Last Fight Of The Proms

Last Fight Of The Proms

I’ve wanted to go to the BBC Proms at the Royal Albert Hall for quite some time but haven’t managed to go as yet. When I heard that there was a “Last Night of the Proms” concert being held locally, it seemed like an opportunity too good to miss…

 

We bought our little flags and went to our seats.

 

The audience appeared to be largely made up of sedate elderly classical music lovers, with the notable exception of an excitable woman wearing a plastic union jack bowler hat, brandishing a St. George’s cross flag and blowing on a party horn. She was seated with her partner in the middle section to our left and a couple of rows down.

 

The lights dimmed, the audience settled down and the concert began. It was a small orchestra and the musicians were brilliant. The audience listened attentively.

 

I knew from watching the Proms on television that there were certain behavioural rules and strange rituals, but I wasn’t completely sure of Prommer etiquette, so looked about me for guidance. It seemed, for the moment, that the general idea was to sit quietly and appreciate the music with flags down until prompted otherwise.

 

The orchestra played Elgar’s Nimrod beautifully. The audience applauded politely. The excitable woman leapt out of her seat, waved her flag wildly, let at a loud “Whoot!” as a prelude to enthusiastic party horn hooting.

 

I couldn’t help but notice that this outburst attracted the attention of other members of the audience too. The lady in front of me tutted and muttered something to her friend. The lady behind the excitable woman said “shhh!” and shook her head at her husband.

 

The next piece was announced. The excitable woman shouted “Yay!!!” and bounced up and down in her seat. The lady in front of me said “Oh! Really!” and locked her eyes onto the back of the excitable woman’s bowler-hatted head. The laser-like glare didn’t deter the excitable woman who continued to bob up and down rhythmically to “Barnacle Bill” the theme tune from Blue Peter. I was actually rather impressed that she managed maintain an exhilaratingly fast bobbing rate even during the presto finale. The lady behind the excitable woman folded her arms.

 

The next piece was announced; a medley from “Oliver!” with a duet accompanied by the orchestra. The excitable woman was moved to join in, screaming “I’d do anything, ANYTHING for yoooooouuuuu!!” into her partner’s face. Her partner looked at the floor. The lady behind the excitable woman rolled her eyes at her husband. The lady in front of me leaned forward slightly and redoubled her glaring efforts.

 

The next piece was quieter and more subdued. The excitable woman calmed down and simply swayed from side to side waving her flag at the head height of the lady behind her. The lady behind her initially tried to synchronise her movements so that she could watch the orchestra but gave up, folded her arms more tightly and stared at the plastic union jack bowler hat.

 

The next piece was announced; “Land of Hope and Glory”. The excitable woman shouted “Yayyyyyy!! Yayyyyy!! Yaaaaaaayyyyy!!!” and gave several blasts on her party horn. The audience was encouraged to wave flags.

 

We all waved our flags.

 

Then I noticed that the lady behind the excitable woman wasn’t waving hers. Instead she was rolling the flag tightly around the stick and closely watching the movements of the excitable woman’s flag.

Then she struck. She viciously lashed out and hit the excitable woman’s flag pole several times before knocking the plastic bowler hat forwards.

 

The excitable woman caught her bowler hat and turned round to the lady behind her. The lady behind quickly unfurled her flag, adopted an indomitable stalwart expression, and proudly waved her union flag with everyone else. The excitable woman looked confused and turned forwards again. The lady behind smiled and winked at her husband who gave her a congratulatory pat on the knee.

 

We all stood for “God Save the Queen” before leaving.

 

So, my first “Last Night of the Proms” was a movingly patriotic and yet humbling experience giving me a deeper appreciation of the distinctly Great British character.

Cold Comfort

Cold Comfort

I received a phone call from a man who knew my name, pronounced it correctly and knew my telephone number Q.E.D. This man clearly knew a lot about me…

 

Cold Caller: “Hello, how are you today?”

 

Me: “Hello, I’m fine thank you.”

 

Cold Caller: “I’m calling about the road traffic accident you’ve had.”

 

Me: “Road traffic accident? Me?”

 

Cold Caller: “Yes, you have apparently had a minor road traffic accident within the past three years.”

 

I had absolutely no recollection of having had a road accident, but then if it was in the past three years, I might have forgotten about it.

 

I have been assured that last night at about 3.00am I said, in a booming and authoritative voice: “Pointy screwdriver! You need a pointy screwdriver!” I have no reason to doubt that I did indeed do this, it was unquestionably a disturbing thing for me to do; but I really couldn’t remember doing it.

