One Year, Minus 20 Days...and the Marmite is still a mess...

This time last year, I was preparing for the end of my time in New Zealand and getting ready for the journey back to the UK.  This year minus twenty days back in the UK has changed me both physically and psychologically.

I caught my reflection about a week ago.  Cheekbones bulged, and below the skin hung concave; gaunt.  A few weeks further back than that, I had chance to see my reflection and found my father looking back at me.  I never wanted to look like my father; especially my father in his later years.  That’s who I could see.  This morning I had a face scan at the opticians, and when it came time to map glasses on to my face – to see which style made me look less oil rig – the face sag in the image they had captured gave the appearance of a man having a stroke.  It was quite a shock.

As I have withered away physically, so I have withered psychologically, too.  I had opportunity to go to a pretend German Xmas market, last week.  There were simply too many people there.  It was impossible to feel comfortable.  I know that many feel hatred of the crowd so: today I was at a drama performance, sat in the audience, and could feel myself physically shrinking into my seat; tears welling up at the simplest emotive heartstring pluck of the sentimental songs.  That is not normal.  I’ve walked home on a Friday on a few occasions now feeling crestfallen at the fact that the shit week I’ve had won’t have someone it can be related to when I get home…and then brain kicks in and flashes reruns of all the reasons why there will be no one at home to hear me moan and I completely understand and remember why there will be no one there.

It feels appropriate, somehow, that I have come back to the UK to wither, when the country – this tired, worn out, old country – has chosen the same time to wither too.  This is not going to segue into a Brexit piece – I’m far too self-centre for this to shift away from being about me, don’tchaknow – but this political decision has highlighted just how tired, worn out and old this country actually is.  Sorry, excuse me, not country: collection of countries.  The complex nature of the make up of the United (ha!) Kingdom continually appears to slip the mind – especially of those who are supposed to be leading it.

The fractious nature of the manner in which we are approaching the end of membership with the European Union is appalling to see, and far too appalling to be this close to and actually have affecting my life and the life of those who I hold dear.  That the country voted across party, geographic, class and gender lines should have meant that the political system put aside their petulant differences and childish goal-scoring to work together to form a united front to our European partners and negotiate as strong an exit deal as they possibly could have done so.  How does Olivier’s Doctor put it in A Bridge Too Far as he tries to negotiate a halt to the fighting to bring assistance to the wounded and dying? “Winning and losing is not our concern.  Living or dying is.  Cease fire… one hour… two… just to evacuate our wounded.  Afterwards you can kill us as much as you want to.”  Once we get out of Europe, they could go back to being dicks to each other, just like normal.  For now, they should be stood shoulder to shoulder to ensure they are representing and working on behalf of every UK citizen.  But, like me, they’re too worried about their reflection in the mirror.  Too worried about judgement and taking the risk to put other people first.

I bit the bullet, the other week.  I bought Marmite again – seems Vegemite has gone to stay.  It is still the oxtail crisp, honey textured, HP sauce mess it was just under a year ago.  It does not taste like it should do.  It is a marker for how bad a year this had been.

Existential Clothes Horse

I had pause to think about what makes me, this week.  I was wondering up the road, about to be picked up and driven to the theatre, and my mind for reasons of its own choosing decided to run the once over on the clothes I was wearing.

To whit, I was wearing a jumper bought in Next some time around 2002 or 2003; a T-shirt from Farmers (NZ shop) from about 2013; jeans from Peacocks, 2018; socks and pants from M&S 2010 and 2017 respectively and trainers from some sports shop 2017, too.  The various British bought guff having travelled to and from the other side of the earth and now too, the t-shirt.  I was a composite of countries and stores and times and different mes.

The me who bought the jumper is alien now.  I cannot bring myself to look at that man in photos.  He is entirely not me both in the sense that every cell that existed in him has changed and that the views and the attitudes he held aren’t mine anymore.  At the very least, I have the good graces to be embarrassed at the manner of the man I once was.  It isn’t pleasing to be reminded of him and what tells you everything about him is that the jumper bought then he never wore.  It never fitted him.  Now it hangs loose on me.  The weight I carried as that man gone.  Going.

