let's welcome in the summer time

Emmy knew the taste of that wine very well,
It all goes down so easily
But the next day is hell. . . 

Today is the first day of the school Summer holiday. Teachers up and down the land will be waking up to massive hangovers. I, of course, feel fine. Several members of our staff however may feel a little delicate this morning. I did have a few glasses of ale to celebrate the end of all the madness. And a few glasses of wine. We ended up at a colleague's house having a Thai takeaway. I had an excellent fish curry and it looks like it'll be a decent alternative for a Friday night takeaway  in the future. Anyway, I'm sure that there were many sensible teachers that went home and maybe shared a glass or two of wine with their loved ones but the feeling of having finally reached the end of a very hard climb was palpable amongst our staff.

I've been sitting in the garden this morning drinking coffee and watching the activity around me. There's a pigeon flapping around in a very agitated manner. I strongly suspect that a fledgling is about to part the nest. Meanwhile he's rushing around the garden like a vicar at a Garden Fete where the Mayor's wife's dress has fallen off (I witnessed something similar once outside Gloucester Cathedral at a wedding). Some sparrows were in a panic for much the same reason and there's a young looking gull flying very low over the garden squawking a lot. Meanwhile an ephemeral ghostly Large White butterfly is fluttering in and out of  gardens.

I've seen the fuchsia

Over recent weeks I've been trying to get a photo of such a butterfly in our garden but so far have failed hilariously. I downloaded this App to help the Earthwatch project. Thinking back to my last post, one thing I could never have done is be a wildlife photographer. Every time I get the camera opened on my phone the damned things have flown off. And butterflies are the most difficult creatures to capture if they won't settle on anything.  The amount of patience it takes to sit and wait for a perfect moment is far beyond my skittish temperament. Anyway, I came in to cool off as it was sweltering in the garden but the clouds have come over and cooled things down a little. Even the bird-life has quietened down for now. There are plenty of swifts on the wing quite high up. I've just failed again to capture

 two Large Whites, meanwhile this fella turned up which is unusual this close to the sea. He seems to like hanging around our place but won't settle.

It's time to start enjoying the summer now without having to go to school each day. I am aware that this is the moment in the year when I accept that there are some perks to the chosen profession. I'm not sure how much longer that will last if the current Education Secretary has anything to do with it. It has not escaped our notice that Lidl today posted a leaflet through the door advertising their "Back to School" section. Meanwhile, the media is in a frenzy at the arrival of Prince Macbeth and I was already fed up with it before it happened. But for now we need to be preparing to go to the Cambridge Folk Festival get on with enjoying whatever type of summer we're given.

Cheers!

God bless Aunt Mary Moses
With all her power and might-o
Send us peace in England
Send us peace by day and night-o

icarus

I never wanted to fly high: I was too fond of walking
So when you said you'd reach the sky, thought it was a way of talking
But you told me you'd build some wings, you'd found out how it could be done
But I was doubtful of everything, never thought you'd reach the sun.

A student of mine, a young lad of some fourteen summers, asked me if I had always wanted to be a teacher the other day. God no, I told him, I never wanted to be one! He also told me that he thought I was a good teacher which, to my shame, I snorted at. "No, you are, my grades have gone up this year - I've done well. You explain things in an interesting way and you use film more than any of the other teachers." That was actually quite nice to have a young student say something like that. A colleague - a History teacher - was also thanked for being a student's teacher this year. This is quite unusual.

At the Sixth Form Prom the other week I found out that one or two of my Film Students quite enjoyed having me as their teacher. This is all very gratifying and I'm not blowing my own trumpet (it doesn't have strings, so I can't play one anyway*) quite the opposite, in fact. As I possibly face the last year or two of teaching, it is an absolute pleasure to think back and realise that, perhaps, things didn't work out too badly after all.