 

I also cannot recall putting the car keys in the fridge but I had them last and there they were, next to the huge unopened jar of pickled gherkins (which incidentally will remain unopened until I have a visitor with big enough hands who is prepared to try to open it).

 

So, given that memory is a fragile phenomenon, I was intrigued and wanted to know more about my road accident.

 

Me: “Oh, I can’t really remember having a road accident, but you said that it was a minor one?”

 

Cold Caller: “Yes it’s flagged up that you may have had a minor road accident.”

 

Me: “So, if it was a minor accident – does that mean that no one was hurt?”

 

Cold Caller: “A minor accident would mean that no one was hurt. Can you confirm that you did have a minor traffic accident in the past three years?”

 

Me: “Oh what a relief - no one was hurt. I can’t confirm the accident because I can’t really remember. You’d have to give me some more details. You say it happened in the past three years; could you be more specific?”

 

Cold Caller: “Sorry, it just says that it may have happened within the past three years.”

 

Me: “Hmm I see. Well where did it happen then?”

 

Cold Caller: “Sorry, it doesn’t give that information.”

 

Me: “Oh. Well what information does it give then?”

 

Cold Caller: “The database just gives your name, your address, your telephone number and your date of birth.”

 

Me: “Nothing about the accident at all?”

 

Cold Caller: “Er, no. It just flags that you may have had a minor road traffic accident within the past three years. But you’re saying that you didn’t have one is that right?”

 

Me: “I’m really not sure… what would make it flag up that I had?”

 

Cold Caller: “Erm, probably your date of birth. Err… it would be statistically probable that you might have had a minor accident within a three year period… based on your date of birth… but you haven’t have you?”

 

Me: “What’s that supposed to mean? Because of my age I’m statistically more likely to have lapses of concentration and therefore likely have a minor road accident within a three year period?”

 

Cold Caller: “I’m really sorry. I actually don’t think you have had a road accident. There’s obviously an error on the database. I’ll delete your details and make sure we don’t call you again. Sorry to have troubled you. Goodbye.”

 

I was so relieved that he thought I hadn’t had an accident after all. Now, where did I put my car keys?

Animal Instincts

Animal Instincts

At the latter stages of the week the workforce was showing signs of tiredness, irritability and general grumpiness…

 

One of the staff brought in his new puppy, Fred.

 

The tiny little creature seemed forlorn with sad eyes and a droopy tail – he seemed to embody the general atmosphere of melancholy.

 

We all looked at the puppy with a sense of oneness, of primordial understanding. We felt compassion for his fear and sorrow at being separated from his mother and siblings.

 

Then the boss arrived, seemingly insensitive to the fact that we were all busy empathising with the puppy.

 

He shrieked and scooped little Fred up into his arms, roughly rubbed Fred’s little round head and screeched “Hello! Hello! Hello!” in Fred’s little velvety ears.

 

We gasped with shock at this outburst; we were concerned that it might all be too much for Fred to cope with.

 

We needn’t have worried.

 

Fred responded to this assault by savagely chewing his chin with his little needle-like teeth and leaving a substantial wet patch on his shirt.

 

All of a sudden the mood of the whole workforce was lifted; eyes were brighter, smiles abounded and there was even a hint of muted laughter to be heard.

 

Everyone loves the little puppy.

 

It does seem to be true that it’s the little things in life that make a big difference.

Going on a Guilt Trip

Going on a Guilt Trip

There are some activities that are perfectly legal, activities that we are perfectly entitled to engage in but which somehow make us feel somewhat uneasy, guilty in fact…

 

Blackberry picking is one of these activities. If I happen to catch a blackberry picker in the act, especially if the blackberry picking was obviously premeditated (as evidenced by them having a little plastic box), I notice that their sense of shame is almost palpable. Of course they try to brazen it out, they might even cast a little nasty look my way, but I can tell they feel guilty.

 

One of the worst ones for me is the hand car wash.

 

I used to go to the automatic car wash secreted behind the local garage. The gigantic colourful brushes and the jerky guillotine-like dryer made it an utterly terrifying experience; fortunately the noise of that hellish contraption drowned my screams, at least I hope so. I never felt guilty though, never.

 

The hand car wash is another matter altogether.

 

I notice the woman in the car in front of me fiddling with her hair and rubbing the back of her neck – the sort of self-comforting body language that forensic psychologists look out for.

 

An overall-clad young man in wellington boots approaches.

 

I can already sense that he despises my laziness.

