advise them on what I believe is the right thing to do in a given set of circumstances. I put my head above the parapet, my neck on the line and more than a toe in the water. Basically I say what I think. And even more shockingly for some organisations, I am prepared to put it in writing.

More and more I am finding people reluctant to give an opinion. People wait for others to speak first. Not out of politeness, but out of fear. Fear of saying the wrong thing. Fear of having to explain what they mean, or why they came to that conclusion. Fear of taking responsibility. Fear of it affecting their prospects.

Let alone writing it down. That is another can of worms altogether. Obviously one has to ensure one writes with clarity and specificity and in a way that cannot be taken out of context or misconstrued. But senior people refusing to put anything in writing makes it difficult for juniors to have robust guidance on how to do the right thing. Driven, I suspect, by fear of litigation and losing their job. But it makes the juniors clam up even more.

It drives me absolutely fucking bonkers.

And it feeds a paralysis. An inability to take individual responsibility. Teams are formed; sub teams, cross functional teams, project teams. Lots of collaboration. Lots of meetings. Lots of keeping each other up to speed. Lots of waiting for one team to report back before another team can be ‘tasked’ (agggh, another word I hate) to do something.

But no fucking action.

Materials go round and round. Supposedly being reviewed by all team members but not actually being read by anyone. Everyone assumes someone else will pick up the mistakes, point out the inadequacies, make suggestions for improvement. But they don’t. Because they don’t feel it is their individual responsibility. If it’s that important someone else will pick it up. And anyway, they’ve probably got another meeting to go to so they haven’t the inclination to spend time reading and thinking. (see previous posts about saying what they mean or meetings being an alternative to work)

This move away from individual responsibility is great for ineffectual people who can hide in a morass of committees and workstreams. But it is frustrating for people who actually want to deliver because they feel disempowered to take decisions and drive things forward. It’s the same as when parts of the NHS stopped assigning specific patients to individual nurses. Or wards to individual sisters or charge nurses. Care suffered. Job satisfaction decreased.

But gradually even great drivers, movers and shakers can get ground down by an organsisation that insists on everything being collaborative. And they either leave the organisation or become part of the establishent they railed against.

Perhaps as a doctor I am used to making decisions based on the evidence I have and I am used to being prepared to defend them. The dying patient cannot wait whilst a ‘cross-collaborative strategic optimisation team’ meet and consider the various treatment options, so perhaps I am hard-wired to avoid procrastination. But it doesn’t mean there isn’t team working – it’s just that team members are assigned individual, specific tasks for which they are solely responsiblie. It concentrates the mind.

Which is why it is so refreshing and invigorating to work in teams where there is enthusiasm and ownership. Where there is no fear of a blame if things go wrong, but a culture of support and learning from mistakes. Where people celebrate success and mitigate the effects of failure.

Preferably in the bar 🙂

King Lear at the Almeida

Overdosing on Shakespeare, we went to see Jonathan Pryce as King Lear. I have to admit I wasn’t looking as forward to it as I had been Twelfth Night. But I really enjoyed Pryce’s performance as a tyrannical, abusing father who flicks between seeming good grace and humour and vengeful, threatening animosity. His madness and moments of lucidity made him more human and vulnerable than previous productions I’ve seen.

Unfortunately none of his three daughters (or their husbands) did anything for me, and these are key roles and relationships to make this play ignite. But their acting was somewhat overegged and one-dimensional. Which is a real shame as this prodcution introduced the idea that Lear had abused his daughters, and would do so again if he didn’t get his way.

The fool was excellent, as was Gloucester who gets his eyes gouged out, and the lighting made me truly believe there was a raging storm – wonderful. Edmund too deserves praise for his humour and lightness of touch that endeared himself to us. The first ‘half’ –  90 minutes – is  much better than the second  – 50 minutes – which seems to enter in to a world of ham acting and comedy simply to tie up lose ends and get it over with. I might have rested my eyelids for a moment during one of the numerous deaths. But over all three stars. Good, but not great.

And the seats in the Almeida are bloody uncomfotable for a production as long as this!

Mortifying moments

For those of us used to being in control, having children can be a very rude awakening. Not just when they are tiny and do not seem to understand the requirement to sleep soundly through the night, but as they get older and start to ask searching questions of you.

