Suffocation by media

I am definitely my own worst enemy. I feel increasingly angered by the current situation, not so much because it’s happening but more so because there is absolutely no escape from it.

And by ‘it’ I am not talking about the virus itself but the communications flowing forth because of it.

Of course, I bemoan the tsunami of news items, social media posts, new guidelines, government U-turns, discussions and jokes all about Covid that threaten to drown and overwhelm us on a daily basis. Yet I spend hours on social media in pointless discussions with people whose views on the outbreak I will not alter. It’s unlikely they will change mine. I check the news not once but at least ten times a day. I spend my walk to work browsing facts about the virus, other countries’ approaches to dealing with it, checking facts quoted by the believers and the naysayers.

It’s like some twisted addiction that I feel powerless to break free from. The sad fact of the matter is that, even when I partake in activities to divert my mind and my energies away from this depressing state of reality, more often than not I have to consider the virus and its effects upon how I go about these pursuits before I can even start. Which brings me back to square one.

I sat down this evening and started thinking about what I would like to write about and I was totally stumped . Quite frankly, at the moment, what else is there? I am thoroughly wearied by it. It’s like I’m suffocating in a dirty, festering blanket of Covid information, disinformation, guidelines, opinions and whatever else. I am sick and tired of it and I apologise to all for adding another square to the already cumbersome blanket through the writing of this post.

My one desire

Ask me what I desire the most in my humble life right now

And I would honestly proceed to tell you

that I don’t need extra money

I don’t care for a shiny new car

My house is just about big enough for the four of us

I lack neither food nor clothes nor means of entertainment

books, CDs, the TV are in ample supply

to fill my every waking hour

and then some hours more

Surrounded as I am with more than enough love,

friends, multiple aquaintances,

furry companions too

All in sufficient quantities for this lifetime.

So if you approached and asked me

What is that coveted thing that I most desire?

My answer would simply be time

That elusive comrade time

Just 60 minutes more in each blessed day

To live in my cosy terraced house and to drive my run of the mill car

To cook our meals and savour them

To pick a suitable outfit every day and add the appropriate accessories

Which sometimes might coordinate

If I’m in that kind of mood

An hour in which to do my hair or paint my nails

Or on a different day

To hug the people I love, phone friends and arrange to meet up

Then actually meet and be present,

leave the pressures of life at the park gates or the pub or restaurant door.

With this small unit of time I could…

finish the film,

lose myself in the book,

listen to my favourite album and its neighbours on the shelf

A day should consist of 25 hours. Not a measly 24!

One single extra hour in each bright, inviting day

Is that too much for a person to be asking for?

Short story

Over the summer I participated in a creative writing course. I was supposed to complete it in time for my return to work but you know how life gets busy. Predictably, it ended up spilling over slightly into the new term.

The final assessment piece is a 1000 word short story which we shared with our peers in order to recieve feedback. Critiquing the work of others is a truly insightful process if you are careful to remain objective and resist the urge to beat yourself up for your perceived failings.

We create different pieces for different audiences and use varying styles and types of language dependent upon the purpose of our piece, the atmosphere we wish to create and the episode we are attempting to recount. Some readers will enjoy your story, others won’t.

Anyway, here’s my story…

Snapped (offensive language)