 

I wind the window down. “Hi, can I have ‘The Shiner’ please” I ask (I’d rather risk a black eye than a bloke called ‘Fast Eddie’ hopping in the car with me.)

 

He passes me a laminated card and instructs me to put it on the dashboard.

 

He walks smartly to the jet wash area and beckons me over.

 

I drive up to him, as close to his knees as I dare, and turn the engine off.

 

He starts jet washing the front of the car.

 

I try to look relaxed yet distracted, pretending to text someone.

 

“Excuse me.” he says “Could you wind the window up please.”

 

I turn the engine on and the car leaps forward before stalling. I wind the window up, and turn the engine off again, mouthing “Sorry” through the windscreen.

 

He smiles pityingly and continues jet washing before making a grand sweeping gesture with his arm directing me towards the dreaded soapy spongy area.

 

I cautiously manoeuvre into position and two soggy young men smile at me. I attempt a friendly smile in return but suspect that I look as though I’ve just stepped on a slug in my bare feet.

 

Then they start soaping the car. Their chapped and swollen fingers wielding frayed cold sponges. I feel sorry for them and guilty for my part in perpetuating this miserable trade.

 

It comes as a relief when the windscreen is washed and I can sit remorsefully inside foamy isolation.

 

Then a little square of clarity is made and one of the spongy men peers in at me reproachfully before directing me onwards.

 

More jet washing then drying.

 

Four bedraggled men, now five… squeak squeak squeak. I try to ignore them and take an inordinate interest in the advertising boards for garden fencing and mower repairs.

 

Then the door unexpectedly opens and I shriek.

 

“I’m just drying your sills” says the bedraggled youth reassuringly.

 

“Yes, ok” I say (I’ll just sit here like an overstuffed princess while you bend down before me and dry my sills.)

 

Finally it’s time to pay and leave.

 

“I’ll just get your change” he says. “No I don’t want the change, thank you”

 

“I’ll just get you an air freshener then” he says “No I don’t want an air freshener, thank you.”

 

Why doesn’t he just go and leave me alone? I can’t bear this any longer.

 

“Yes?” I ask.

 

“Could you just pass me the card from the dashboard please?”

 

I pass him the little laminated card with overly profuse apologies.

 

I think I might go and seek out some blackberry pickers... just to make myself feel better.

No Problem

No Problem

I have noticed that there has been a recent increase in people stating whether there is a problem or not - but the meaning keeps shifting and is therefore becoming more difficult to comprehend…

 

I used to think that I understood the sentiment quite well.  I would tell someone something that could potentially create a problem for my listener. For example, I might say “I’m really sorry but the item you ordered is out of stock. We won’t be able to deliver to you until next Wednesday.” They might respond reassuringly by saying “Oh that’s not a problem; we have enough stock to last until then.”

 

Alternatively, I might thank someone who has gone out of their way to help me and they might respond with “No problem.” to humbly diminish their efforts, to indicate that they were happy to help me and to prevent me from feeling overly indebted to them.

 

There has certainly been a trend where “No problem” is said when there should never be any expectation of a problem (such as in response to ordering a coffee in a coffee shop and having sufficient funds to pay for it). However the term “No problem” (and variations, with and without embellishments) seems to be mutating into yet another form:

 

Caller: “Do you have such-and-such in stock?”

 

Me: “Yes we’ve got lots of those in stock.”

 

Caller: “Not a problem.”

 

Me: “No, I said we DO have lots of those.”

 

Caller: “Yeah - no problem whatsoever.”

 

Me: “Did you hope that we didn’t have any?”

 

Caller: “What? No, we need them. So you’ve got them yeah? Could you deliver ten of them to me to arrive tomorrow morning?”

 

Me: “Yes we can.”

 

Caller: “No problem at all.”

 

Me: “No.”

 

Caller: “What?”

 

Me: “Problem”

 

Caller: “There’s a problem?”

 

Me: “No, there isn’t.”

 

Caller: “So you’ll get them delivered to me tomorrow morning then?”

 

Me: “Yes”

 

Caller: “No probs.”

 

Me: “Well ok, I’ll get on with it then. Thank you for your order. Goodbye.”

 

 

So it seems that “No problem” is beginning to be used simply as a broad-based positive response. It’s important to keep up with modern lingo.

 

I can’t wait to try it out… maybe when I open my presents at Christmas.

Lesson One

Lesson One

The first lesson with a new teacher can be a daunting experience…

 

I had a violin lesson last night, the first one with this particular teacher.