Of course different children require different information at different times, but they never ever ask the questions when you are ready for them. Small children particularly seem to  have some inner compass that can spot a mortifying moment maker and will ask their burning question as you queue in the supermarket on a dull Thursday afternoon on the way home from school.

Or, as in the restaurant queue on the cross channel ferry one of ours piped up loudly, “Why is that woman so fat?”  It was said not out of malice or approbation, but simply out of curiosity. Trying to laugh it off and half pretending one hasn’t heard doesn’t wash with four year olds. They just keep asking. And will formulate their own theories as to why if you don’t actually give them something to think about.  One has a desire not to offend, but also to educate the children. One cannot simply lie. Ineffectual PC- isms that ” People come in all shapes and sizes,” or “Don’t say fat, it’s rude” cut no mustard. Unusually for these kind of questions, my husband was actually there at the time .  I think it is virtually the only one he’s ever had to answer as they always seemed to come up when I was with them and he was at work. .

Anyway, he did his usual “Dad Fact” routine, where he gives an explanation with authority and the kids believe it. Despite it often being a crock of shit. But this time he did actually tell the truth, after he pulled out  his trump card.  “I studied nutrition at university” (Gillian McKeith eat your heart out – it may have been a module on ruminant digestion tbh), and went on to explain if you eat more than you exercise, eventually you get fat. And he was able to do this whilst steering the children out of earshot of the assembled masses. Masses being the operative word. So that one went pretty well I’d say, although the child had no doubt unintentionally  emabarrased the overweight person in the queue.

Everyone anticipates the standard   “Where do I come from?’ at some point, but less common ones like “What does sex feel like?” ,  ” What’s a blow job?” and “How do you know if you are ready to have sex?” can require some forethought to give an answer that bears repeating. And they will be repeated. All explanations by parents get repeated. Not just to their mates, but also when you are out with friends or grandparents  and a related subject comes up. Like kissing. And a seven year old will say “You kiss Daddy’s willie don’t you Mummy? That’s what Mummy’s do when they love someone isn’t it?” And the aforementioned explanation of a blow job can somehow seem precocious and you wish you’d just told them to ‘Run along and play’ instead of actually answering the question.

And even seemingly inocuous statements can sound like you have bizarre conversations when it is repeated by an eight year old. Talking about flavoured sparkling water with her new teacher, our very well spoken and polite daughter informed her teacher that her dad said peach water tasted like cockroach vomit. There’s not really much he could say to that.

Twelfth Night First Night Four Full Stars

Atmospheric setting at the Globe. And it stayed dry!

Last night we abandoned Australian rels to go to the first night of Mark Rylance and Stephen Fry in Twelfth Night at the Globe theatre. It marked Stephen Fry’s return to the stage after running away with stage fright (or was it after a bad review?) 17 years ago. So I expect he was nervous.

The Globe is just a magnificent setting and it was packed to the gunnells. And it was great. Played full on for laughs and they got them. An all male cast excelled as women dressed as men dressed as women. Yes, Twelfth Night is the one with the twins who each think the other has drowned at sea, so the girl becomes the male valet to the King and has to court Olivia for him. Olivia, in mourning for her brother, refuses to acccept his advances, but falls for the girl/boy messenger. Meanwhile Malvolio, Olivia’s servant is hopelessly in love with her, and the girl/boy valet in love with her boss…….. You get the idea. Oh what a tangled web we weave. When we also intoduce a drunken cousin, his friend who also tries to woo Olivia, Olivia’s maidservant and a fool, the longlost twin brother and his manservant we have near farce.

Yet again Rylance alone  is worth the price of the ticket. He plays Olivia and the stage lights up when he is on. He is absolutely fucking awsome. Dressed head to toe in a corseted black dress, with a high neck ruff and a black veil so we cannot see his face. Yet STILL he can convey every inuendo, every slight winsomeness, every beat of melancholy. He physically embodies the character as if he is transformed in to her. He glides across the stage as if on wheels. He plays with the language with such ease and accomplishment – tripping over words, stumbling as if they are just being formed in his head. One forgets entirely this is Shakespeare. This is sheer fun and enjoyment.