I was the first person in my family to go to university. The fact that I did it in my late thirties was possibly even more remarkable. Apropos of nothing, the second to go is a PhD working for the Ministry of Truth or whatever they're called now. Germ Warfare or something. Anyway, having never done anything properly in my life, even that was as haphazard as everything else in my life seems to be. After leaving secondary school like Rodney from Only Fools and Horses with two O levels - one of them in, like him, Art - I eventually gave up all pretences of following a career in Graphic Art. There were so many talented people on the course that I just realised in a rare moment of common sense that it was never going to happen. A few years of working in factories beckoned.

Just as I got married the factory I worked in decided that I was to be made redundant. My circumstances necessitated a quick fix. And so I entered the World of Insurance. It kept us fed and housed along with Mrs Dave's far better income from teaching. We moved from our chosen home of Bedfordshire (A1, near Stevenage, cheaper housing, Jordan's Mill and a pub with no bar) down here to the East Coast about twenty five years ago.

I absolutely detested working in the Insurance industry and I managed to do it for some ten years. I apologise to anyone I ever sold a pension, mortgage or any policy at all to. I don't apologise to any of the crooks and cowboys I had the absolute misfortune to have to work for. Being a fairly honest person, I couldn't bear it. The day I was told I was to be made redundant (early nineties) I was actually relieved. Although we suffered hard times again, I applied to Essex Uni and got in - not only that, I'd blagged my way in to completing my degree in two years instead of three. Whilst studying there we had our third child putting even more financial strain on us. at one point during this time, I had three part time jobs as well. Interestingly, one of which was where I had worked with the father of the student I mentioned at the start of this post. Even my teacher training was unusual. I won't go into detail but I trained at one of the schools that I now work at (two have become one under the Academy) and actually managed to get paid to do it as an instructor.

Things began to change.

I'm not writing my full autobiography here so will cut this a bit short. As usual, I'm going off the point. As I said, perhaps things haven't worked out as badly as they could have.

I never flew high, I never really wanted to. I would like to have been successful as a songwriter or as a musician but massive stage fright seemed to have always helped to keep those back (amongst other psychological hangups). However, many friends and fellow travellers have climbed their chosen trees very high indeed. Some have flown high, some like Icarus, have crashed and burned. Amongst the successful public figures, photographers, artists, musicians and, yes one millionaire, success has been accepted on whatever terms that were offered. Friends are still making a living in whatever capacity as musicians and artists. It's not easy and I don't think it's going to get any easier. 

We are saying goodbye to a lot of colleagues of a similar age to ourselves this week. No matter what anyone thinks, teaching is a tough career choice. It certainly is nowadays. Many who are going have decided that for their own personal health reasons that now is a good time to go. Good luck to them all. Whatever your own pathway, I hope that it worked out well.

To refer back to my student's question, I would be very interested to know what any of you wanted to be when you were at school.

I can't help about the shape I'm in
I can't sing, I ain't pretty and my legs are thin
But don't ask me what I think of you
I might not give the answer that you want me to

Oh well

Now, when I talked to God I knew he'd understand
He said, "Stick by me and I'll be your guiding hand
But don't ask me what I think of you
I might not give the answer that you want me to"

Oh well

* yes, yes, I know, I can't play things with strings very well, either!
By the way, if the Bruegel painting above is not familiar to you, check the lower right hand corner.

keep the home fires burning

chop me some broken wood
we'll start a fire
white warm light the dawn
and help me see
old satan's tree

The sun sets quite late at this time of year, of course. As Mrs Dave and I sat in the garden watching the family of swifts screech overhead enjoying the plethora of flying insects that none of us can name, feeling the last vestiges of heat from the sun and our tiny chiminea and supping the last of the wine, we pondered something that even Mrs Dave accepted as "a good question". More of that later.