The M&S socks are a revelation.  They have stayed with me for an age and are only now holing.  They held firm whilst all equivalent NZ varieties, whether cheap make-dos or proper socks from proper shops snagged and tore, some on their very first outing on foot.  Oddly, a later vintage of M&S sock are already fraying and breaking.  Vimes’ shoe theory expanded.

The T-shirt is a cheap one from a Kiwi department store.  It has been worn many, many times.  A comfort blanket.  Grey.  Apt.  It now shows signs of discolouration and overwear about the seams and down the back.  It has done its dash and carried me through these long days.  Perhaps it needs retiring.

The pants and the trainers were bought as a stocking-up process a Christmas visit to Blighty a year and a bit back, now.  They were to see me through until the next visit back – whenever that was going to be.  They wre not to be worn over here, that’s for certain.

And then it all changed.

And then I needed to spend cheaply on a pair of jeans.  Peacocks.  The belt has disintegrated around the waist already.  The heels had frayed out where they’ve been trampled on.  They are already loose about me.  The first purchase back in the country.  The first part of the new me and they already do not fit properly.

Being me back over here has not been a simple shift.  Still, nearly a year on, my brain refuses to dream of anything other than New Zealand and the life I had there.  It sends me crashing back to the time and the place or to the people night after night and I wake each morning sore headed and irked by the vivid pictures remaining behind my eyes in the initial stage of day starting.

The play I was on my way to seeing was Dracula.  Apt, really.  My Mina is everywhere and I am stuck in one place unable to escape…and, as you can see, I am given to the melodrama that such a comparison lends itself to.  It does feel like I’m stuck in a melodrama.  One of my own making, I freely admit, but one nevertheless.  I am struck by highs and lows day-by-day, week-by-week.  The highs don’t peak too high, it must be said, but the lows…man, they are a sheer drop and take an awful lot of effort to climb back up from.

Realising I am this composite man is curious.  I am fractions and oddments from all this time; I am not a whole but an ever changing construct – one that can consciously dissemble elements now obsolete – though one, it seems, with a blind spot for worth and penchant for melodrama.

Back in the groove...but not in a funky way, sadly...

It’s been a while.  Sorry.

The academic year has started and I’ve been sucked back into its cycle.  It has allowed me two experiences of it: mine and daughter’s.

Hers has been interesting.  She was a little overwhelmed by scale, at first, but appears to have quickly settled into the routine and started to appreciate and take advantage of the opportunities available to her.  Mine has been like looking through an out of focus lens – much like the move back to the UK, in fact.  A school is a school, and the intention and outcome remains the same: educated pupils.  The systems and the processes have their idiosyncrasies, and this is the aspect tripping me up at the moment.

The opportunities available for daughter, for all students, in fact, are pretty great – this is something that does niggle me about expectations on those that work in education.  It is the question that occurs in interview, “And, how will you contribute to the co-curricular activities at the school?”  The approach of the Head of PE, “I understand you’ve coached (insert sport here) before?”  Camps, plays, choirs, debating, tournaments, competitions, events…oh, and do remember you have ensured that that data is complied, analysed and entered for collation and processing by the end of this week, thanks.

I was at school in the 80s when teachers went on strike.  I remember all extra curricular activities stopping.  I remember clubs and supervision at break and lunchtime stopping, and us being told to leave school grounds during these times.  All stuff again taken for granted; all that is dependent on good will.  “It’s part of the job” runs the argument – often from those who then say, “Such short hours” and, “All those holidays”. 

Being late into education, the imposition of the job on personal time is conspicuous.  I used to compare it to having to turn up to work at my old job as travel agent and having had to write the brochure before the seasons start; to have to compose the blurb for each resort differentiated to accommodate the various kinds of tourist that may or may not read the brochure description; to have created the spreadsheet or database that stores all the information about the sales made and then transferring this information from my own record to the company’s record; to having to attend evening meetings with returned holiday makers to discuss their holiday and how it could be improved in the future, to refining the pitch and re-writing the brochure once again to accommodate these aspirational improvements…etc….whilst organising and coaching a company sports team and helping out backstage or with the lighting for the company play….and running a company club at lunchtime.