His maid (reminiscent of ‘Nursie’ in Blackadder) was also completely on the money – with marvellous expression and intonation. And perfect comedy timing. The final ‘woman’ – Viola – too was a complete victory – (s)he was played expertly and you could watch her falling in love with her boss and really believe it was happening.

But what about Stephen Fry? Well he was good. But not brilliant .Too much like Stephen Fry. Who I love. And I’m not meant to love Malvolio initially.  He was not unlikeable enough at first and then not quite smarmy and smiley enough after the trick is played on him. I think he needs to push it to the edge more and be more extreme in his portrayal, but this was his first night and I think he’ll warm in to it. The one that perhaps let them down was the jester – which is actually a big part and his diction wasn’t clear enough for me so I missed things particularly in the first half.

But if you get chance to see it do go – it’s Shakespeare as it should be.

Memory lane

So, four nights away in the Yorkshire Dales and I may have eased a bit too far away from the walking as I seem to have simply eaten. And eaten. And drunk. Without the self righteous justification of having been up and down a hill or two. I was too scared of reigniting the injuries (see posts passim) of our last walking weekend that His Nibs agreed to small strolls. On the flat. And one day he did a decent walk and I lazed about on the gold duvet and called for room service.

Two hotels for two nights each and luckily the second one was better than the first. It would have been a struggle doing it the other way round. But recommend the Traddock in Austwick if anyone wants a break. http://www.thetraddock.co.uk/

Even had good food – which is fair praise indeed coming from us. Lovely staff, beautiful surroundings, luxurious rooms and sumptuous toiletries. I always think it is a good sign when you see the full size bottles of Molton Brown in the shower. And a rolltop bath in our bedroom.

And on our first day we retuned to my old stomping ground  – the Friarage Hospital Northallerton. Completely unrecognisable. Half of it bulldozed down and rebuilt a huge modern looking place. But luckily the doctors residences still looked the same. They looked fairly shit then. And they looked fairly shit now. Some things don’t change.

And then we found the pub that we used to go to – even if we were on call. The switchboard would ring the pub and we’d answer it from the other side of the bar. Ah, those were the days.

Similarly for hubby, our route home took in a pub that he hadn’t been to in 32 years but apparently sold the best pint he’d ever tasted, and then revisiting his university halls, his local (that looked the grimmest dump you’d ever seen) and the house he shared for two years. Of course he’d never driven round Bradford before so he had no idea how to get between all these places unless walking ‘through a ginnel’ or across a green. But we got to see them all somehow. And he tried to persuade me that people have the wrong idea about Bradford, and the sun shone on the york stone buildings. But I wasn’t really convinced. I think perhaps you have to live it to love it.

Bingo!

Birthday girl and her dad

Yes, last night we got Full House for the Clarke night out. The entire London contingent plus plus ones all made it to Nobu Mayfair. Funny that.

lining up the drinks……

Two complete newbies were initiated and survived. One a plus one and the other a new housemate of ours thus a Clarke by proxy. Twelve of us in the subdued and stylish setting, so we celebrated Georgina’s birthday with the mandatory starting cocktails and champagne, (for those who arrived on time!)  moving through white wine to port.

And of course food. Yes, it is the food which attracted Georgina to choose Nobu – a fusion of Japanese and Peruvian (natch) which basically meant plates of raw fish ago-go, sushi bundles and beef. Being allergic to fish set them some challenges but they rose to it without a murmur of complaint. The waitress chose for me and she chose well – a wonderful spinach, parmesan, miso and truffle salad which doesn’t sound much but was incredibly tasty. Followed by a beautiful succulent steak and sticky rice. And then pudding that included some kind of fried pistachio nuts, icecream, and deepfried chocolate goo thing. All gooood. But having one nightmare guest wasn’t enough for our family. No – we also have someone who is allergic to gluten. Which means you can’t eat soy sauce. Amongst other things, but no soy sauce in a Japanese restaurant is tricky. Luckily the wine was soy-free so she troughed in to that 🙂

The men had to move round the table every few courses to ensure we all got chance to speak to each other, but it did mean nobody knew who had ordered which dessert and a bit of a bun fight to get the ones that looked best on arrival.