The day started well with the sun suggesting that it might bother to poke its head out from under its coverings and offer us more than a glimpse of what could be. I wandered about - not too difficult as our garden is so small an Action Man couldn't get lost in it. We've never had any luck growing strawberries but this year Mrs Dave decided that actually, although she said we wouldn't, we would anyway. And they've managed to produce something. A small bowl like this won't (most likely) excite many but this is a first for us! With a couple more added ten minutes later - we have a small

crop of strawberries. Despite not having any need to buy salad for nearly three weeks, we have mostly managed to grow Nasturtiums. It's a good thing they're edible. We've lived in this house for something like a quarter of a Century. We're used to the vagaries of this tiny town house garden and the salt from living two hundred yards from the sea. It's just great that stuff grows. This year we've also managed to keep all sorts of things growing. Although it's like a bonsai approach, I'm getting a lot of pleasure out of the little daily pleasures afforded to us: strawberries, nasturtiums, mint, salad and small peppers.

First born needed to be taken to Colchester train station to start her holiday properly. By that I mean she needed to leave the family home and start catching planes and visiting European cities. So, after four days home, it was time to get off on the real trip. Off to Hyde Park, then. Mrs D.suggested that she could make her some sandwiches. I was immediately put in mind of my first Hyde Park gig. 1970, I believe. She's off to see the Stones but I went to see Pink Floyd. She will see them as they wind down their operation, I went to see the Floyd as their star started to rise. I must have been all of 14 years old. I still can't believe that my mother thought it was okay to let me go. A packet of cheese (possibly jam) sandwiches - which was probably all we could afford as she had to provide my train fare too - in my pocket and off I went. This is where the kindness of strangers comes into play. There were some older lads from my school - I was a very lowly third year (Y9 in new money) - and at least one of them took pity on me. After the incredulous reaction that, yes, my mum HAD let me go - look, she's made me some jam sandwiches for Christ's sake -  they looked after me for the day.  Which is pretty good, really, because a 14 year old kid in 1970 was a much different beast to a 14 year old kid in 2013. But, for now, we'll let that go.

Where were we? Oh yeah, after sitting taking in the last few days, we relaxed and thought of how we've just got a week (and two days) left until we finally get to relax for a few weeks. And then it all starts up again. . . but whilst we chatted idly, a point of order reared its (not ugly) head. Having sat and enjoyed the barbecued food I wondered  when we, in England, first started to eat barbecued food. I can't remember my parents EVER having a barbecue. I do remember that at the start of the 1980s many of us were having them. Who introduced them and when was YOUR first barbie? I seem to think that the Galloping Gourmet may have been our earliest introduction but that could be so wrong . . .

Answers please . . .

Still, we sat by the chiminea until Mrs Dave needed to go and read a book for her Reading Group (ironically enough The Slap which starts at a barbecue) and I thought I should go and write this and then watch A Field in England.

All in all, then, another quiet night in England. I may wander out and sit quietly in the garden drinking the Mescal First Born brought as a present from Mexico and listen to some mellow music. So, we have two projects here: your first barbie and what music would be a good soundtrack for a quiet late night chilling out on a lovely summer evening?

ghost riders in the sty

Back before the blues were blue
When the good old songs were new
Songs that may no longer please us
'Bout the d*rkies, about Jesus
Mississippi Minstrels, the colour of molasses
Strummin' on their banjos to entertain their masses
Some said garbage, some said art
You couldn't call it soul
You had to call it heart

By the time we got to Maverick, we were about, well . . . a thousand strong.

There's a limit on the numbers anyway, so by Saturday afternoon they'd reached the two thousand limit. Okay, hardly Woodstock but what a great little festival. Mrs Dave and I spent a couple of hours loading up the van with beer and wine and clothes (like raincoats) just in case the BBC had got it wrong. They hadn't. What wonderful weather.

Home from home, I guess

The Californian bands like I See Hawks in L.A. (more of later*) felt at home. With temperatures soaring somewhere into the thirties we slathered sun cream onto ourselves (okay, I forgot to put any on my neck and chest - hence the glow), drank beer and enjoyed some great music. An Americana festival seems to open itself up for abuse but do those critics really know what they're talking about? No, not really. Any time the words "folk" or "country" are mentioned it seems that the floodgates have been opened for abuse. But . . . but . . .

A weekend being entertained by some of the most talented youngsters around helps to keep you grounded. These aren't singing along to cds of warbly (so called) R&B artists**. These are genuinely talented musicians who have grown up with this music pounding through their veins - one pair of twins I swear must have grown up around a kitchen table with their families sharing songtime and swapping "old time" tunes instead of eating.