Harry was always going to regret his decision to go to the pub that Friday night. He’d endured an utterly shit week at work with Paul his boss riding his ass every five minutes to ‘contact this customer; email that purchaser; get Jim from IT up here to fix the wireless connection…’ The list was endless. This irascible man’s sloppy-shouldered style of management was creating a mountainous burden of responsibility under which Harry was being buried alive.
One bleak November afternoon had proven particularly fraught. Harry had attempted to broach the subject with Paul but was clearly informed that if he couldn’t cope with the demands of his job then he should make way for someone that could. He bit his tongue daily, would not allow himself to be rattled and constantly told himself that he was only sticking it out there until he had sufficient experience to look elsewhere. That day, he had come within an inch of telling Paul to shove his job but once more had talked himself down; reminded himself to look at the bigger picture. This did little to contain his anger or lighten his dismal mood. At four-thirty, with the skies fully darkened and the office lighting boring into him as much as his discontent, he decided to head home, leaving his arm-long list of chores for the following Monday. Wearily, he put on his jacket, grabbed his rucksack and phone and was halfway to the lift when he heard his name echoing up the corridor.
‘Just keep walking’ he told himself, however in such a short corridor he had no hope of pretending that he hadn’t heard. He could have sworn he saw a trace of a wry smile on the tyrant’s face as he was sent to fish some files from his desk before finally making his escape. The delay was actually negligible, however today it was just long enough to ensure that, as Harry approached, the number 29 bus was easing away from the stop into the busy Friday night traffic, forcing him to wait another 20 minutes for the following bus to arrive and finally whisk him home. He gave the post a swift boot in frustration and glanced up as the first spots of rain began to fall.

The subsequent bus was rammed to capacity although the driver still stopped to allow Harry aboard. Flashing his pass, he walked the three steps in to grasp the only available area of handrail, ending up wedged into the fleshy folds of the enormous passenger beside him. With his head at armpit level and a pungent hue of body odour flowing forth, he decided to cut this journey short and alight at the Royal Oak, just 3 stops on. He could do with a jar anyway. With his free hand, he reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out his phone and quickly texted the boys to see if they fancied joining him.

The boozer was a steady 100 yard uphill climb from the bus stop. Opening the heavy wooden door to enter, Harry acknowledged to himself that he was already feeling a fraction less drained by the day’s events; maybe a crisp, welcoming pint of Kronenbourg accompanied by some light-hearted banter would turn out to be the perfect remedy to this awful day.
Connor was the first of his friends through the door; tall, lean and exceptionally loud. The crash of the solid pub door flinging open announced his arrival. He then boomed his order across the room.
“Lager tops, a packet of crisps and three Jaeger bombs, please love,” he turned to wink at Harry.
“Start as you mean to go on. Ain’t that right H?”
Harry grinned at his larger-than-life friend and partner in crime since junior school.
“Spot on, bro. I fucking need it after today, I can tell you!”
Ten minutes later and Rhys was joining them at their table, pint already in hand.
“What’s happening? What did I miss?”
“Not a lot, Harry’s just telling us what an utter prick his boss is!”
“So, what’s new?”
“As if you need to ask! Grab one of these and get it down your neck!” They all reached for their Jaegerbombs chucked them back.
“Three more please, love.” Connor called to the bar and the ritual was repeated.
“Coming back to your work situation, I don’t know why you put up with it mate! That man’s an utter tool,” Connor continued “but you’re even more of a tool for putting up with it.”
“Like I have a choice!” Harry sighed.
“Course you’ve got a fucking choice mate. Grow a pair! I’m going to be completely honest with you now; having to listen to your bitching and moaning about that miserable prick and the way he treats you is starting to get old.”
“Thanks a lot!”
“Don’t get all pissy with me, I’m just saying, the man’s a twat. He’s been a twat forever and he isn’t going to change. You get wound up about it but you could change it all and make your life a whole lot easier by just…”
The fist knocked Connor from his seat and flat onto his back, Harry just couldn’t contain it and, looking back, still could not remember the consequent stream of thought that triggered him to jump from his seat and rain a heavy shower of punches into the face of his oldest friend. He still balks at the memory of Rhys pulling him away; of the blood and the mess.
Connor was helped to a seat in the corner as the manager and Rhys pushed Harry out of the door. Harry shot a desperate glance back at the bleeding Connor hoping for a sign that things may be OK, that forgiveness might be possible. Connor did not look round.
Taking a step outside, the speedily approaching intermittent blue lights accompanied by the jarring wail of a siren signalled that this episode was far from over.

138

I wrote this a while ago but it is one of my favourites. It brings people back to me who I miss very much.

138

Tucked away in an unassuming corner,
The last entrance on the right
Past the cupboard where the bogey man lives
The westerly door stands invitingly
I ring the bell and wait for its wooden arms to open
And pull me inside

‘Alright shorty!’ and a big hug are the standard greeting
I stoop for the hug, so pleased to accept it.
So delighted to be here again.