And it was all going so well until someone suggested we play the same game that got us thrown out of Fino.

our individual signs

playing the game

The one where you each have a ‘sign’ and you all clap a rhythm. the first person does their own sign and then someone else’s so they then have to do their own sign then do someone else’s. And so it goes on until someone gets it wrong and has to down their drink. With 12 different signs and a vat load of wine already on board I was having difficulty remembering my own sign let alone anyone else’s. But we all found it hilarious and the other diners found it too loud so we were out on our ear again. (note to self ; choose venues that don’t mind loud and lairy diners).

It’s all going horribly wrong now

Home in cabs and from here it gets hazy. I don’t really remember chatting in the kitchen. Or eating cheese and biscuits. Or going to bed. All that time is a blank card in the pack. And I woke this morning feeling complete shit.

Think I must have accidentally had some fish. Can’t think what else it could be.

It was an accident. Honest.

The training to become an anaesthetist is second to none. Expert one on one tuition from more experienced doctors. You start with simple cases and work up to more complex.

Open heart surgery is ‘more complex’ and the first time I was assisting the more senior anaesthetist, one of the very very senior surgeons was operating. Very old school. No real banter or craic with this guy, he was serious.

I would be the person in blue on far left – this side of the barrier at the head end of the patient

It’s the kind of operation where the patient is put on the bypass machine at various points so that the blood doesn’t circulate through the heart, but is pumped by an external machine (the bypass machine). It’s all very hitech and serious stuff. The patient has lots of different drips and lines in, and throughout the operation I would be putting up new lines and replacing bags. You’ll all know you have to get the air bubbles out of any tubing before it gets to the patient – don’t want an airbubble in the bloodstream. And a standard way of getting rid of them in tubing is to tap the tubing with side of a pen and the bubble will rise upwards until it gets to a chamber where it can stay.

Exactly like this

I had a classic clear Bic biro. We had to fill in charts throughout the operation to monitor the patient’s vital signs and record what we had done.  I was standing behind the green sheet that we make as a barrier bewteen us (at the anaesthetic, non-sterile, head end of the table) and the surgeon, who works in a sterile environment. Informally it was known as the Blood Brain Barrier, dividing the surgeons (with the blood) and us (with the brains).

The operation was progressing. The sternum had been sawn open and the rib spreaders put in place to hold the chest cage open. The heart was pumping away.

One of the intravenous lines had a bubble in it. I held the line straight with one hand and  tapped it sharply with my pen. The bubble didn’t shift. I tapped again, harder this time.

Whereupon the pen top flew off, over the green barrier and straight in to the gaping chest wound. A perfect hit. I couldn’t have done it if I’d tried.

But this was awful. A chewed pen top is about as far from sterile as you can get. Dropping it in to the operating field was an error so gross I can hardly bear to think about it. I was in serious shit and I knew it. I was going to get torn off a strip for this, and rightly so. I had put the patient at risk of an infection by being so careless.

The whole theatre had gone silent. My senior anaesthetic colleague muttered something like “Oh God, you’ve done it now”. The surgeon is staring at the pen top, bobbing on the beating heart. My own heart is hammering in my chest. Theatre sister is staring at me in incredulity.

I did the only thing that came naturally to me.

I peered over the top of my green barrier, put my hand straight up in the air and, in my best imitation of a child, asked, “Please Sir, can I have my pen top back?”

Luckily for me the place erupted in laughter. Well, nervous sniggers really, but it broke the ice and we were able to get on with the operation. It also averted the full on, public dressing down that had no doubt  been coming way way. The surgeon removed the pen top, irrigated the area and I stayed well away from the drip lines for the rest of the operation .

I did check on the patient a few days later and no infection had developed so I’d got away with it this time. But lesson learnt. I went out and bought a papermate pen that had a button to press on the top so that never again would I need to use a pen with a detachable top.

My prescription for living part one

If only it were possible …

Having blogged about how I met my husband, it brought in to sharp focus a time in my life when I made a serious mistake. Marrying the wrong guy. Well, the initial mistake was continuing to go out with him after the first time he’d been unfaithful. Long before we were married. And the mistake continued when I put aside niggling doubts and was reassured by his assertions of fidelity. Not to mention that he would get so upset that I  could even THINK such a thing of him. Looking back I realise that even at the time “Methinks he doth protest too much” did flit through my mind, but I was determined to ignore it. He made me feel I was being unreasonable and I was happy to remain ignorant. I was working a one in three  living in the hospital virtually every other night and weekend, so he had plenty of time and opportunity to share his charms with others.