We were - as often happens - totally gobsmacked by how great the home-grown talent is. Despite the many Canadians and Californians there, there are so many wonderfully talented young British acts on show. And so many young female bands. I'll leave you to peruse the lists if you're interested but I

I wonder if she owns a pub . . ?

was very taken with the Carrivick Sisters. Dan Raza & the Shrouds and The Vagaband (from Norwich) were bloody great. Despite the (rather immature) humour of Neil Innes and others, young bands like these just blew us away. It's not just the quality of musicianship that amazed us but the quality of song-writing that is beginning to seep through. More on this at a later time . . . but please get out and go to one of the many festivals that are around. There are so many artists in the States that are leading the way in forging ahead with a career and one of my next posts will explore this more (it was going to be this one but after a great weekend away and a day at work, I just need to sleep).

The festival is held at a farm.  Whilst some of the music is played openly on a field, much is played in the barn, a cafe, in a small room for buskers (lots of them) and various other stuff going on. In all, a typical small British festival doing what we do best. That's right, a family festival with great music.

I'll talk more of this next post but we do need to support live music. There were loads of people older than me there this weekend - and many of them may not particularly be into the music whereas I am. And I mean that there are people as both audience AND performer.

There weren't many twangy guitars there this weekend - far too many pedal steels and banjos for me.  However one flashy git managed to twangle all over the place - his performance of Ghost Riders in the Sky left several of us feeling queasy. And not in a good way. Remember, just because you can flash all over the place doesn't mean you have to. When soloing, less is always more.

It wasn't a great advertisement for electric guitars (so many mandolins, pedal steels and banjos this year) but one or two young female bands managed to show us the way forward here. The Good Lovelies particularly.

Anyway, we got home and managed to have the first barbecue of the year - thanks to our so-called British Summer - and all seems well, at last. Now I realise I'm tired and want to write at length at another time about our talented youth. So, another time, then. Here's the food from yesterday:

* much, much later
** do we have to argue about what now passes as "R&B"? Also, so many Assemblies with sing-along-to X-Factor. Is this talent?

summer daze

There's a different plan
Time's gonna make you a different man.
They say there's a country where the streets are paved with gold,
Where a man can find shelter far away from the cold.
And I'm sailing out to find it before I'm too old, come summer
Come summer.

So here we are being, oh so Middle Class.

still waiting for this moment . . .

We're off to a local festival tomorrow evening after work. We've collected the motor home ("Harvey" to regular readers) and we'll bung a few things in to take with us. The weather looks good and we'll meet up with some like-minded friends. Mrs Dave has stripped our pitifully small garden of spinach to make a feta and spinach pie ("for lunches") and I'm sitting here waiting for the bread to rise so I can bake it. Home-baked bread for lunch at a festival will obviously be "right on" I guess.

There won't be anyone famous on - other than Neil Innes - a local lad - he of the Bonzos and Rutles. It looks like even Rich Hall won't be on this year and he's a regular doing his "Otis T Crenshaw" shtick. Still, there are always surprises. Always. Last time I went (2011) Melanie was the special guest in tribute to Woodstock. They turned away in droves. We couldn't bear one whole song. Sorry, Melanie*.

Still, we can go away, camp (well, in a van) and wander about in a field drinking during what looks like a reasonably hot weekend and drink. Oh, did I mention that? Usually they've run out by Saturday afternoon. There'll be Adnams in the van, of course. And a box of wine. So, obviously it's going to be a quiet weekend away. The weeks are galloping towards the end of term and we're beginning to relax. Unlike the management of course. As they gear up to try to make sure that the last few weeks are as fun-packed and educational as every other week we've joyously sweated over each and every lesson plan to provide . . . blah blah blah  taught zealously. . .  er, where was I? I'll leave the British education system for now but just keep an eye on the news. Gove, eh?