 

Playing for an unfamiliar authority figure is a stressful and uncomfortable experience because they are judging you.

 

The trouble is, no one likes being judged, especially by someone who is better than you, but then it’s not the best idea to choose a teacher on the basis that they are worse than you.

 

Of course they have to judge you, or to put it in a less dramatic way; they have to assess your current abilities so that they can then teach you.

 

Another problem is the fact that you want to impress the teacher and, by the very fact that you have arranged a lesson, you don’t actually believe you are impressive.

 

So, how do you deal with such a stressful situation and manage to get through a whole hour without resorting to fainting?

 

Strategies have to be employed, strategies devised by your subconscious mind. When the subconscious mind moves you to deploy these strategies, our conscious mind can only marvel at their deviousness as we find ourselves putting them into action:

 

First Impressions:

Although you are a rubbish musician, at least you can be impressive as an intelligent and sociable person:

New Teacher: “Oh, hello! You knocked very quietly, it’s a good job I heard you. Come in!”

Me: “Thank you… what a lovely front door. It’s blue.”

Make your way steadily in the direction being indicated, confidently naming the colours of walls, carpets and soft furnishings along the way.

 

Getting Ready:

A good deal of time can be used up here.

Resting the instrument case on a sloped surface enables objects to be put on top, slide off, put back on top and slide off again several times.

I think that any longer than the three minutes I did this for may have seemed excessive.

This is also a good opportunity to reinforce positive first impressions:

New Teacher: “What a lovely violin case.”

Me: “Thank you, it’s a bit too slippy though… what’s the combination? Erm…. Oh yes… 123 456.”

 

Lower The Teacher’s Musical Expectations of You:

This enables you to at least have a chance of making a good impression musically.

Adopt a quizzical expression and repeat, with a downward inflection, any musical terms that the teacher might say:

“Fourth position. Third position. Arpeggio.Tuning. Trilling. Scales. Shoulders. Pencil.”

Actually I did finally admit to an understanding of “pencil”, retrieved mine from my bag and informed her that it was the same colour as her front door.

 

The Moment Has Arrived:

The music has been selected and is on the stand, violin and bow poised, the teacher is standing to one side, relaxed and attentive, ready to judge. Concentration at its peak, deep breath in…

Me: “Before I start. Is that an apple tree in your garden?”

New Teacher: “Which one?”

Me: “The one at the bottom on the left.”

New Teacher: “The one with the apples on?”

Me: “Yes.”

New Teacher: “Yes. Yes it is. I’ll pick some for you to take home with you if you’d like.”

Me: “Oh yes please, do you want to pick them now?”

New Teacher: “I’ll pick them after our lesson. Now, when you’re ready…”

 

Then I play. The time flies by. The new teacher gives warm encouragement and gentle helpful advice. The lesson is over. It was great. She asks if I want to book another lesson.

 

That wasn’t so bad after all.

 

I drive home happy and excited… and with a big bag of apples – red ones.

The Grand Staff of Life

The Grand Staff of Life

Transposition for different musical instruments is not as dull as it might sound…

 

Last night was music theory class again and we briefly covered the concept of transposition for different instruments. I had been vaguely aware of murmurings in orchestra in the past about transposing a piece of music for the new trombonist but hadn’t appreciated what all the fuss was about.

 

I am still virtually clueless about this musical mystery but am beginning to feel that it may help my understanding if I try to think of it in terms of social relationships.

 

I may be completely wrong about this; but here goes:

 

I’ll start with the piano. The piano can, it is said, play any note that we in the western world would ever wish to hear. The piano can hold a discussion on any topic at any level; a fascinating individual who, if he wasn’t your friend, you would want him to be. Perhaps someone like Peter Ustinov or Stephen Fry.

 

The middle ‘C’ note on the piano has been named ‘Middle C’ for reasons unknown.

 

Moving on to my violin: I more or less comfortably play the same notes as the right hand side of the piano keyboard. ‘Middle C’ is one of my lowest sounding notes so I can happily hold a meaningful ‘conversation’ with the piano so long as he doesn’t get to deep. If he does, I can appreciate that he is a clever chap; I like and admire what he is saying, but I can’t join in. I may therefore tend to get distracted and start chatting to more like-minded high spirited individuals who are on the same wavelength as me; other violins or maybe the flute.

 

Now the gorgeous cello: The cello has ‘Middle C’ as one of its highest notes so is most content to have deep meaningful discussions with the darker side of the piano. The cello and the violin get on pretty well and are in tune with each other and can chat about middle of the road topics; not too hysterical and not too moody. If the violins and flutes go off on a flight of fancy you can often hear the cello mocking us in the background. We appreciate each other’s full range though because we both love the piano.