And when he did finally announce to me that he had fallen in love with the most beautiful woman in the world, I was truly shocked. And gutted. And became even more spineless and pathetic and felt I had to keep going with this relationship because I hadn’t said the words ‘For better or for worse” lightly. I had meant them. So now was the time to rise up to the ‘worse’ bit and keep going.

I had no self respect, no belief in my own worth, no anger at this point. Only devastation. I was prepared to share him if need be. FFS! What was I thinking?? God knows, but I can tell you all the confident assertions  that  “If he ever treats me like that, he can fuck off” just went right out the window. With my dignity. I think it safe to say that one rarely knows how one will react in an untested situation until it happens to you. All the theory in the world matters not a jot when reality crashes in around you.

But the point of this post is that it got me thinking about things I wish I’d realised earlier in life, and at first I came up with a Top Ten list of  nuggets that I had found useful, but each one of them seemed to need some context and background, hence I am spreading them over a few posts.

SO herwith my

Life Lessons I want as my Legacy

(in random order)

1. There are very few decisions that can’t be undone so go for it. Take the opportunity, try it and if you really don’t like it, then give it back for someone else to try. (This doesn’t really hold for children once they are born, but virtually everything else). As one gets older I regret more the things I didn’t do, opportunities I didn’t grasp, rather than the things I did that went wrong.
2. Listen to your inner self. Have more faith in your instincts and the courage to face them when things appear to be going to shit but others are denying it.
3. Don’t beat yourself up if things go wrong. Life is too short to spend valuable time going over and over your mistakes. Yes you fucked up (see marriage number one above).  It happens. Learn from it, apologise if need be and accept it. Move on.
4. Actually think about what you are doing and why you are doing it. Once a decision’s made and I’m happy enough with it, I don’t revisit it. I think if I had re-thought about accepting the proposal of my first marriage, I would have realised I was accepting because I was keener about ‘being married’ than who it was to. (Thank God for lesson number one!)

Here endeth today’s lesson!

Starting school

The school photo from the year they were first all there – 1996

I remember my first day at school. Well actually I don’t, but I do remember the second. Apparently when Mum told me to get up for school on day two, I said “I’ve been.”  I hadn’t enjoyed it and I didn’t want to go again. And here my memory lets me down because my mother was actually a teacher at the school  and I don’t remember how I got to the school gates, but it wasn’t with Mum. Perhaps my older sister and I walked – we certainly did later on.

I was going in to Mrs. Sharp’s class. My memory is of an old woman with four sons, but as the boys were at school with us, it is likely she was the same age as my Mum. But I think she may have been widowed and definitely had grey hair.

I was in the playground and the bell went to line up. Everyone went in, but I didn’t. A teacher came over to me and asked me to come in. I said I didn’t want to. She said I had to. I said I wouldn’t.  She took my hand and started walking me in. I started pulling away. She called over the Headmaster, Mr Cameron. He took my other hand and they started frog marching me in to the building. I started bawling and was trying to plant my feet in the ground so I wouldn’t move. But they dragged me. They asked what was the matter, why didn’t I want to come to school. And I remember thinking I shouldn’t say I didn’t like it. So I said I wanted to know what was for lunch. I was barely able to speak through the tears. The thing is, we went home for lunch during those first few weeks and so someone was dispatched to my mother’s classroom to ask her what we would be having for lunch.  I was given the answer to my question and now I felt I had no choice but to concede and go in. But I remember thinking that I should have made my request something that they could not have satisfied and then I wouldn’t have had to go to school. As it was, they had beaten me and I never again refused school.

There were four classes in the school, so mixed age groups in each class. We sat according to age group, so immediately on entering the classroom, the wee ones were on the left and that is where I started. Two rows of individual desks facing each other, side on to the front of the class. Probably about twelve or fourteen of us starting school together. The teacher sat in the front corner further away from us, on a high high desk and chair. Around us on the walls were the letters of alphabet. There was a blackboard at the front in the middle, and one on an easel near to our group of desks.