In the meantime, the summer beckons: music, family, a drink or two and maybe - just MAYBE - an opportunity to do something for yourself. Play a bit of guitar? Write a song? Sleep, perhaps?

This is a quick message from the trenches. More to follow. By the way, despite not being too capable of following social notworking sites, I've "joined" (wtf?) Vine which may or may not last very long.

Wherever you are - enjoy the weekend. If you're in England take some sun cream with you.

*Andy - you may remember her "Scratch and Sniff" album cover. I'll leave it at that - everyone else can sit there and use their imaginations about what 14 year old boys thought about that.

among the trees again

With kitchen prose and gutter rhymes.
Songs from the wood make you feel much better

The house smells of cat wee.

Finally, after weeks waiting for the moment to come, the beautiful umbrellas of elderflowers are out everywhere. I noticed them on Monday whilst walking to work. I went up to a wooded (man-made) area near to us called The Grove this morning to pick some. I wandered around with a large plastic bag and a holster with a gardeners knife and a pair of secateurs in. Obviously I got a few strange looks but I'm used to that.

I use Hugh Dick-Furry Whittington's recipe as it's easy to follow. Most people who know me are aware of a certain clumsiness that no doubt would nowadays be diagnosed as dyspraxia to the hilarity of many students over the years as I've managed to walk into desks, trip over bags and such-like. So obviously the whole morning wasn't without its little mishaps. So to the recipe ingredients were added: scissors, Savlon antiseptic cream, plasters. I managed to grate quite a hefty lump out of my thumb whilst grating the lemons for their zest but managed to avoid getting any blood into the final mixture. Unlike the time we once had guests and I managed to chop a huge chunk out of my thumb whilst carving the lamb. . . but that's another story for another time. But then that's nothing compared to the time I thought I'd hold a log whilst chopping it with an axe . . .

Anyway, the mixture is now sitting in a big plastic bucket in our back room giving off the fragrance of the finest cat wee. If you've never made it, elderflower champagne is easy and well worth it. Good to have a bottle on Christmas Day.

So whilst that's bubbling away - or soon will be - I'm waiting for the dough I've just kneaded to rise so I can bake it. With the various salads, tomatoes and herbs growing in the garden, it looks as though Summer has finally arrived. Festival time - Glastonbury is on this weekend and it isn't even raining. The BBC have managed to avoid all mention of the Oysterband who played there on Friday so I won't be able to see any of their set but they are playing Ipswich in December. Mrs Dave and I are off to the Maverick Americana festival next weekend and Cambridge at the start of the Summer holidays. Looking forward to Martin Simpson's set - hopefully he'll be able to stay on stage for the full set this time.

It's been a long week so it's a fairly restful weekend. We went to the Y13 Prom on Thursday which was a very pleasant affair as usual. Despite sinking a bottle of Malbec I felt fine the next day. Unlike a few people I could mention. All-in-all, with the sun shining and the feeling that Summer has started, I'm beginning to relax a bit after a fairly hectic year.

Evidently it's St Paul's Day today and some rain needs to fall in orchards to christen the apples. There's not much rain around here today. I'm sure the apples will be fine, though.

Ah well, time to bake that bread . . .

after rain

Sometimes things don't go, after all,
from bad to worse.  Some years, muscadel
faces down frost; green thrives; the crops don't fail,
sometimes a man aims high, and all goes well.A people sometimes will step back from war;
elect an honest man, decide they care
enough, that they can't leave some stranger poor.
Some men become what they were born for.Sometimes our best efforts do not go
amiss, sometimes we do as we meant to.
The sun will sometimes melt a field of sorrow
that seemed hard frozen:  may it happen for you.

Ah . . . back in the room again. I've decided that I should reconfigure myself as the Sisyphus of the Dishwasher. What is it about bloody dishwashers?  Every time I come down to the kitchen to make a cup of tea I have to empty the damned thing. Am I forever condemned to the meaningless task of emptying it and endlessly refilling it? Anyway, on to more important matters . . .

I can't start to explain how ridiculous the last few weeks have been. Honestly, I can't.