A haven of 70s geometrically patterned wallpaper
The swirly brown and orange vortex beneath our feet
The collection of miniature ornaments on the wall opposite the aunt’s place
(to whom visits were always announced)
A zoo of tiny creatures grazing on wooden shelves
All waiting to welcome me as I step inside

My mind casts back
To Christmases with bodies sleeping in every possible inch of space
Cousins on sofas in the living room
Us, in the single beds in the spare room, squeezed up with mum and dad

I remember
A beige, flowery 3 piece suite, at weekends accommodating far more bottoms than it was designed for.
Blanketed knees and a roaring fire in June

Divine Sunday dinners,
Kids seated at the table; the adults eat from trays on their laps.
Roast potatoes cooked in lard,
Runner beans sliced in the old green machine with the turn handle
that looked as if it belonged in a toolshed rather than any kitchen
Tinned peaches for pudding and evaporated milk or Sterilised thick cream
My favourite!
Or maybe that was the rice pudding – I never could decide.

After sunset, when the kids were sent to bed
The dining table would transform
Now a card table, the stakes were high
Stacks of gleaming coppers waiting to be claimed
by the owner of the best hand.

138 – A place where the scattered pieces of our jigsaw puzzle
Would refind themselves and fit back exactly as they should
In relaxed familiarity
And often hilarity
Or just plain conviviality.

I ponder who might live there now?
Is it just a residence, a roof over a head?
Or is it bursting at the seams with love
As when I last visited.

Reflections on the return to school.

I went back to school today, as did my colleagues – the pupils are scheduled to start back later this week. It’s my 9th September at my current school though only my 4th as a member of teaching staff. The five previous ones were enjoyed back in the 80s when I was an intelligent but largely unmotivated student (unless the lesson was German, Spanish or English).

Today’s has to be the strangest first day back (from a teaching perspective) that I have ever experienced. We have a body of extremely experienced staff however, the format for teaching in the current crisis is so alien to anything that we are used to that, to some extent, we may as well be novices.

Processes and protocols that we would normally know without pausing for thought, are having to be researched and risk assessments pored over in order to find answers to questions that, in any other year, we would not have to ask.

Can we hand books out? Can we walk around the classroom? Who writes detentions into the students planners? Can we lend the students a pen? It seems ridiculous but we are so concerned to preserve the safety of the students and ourselves that we have to ponder and find answers to these silly questions that we would never dream of asking in non-Covid times.

The timetable is so complicated with staggered start times, different break and lunch times for different year groups and the staff moving between rooms that it has taken twice as long as usual just to write the lessons for this term into my planner. Tomorrow, I will walk the different routes of the room changes so that, once the students return, there are no unnecessary delays getting from A to B – another activity that would not be needed in a different year.

One thing that really impressed me today is my colleague’s determination and enthusiasm to make sure that we get this right. This observation applies across the board from SLT, through the teaching staff to the members of support staff. We want to exude a confidence that allows our students to return at the end of the week and quickly have any fears allayed by our aura of calm assuredness. From what I know of people who work in education, this will hold true in schools throughout the country.

It’s 7 weeks until half term, it’ll be interesting to see what they throw at us!

Death of a town centre

One, two, three, four.

It’s not worth going to town anymore.

Five, six, seven, eight.

Online shopping has sealed its fate.

Nine, ten, eleven twelve.

Empty windows reveal unstocked shelves.

We observed the closures one by one.

Every week saw another store gone.

The signs were there but nothing done.

It’s just easier to buy from Amazon.

Twelve, eleven, ten, nine.

I don’t work in retail so I’ll be fine.

Eight, seven, six, five.

Don’t need that kind of work for my family to thrive.

Four, three, two, one.

Decline on a scale that cannot be undone.

Not defined by a number

Eleven years climbing the ladder

to arrive at this day.

Thousands of ideas

and facts picked up from each seperate rung

all stored

and accumulated in the grey space between my ears.

Today I become certified

The climb validated

Yet I remain unchanged from the person I was yesterday.