We would recite the alphabet as in A is for apple, B is for ball, C is for cat, D is for drum….. following the pictures on the walls. And we would practice writing in specially lined books – up to the top line for capitals and tails, only to the middle line for lower case. We would learn the times tables and sing them off by heart, but I only remember doing the twos, fives and tens with Mrs. Sharp.

To be honest I was bored in the first class as my sister had already taught me to read (Here is Dick.  Here is Dora.) and Mrs Sharp was pretty strict. It was sitting in your own desk working all morning, doing letters and sums. Children  were made to stand in the corner if they were naughty or stupid. Or  wet their pants. Which happened as we were only allowed to go at  playtime or lunchtime, not inbetween. A puddle would be seen emerging on the floor, and then tears. And a very cross teacher.  Then after lunch (which after the first week was then in the school hall –  grey mince and lumpy mash delivered in huge silver vats – ) with Mr Cameron patrolling and whipping out his taw to beat the offending boys who would be mucking about. The teachers would sit at a separate table, but I don’t remember my mother being there. Perhaps she still went home for lunch.

In the afternoon we would sit with our heads on the desk for a nap and then go home at 230. I sometimes feel like doing that now!

Daughter two on her first day at school

But I do remember our three starting school. Particularly the eldest (sorry girls!). He was young for the year, but had been doing Nursery in the mornings for the year beforehand and nearly all those children would be going in to Reception year with him. It was two form entry so the children were lined up in their separate lines – one for each teacher. Our son’s best friend was put in the other class. But he was having none of it and simply swapped himself across to be with our son. And there may have been a muttering from the teachers, but they allowed it (positive action works!). And they went in. He was fine. Looking tiny in his school uniform, but happy enough.  And he was allowed to play lego all afternoon so what’s not to love?

First day at School, little sis in jimjams

It was on the way home for the first half term that there would be tears and touchiness. It was like walking on eggshells. I think a combination of having to be on best behaviour all day, fatigue and hunger combined to make anything I said an incendiary device. We would walk home and he would eat a box of sultanas or an apple in an effort to keep himself together.

The baby starts school.

I don’t remember any of ours blubbing at the door, refusing to go in. But I remember seeing other mothers in tears as their offspring were peeled off them. It was heartbreaking. Even though you knew they were going to be fine and the staff were caring, my heart went out to them. And the weeping mothers.

But there was a spring in my step when all three could finally go to school and I would have till 330 all to myself. Oh yes, that inner geek resurfaced and I revelled in a bit of solitude. Mixed with occasional lunches and more frequent coffees.  And some more work.  But mostly revelling.

Natalie’s first day and someone’s not happy!

Road trip!

Yesterday facebook prompted me that it was someone’s birthday. A friend I was at sixth form college with and appears in the great naked men shot.  Anyway, it reminded me of a story of when I  visited him when we were both medical students.

A  friend and I went to Amsterdam for a long weekend. We travelled by train and boat and arrived at this wonderful city full of excitement. We were staying  with a friend of mine from Atlantic College – what a luxury it is to know people from all over the world and be able to sleep on their floor!

And he lived in the heart of the red light district in a student house so we had a ball. He showed us round and took us out to the seaside in his old 2CV. And he even let us borrow the car for a day trip to the Hague. I’m not sure either of us were insured or even thought about it. But somehow I drove and Jane navigated. Micon had given us a map. I had never driven a 2CV before and was amazed at its lack of power. I would be on the motorway trying to overtake a lorry and get two thirds of the way past when the slipstream would push me backwards and I would have to drop behind again.

great little car

Anyway, we got there and had a lovely day sightseeing. And so we set off back towards Amsterdam. The Hague was very busy with lots of traffic and we seemed to be driving for ages getting nowhere. We would follow signs that said Amsterdam, but they would disappear and we we had ended up in side streets. No mobile phones of course, no sat nav to help us out.

So we decided simply to pick another town, any town to get out of the Hague . We’d get to that town, find it on the map and then work out how to get back to Amsterdam from there So we picked Omtrek.