We seem to have finally got the house in order after the fire but it wasn't until this week that that happened. I spent most of the half term break fighting the demands of wandering through a building site and marking exams. The anomie created by the builders/decorators/Bogey men won out. Little really got done. However, one student cheered me up completely by writing an essay about a film called I, Robert which evidently was about a time when the world got tired of all the Roberts and wanted to get rid of them all. Can't wait for my friend Robert to come back off of holiday . . . 

Last weekend we spent the whole weekend painting all of the bits of woodwork that the Insurance decorators weren't going to paint. Which was most of it. Let's face it, I live in a three storey Edwardian town house, so that's a lot of stair spindles, dado rails and skirting boards. I lifted the carpet ready for Wednesday's visit by the carpet fitters. Tuesday night, I lifted* the underlay which meant I spent all of Tuesday evening and Wednesday morning trying to extricate my slippers from the grippers (poetic, eh?). The three o'clock visit to the bathroom involved some swearing. However, the biggest surprise of all was . . .  Ofsted decided to inspect us on Wednesday and Thursday. Okay, so now I'm behind in exam marking, the carpet people are coming tomorrow and now Satan's representatives on Earth are paying a visit? What else could go wrong?

Well. After my first lesson on Wednesday morning on the other site (our school - sorry, Academy - is on two sites) I went out to the car in a hurry assuming that I'd probably be observed next lesson. The car wouldn't open. When I put the key into the door all Hell broke lose. Whilst, in truth only the lights were flashing on and off (with the extraordinarily loud beeping), it seemed as though the roof and doors were opening as in some surreal dream of the worst clown's car in the worst circus your wildest nightmares could conjure. Real Ray Bradbury stuff.  Whilst I stood there in absolute disbelief watching the seconds tick by like Rod Taylor in the 1960 version of The Time Machine watching ladies fashions changing every few seconds, a friend came to my rescue. Evidently, these modern keys don't even have batteries - you need to alternate the keys if you have more than one as the car charges it (or some such rubbish).

I wasn't observed. Not at all. Over both days - which is enough to decide whether after all the years of training and actually doing the job - Ofsted deemed it unnecessary to see me. Well, I've no time for Ofsted and, quite clearly, they've no time for me. However, as I drove home that evening hoping that the carpet fitters had been and that it all looked okay.

The pile of carpet offcuts and underlay lying on the front garden suggested that they'd been. Opening the front door suggested that they'd also decided that they didn't have to clear up after themselves either. A quick trip to the Tip and an hour with the Dyson soon sorted it all out. Most of the hour was spent trying to work out how to work the damned thing. The last time I'd "hoovered" the stairs was, literally using a Hoover. What's going on with all that Space Age Dyson stuff? They look like drawings from a D&K cutaway book.

Anyway, Ofsted have gone leaving only the smell behind them. Life goes on - we survived. I won't go into any boring detail except to say that we can get on with life now. No Damoclean Sword hanging over us for the last few weeks of the academic year (not forgetting that this has been hanging over us ALL YEAR).  We can get on with our marking (I'm exceptionally late this year with it but the Exam Board have kindly given me an extension). 

In the meantime, I've reacquainted myself with Clive Gregson & Christine Collister's ouevre, watched most of The Eagles' documentary and am looking forward to seeing John Etheridge and a pickup band on Sunday night 200 yards from my house. So, life's not all bad. The weather isn't great but after the rain this afternoon, the garden seemed fresh. However, whilst out foraging, I've not been able to find any elderflowers yet. I want to make some Elderflower Champagne. For once, we've got loads of stoppered bottles but no bloody elderflowers.

Oh well, I'd better go and empty the dishwasher, it seems to have finished its cycle . . .
And the sky never leaves me

I couldn't find the words to say
First we take it easy
Then we take it day by day 

After rain, after rain

We can walk in green fields once again
And all my life I'll read the sky 

* I mean, of course, tore up and pulled all tacks, nails and staples.
PS Blogger is playing up again. The amount of time I've spent trying to stop it putting white bands around every line is ridiculous. And as for re-ordering the labels . . .well!