Identical, but for a piece of paper that purports to report my selfworth.

A tale of injustice and incompetence.

Two days have passed since eighteen year old across the country logged into their VLEs or went into their Sixth Form centres to pick up the envelope containing the awarded outcome of the last two years of their study and hard work. Many were delighted, I am exceptionally happy for those students. My son was amongst those who got exactly what was predicted and is now off to his first choice uni. As a parent I could sit back and rest on my laurels, right? Wrong.

Williamson’s last minute announcement of the triple lock was our first proper indication that something was awry (I will come back to the triple lock later) and, by midday on Thursday, tales of multiple injustices caused by the blanket application of an ill-conceived algorithm with no regard for the individual had come to the surface.

The government and Ofqual argued that, due to teachers’ overpredictions, it was necessary to apply the algorithm to bring results into line with previous years. Williamson stated that a minority of schools had tried to take advantage of the situation and predicted all As and A*s when in previous years they had had a normal range of results. I contend that those in charge of the system failed in their duty by not challenging such submissions and seeking evidence at the time they were provided back in May. This small amount of work on their part may well have negated the need to apply their flawed statistical methodology later in the process.

What else have the examboards been doing anyway? All schools will have paid for their entries but the outlay for the boards will have been much diminished due to the lack of requirement for markers this exam season. Perhaps the cash surplus might have been used to employ people to do balances and checks on the new results produced by the algorithm so that glaring inconsistencies between a student’s prior attainment, mock results, teacher prediction and their ‘result’ could have been investigated prior to results day. How long exactly have they sat on these (for some) terribly unfair grades and done zilch to put them right?

Did the teachers overpredict? An ex- colleague of mine who has been in the profession for many years argues that teachers more accurately know what their students are capable of; what they can’t account for is who will have a blip on the day, whose nerves will get the better of them and so they are able to provide a more accurate holistic picture of the students abilities than any exam can.

The triple lock is unfit for purpose – mocks are usually taken at a time when classes have not completed the syllabus. Expecting students to take an exam 8 months after they have received any formal teaching and (for GCSE students) at a time when they are getting to grips with the demands of the next level of study is ridiculous if we are wanting good outcomes.

I have tweeted Mr Williamson asking for a breakdown by sector of the 2% of results that were upgraded. Why anyone would believe that teachers would underpredict results for their classes is unfathomable. I shall be backing this up with an email to my local MP in the quest for this information. It is clear that bright kids in lower attaining schools bore the brunt of the downgrading, that is not to say that it didn’t happen in other contexts and it is unfair to all students who saw their dreams dashed because of it. Which sector benefitted this year? In terms of As and A* increases it was the independents. Could the same be said of upgrading too? We shall see.

Now we face the agonising wait for the GCSE results. If nothing is done to improve the system ahead of this coming Thursday, I am fearful on two levels:

Firstly, for my own child and her hopes to get onto the A levels of her choice.

Secondly, for the students I teach. My classes are made up of the extended (more able students) in a school in a disadvantaged area.

I hope for them that common sense will have prevailed by Thursday and that all students get the results they deserve as assessed by the teachers who know them well. That will not mean that they get an easy ride of it, hours were put into the system of determining the correct grades; difficult but honest decisions were made. Centre assessed grades would not mean that all kids end up cartwheeling down the street at their bumper results. Some students would not fare so well but at least there would be integrity in the grade. It would be decided by someone who knows and has worked with the student rather than a computer programme.

The Sungod

Nourisher, heater, hope giver

Creeping in each day to wake us

Sometimes hidden but always there.

You provide and sustain us,

Bathe and maintain us

Then hide and evade us

Our souls you repair

Causing our feet to itch

You up our desire to socialise,

disrobe ourselves and play

You inspire and energise

With a power so great

Impossible to harness

You tire and you beat

Wear out and oppress

Rerobed in your leaden suit

You make the days seem long

Moving causes duress

A right become so wrong

A master

We your servants

Beholden to your whim

Will you beat down and subdue us

Or will you gently warm our skin?