At last we were getting somewhere. The signs were clear and continued to be marked. Keep left for Omtrek. After about half an hour of this we both had a realisation that we had been here before. We had definitely seen that building, that row of shops etc.  We were not out of the Hague city and nowhere nearer to Amsterdam.

We were now getting desperate and  randomly chose a road to turn in to and drive. We thought we would eventually get out of this nightmare city and ask someone how to get to Amsterdam. But in fact we didn’t need to as by complete fluke a sign for Amsterdam straight ahead appeared before us. The relief in the car was palpable.

So we got back much much later than planned, and told our host about our calamitous trip. “Which town did you choose to follow signs for?” he asked. Omtrek we told him. “That’s like ‘ring road’ in English ” .

No wonder we felt we were going round in circles. We bloody well were!

Fine anatomical specimens. It may have inspired my choice of degree.This is just an excuse to post it agian!

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Tales from the riverbank

The day we scattered Dad’s ashes in Aber, a week before Mum dies. Top lady on top form

Yesterday we scattered our mother’s ashes. Just over a year since she died. Which was one week after scattering our father’s ashes. Unlike Dad, Mum had not made any preferences known for what she wanted either at her funeral or with her ashes. It did make me reflect that it is helpful for those left behind if you can jot down a few pointers before you go. I have meant to do this since they died, but of course haven’t ( but I feel a blog post about it coming on….). But this post isn’t about me – this one is about what we did to remember Mum.

We had originally decided to scatter them where we scattered Dad’s – out at sea off the coast of Aberystwyth. We had all had a lovely day together doing that and Mum had been on top form. It also felt that they would be together if we did it in the same place. Anyway, my sister listened to her inner niggles and thought through other options in an effort to be ‘Anywhere but Wales’ – a phrase our mother had used to tell father where she would be happy to live after they were married. Of course they had spent the vast majority of their married life in Wales, so Kate thought it wasn’t fair we left her ashes to rest there too. And she was right. Cambridge was a much more ‘Mum’ kind of place.

Afternoon tea with her fellow students at Cambridge. Mum is third from left.

As with father’s, the sun shone on us for the proceedings. We met outside her College and wandered around the beautiful old buildings having never been there before. She had been very proud of being at Cambridge and had had a ball. Numerous balls. And a similar number of men. And at least three engagements. All before our father.

From the College to a meal. All of us toasting Mum – Georgina with a large gin and tonic in tribute although it would really need to have been a mega strength one to match Mum’s.

And then on to Magdalen bridge punt station where all seven of us boarded the characteristic flat bottomed boat and were guided around the backs (as that part of the river Cam is known as it passes the backs of a number of the Colleges). Beautiful, awe-inspiring setting.

Breathtaking views of Colleges from the punt

Her only grandson

We drank champagne and toasted Mum. Kate read inscriptions in two books – one from Dad to Mum and one from Mum to Dad. Literature had been a big part of their lives (and Mum had reviewed books for the Scotsman when we were small) so it seemed fitting it was part of these proceedings. I read Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18 (“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”), and Richard read a Dorothy Parker poem, Epitaph for a Darling Lady. It was all very moving.

Toasting Grandma before we scatter the ashes in the Cam

We had freesias, (her favourites along with sweet peas) and red roses for Lancashire to scatter in the water with the ashes and we all threw them in as we said a few personal words of rememberance and tribute.

Kate had brought the ashes from Wales and opened the disgusting plastic pot to commence the scattering. The wind started to blow them back in to the punt so I took them as was on the other side  of the boat.  I tipped the tub upside down and a stream of fine dust started to emerge. Unfortunately, the wind was not as unidirectional as one might have thought, and there was quite a bit of blow back on to Richard and Rob. As ever, mother was sticking with the men till the last.

As we disembarked, feeling that it had been a really lovely, tasteful, classy  and fitting afternoon, and one that she would have enjoyed, we felt we couldn’t simply get in separate cars and go home so we found a pub and had one final drink. And as we drained our glasses for the last time the record came on the jukebox. And I kid you not. It was  “Another one bites the dust.”  It made us laugh and will no doubt make us all think of her every time we hear that song.

Here’s to Jose Morgan – a warm, witty, wise and wonderful woman who always put others before herself.