Of all the jobs I’ve had, this is the only one that inhibits life outside of the four walls of the factory – so to speak.  Never as a travel agent, as a library assistant, as a secretary or office manager, never as a warehouseman did I ever have to take sales home to complete or call from home to confirm an appointment; or take stock home to sort and stack ready for the next day.  Never did I have to go home and design, make, print, guillotine and laminate labels for stock ready for the next day.  It’s all part of the job, remember?

I salute those teachers who give their time and their expertise or revel in their amateur enthusiasm for an interest.  These are the people who fire the imaginations of students, who round and fill their educational experience, who give a place and time for them to feel secure in investing themselves in an interest too.  Daughter is able to take advantage of this generosity so she can sing, act, travel, learn.

As in all jobs, there are exceptions that prove the rule – there are less effective people who work in education, just as there are less effective people who work in any walk of life.  There are, however, many more exceptional people who give much of themselves for the betterment of the young of this country, and in countries all around the world.

Goodness knows how they manage to fit all that in by 3:30pm, eh?

Is that school I see on the horizon?

This last couple if weeks of the holidays have highlighted that peculiarity of being caught up in transformation.  There have been moments when the next step – starting secondary school – has hung over us Damoclean style and there have been moments when “being too big” for something has become a realisation unprepared for.

“I hate school.”  It’s that time again.  There have been lots of questions about going up to comprehensive and lots of questions about the answers given.  It’s all the usual stuff about nerves and subjects and whether I’d enjoyed comprehensive or not.  I’m not sure the fact that I enjoyed secondary school is very reassuring at the moment.  It’s going to be an interesting couple of weeks.  The Enfield-esque slouches, hoody down over the eyes and grunts that accompanied shopping for school stuff, the other day, perhaps indicates that it’ll be a very long couple of weeks indeed.  Thankfully, as well as school starting so too does her weekend club: that’ll give her something to hang on for at the very least.

I’m finding it difficult to comprehend exactly what she’s going through.  I was the last of loads of siblings who had gone through the school I attended – Mum had a semi-permanent seat on the PTA committee from the late 60s through the 80s.  It was the most natural thing to go from one school to this next one.  Ignorance is bliss, I suppose.  My one’s experience is quite the opposite; so her uncertainty is perfectly understandable.  I hope I’m finding the right ways to help make the transition as smooth as it can be.

We went out for a walk and found ourselves in the vicinity of one of the larger parks in the area.  Over we walked.  Daughter has a love of the swings and a love of the, what we call, “turnie swing” too.  Right from her very first park experience she has adored being spun and twirled on those things.  It exhausts me!  It is a very firm connection though and one I adore too.  She quickly sat on the version in this park and off we went.  It’s like a place of comfort for us.  As soon as the rhythm is established and she’s off in orbit she starts to speak.  Her thoughts fall out and stuff that’s on her mind becomes articulated.  The movement gives a freedom of release.  It’s quite wonderful.  Of course, the park is a busy one.  Daughter gives way, and looks for something else to go on.  I found myself looking at her and her seeing that, for the first time, she is actually a bit too big for the park she is in.  There’s hardly a child in the place that stands taller than her waist – although there are a fair few who are closer to her age than their size might show.  For the first time, between us at least, there was a catch in her voice as she indicated that it was time to go.  Perhaps I imagined it.  It felt like an ending to an aspect of childhood – if you know what I mean? A step into a new aspect.

So, one last week of maintaining the screen time deal and allowing her to enjoy her time before the term starts.  One last week of making sure her checklists, physical and psychological, are checked and that the first walk up to the school gates can be one of confidence.  I am amazed at the daughter she is now.  She is such a funny, creative and compassionate person.  It is wonderful to have spent this time with her and see how she operates, how she lives and learns and how she looks at the world.  I know I am as nervous as she is about her move to secondary school – in some ways nothing has changed at all since I was her age and taking the step that she is now…and, of course, everything has changed and the step she is taking is going to be one into a world of constant change and demand and challenging experience.  It is, as once one of her favourite cartoons shows would have us believe, Adventure Time.