 

The viola: Our viola friends have ‘Middle C’ in the middle of their range of notes. That’s enough said about that, but we all get along very well and we call ourselves the ‘C’ instruments.

 

So our group of amazing and adored friends, the ‘C’ instruments, are at a party (orchestra). There are other guests at the party though; exotic and peculiar folk who call themselves clarinetists. We all agree to talk about a subject revolving around ‘Middle C’ – the weather - because that’s what we’re all comfortable with.

 

There we are engrossed in a most enjoyable conversation about the weather; thunderstorms, sparkling sunshine, heavy rain, whistling winds etc. Then a clarinetist pipes up “badgers are nice!”. Now we all think badgers are nice but it somehow seemed the most inappropriate thing to say. The room falls silent.

 

The cello eventually speaks “Ah, my dear friend. We are very happy that you have joined us, but we have all agreed to discuss the weather today.” The clarinetist replies “Yes, I know, I love badgers.” “Hmm,” says the cello “Repeat after me… ‘oh, it looks like rain is on the way’”. The clarinetist obliges “Ah, the badger is wearing pink socks for a change.”

 

Us ‘C’ instrument friends say nothing but discretely roll our eyes at each other.

 

The piano, being a sensitive soul, wishing to relieve this awkwardness, makes an announcement “I’ve got a grand idea… if we just talked about the weather all the time I think the conversation would B flat… let us instead discuss the spiralling cost of welding equipment.” He then turned to us ‘C’ instruments and gave a theatrical knowing wink.

 

The clarinetist, who like all of us, will do anything for the wonderful piano, exclaimed “Oh yes, what a marvellous idea! I love the sight of big fluffy snowflakes falling from the night sky!”

 

The party is once again alive with the hum of congenial conversation and the clinking of glasses.

 

So, right or wrong, that is my current understanding of musical transposition - a way of tricking awkward instruments into compliance and enabling them to join the orchestra party.

 

Apparently it is impossible to do this with bagpipes… oh well.

The Inner Child

The Inner Child

They say that to stay youthful it is important to try to nurture the inner child…

 

This is not to say that you have to behave in a childish fashion at all times, but to occasionally allow yourself to cast aside inhibition and fully experience the sheer thrill of being alive and engage in child-like activities.

 

I have been trying to do this in a small way myself.

 

During the tea break at orchestra, I noticed that there was one remaining Jammie Dodger and elbowed my way through the swarm of junior members to claim it for myself. However the initial sense of childish delight and triumph was soon replaced by remorse. This was not the right way to behave at all.

 

It occurred to me yesterday that perhaps the child-like behaviour should be more physical and natural.

 

There is a stretch of secluded paving at the back of the building. I decided to skip along it, not with a skipping rope, just free skipping. I felt a little self-conscious at first but then started to thoroughly enjoy myself. Skipping along, faster and faster, the wind in my hair – it was truly exhilarating.

 

A weed-spraying grounds maintenance person appeared unexpectedly around the corner. I attempted to disguise the fact that I had been skipping by suddenly descelerating and converting my up-and-down momentum into dramatic hobbling.

 

I assured the (visibly alarmed) weed-spraying grounds maintenance person that I was perfectly fine and continued hobbling until I was out of his sight.

 

Perhaps it is time to act like a mature adult, besides; I think I’ve done something to my knee.

International Trade

International Trade

When developing international trade it’s important to speak the same language…

 

My boss: <on the telephone> “Bonjour Madame… er… je voudrais parlez avec monsieur Soufflé s’il vous plait…… Pardon?...... il n’est pas ici?” <covers the handset> “What does il n’est pas ici mean?”

 

Me: “He isn’t here.”

 

My boss: “What?”

 

Me: “It means he isn’t here, or rather there.”

 

My boss: “Who?”

 

Me: “Monsieur Soufflé isn’t there… at the place your calling.”

 

My boss: “Where is he?”

 

Me: “I don’t know… ask her.”

 

My boss: <back on the phone> “er…OK bon, je commande  Monsieur Soufflé ist nicht dans la bureau… er… vare ist he, Monsieur Soufflé?......oh…..ok, je commande, merci beaucoup, bye bye.”

 

Me: “Where is he then?”

 

My boss: “Who?”

 

Me: “Monsieur Soufflé.”

 

My boss: “He’s not there.”

 

Me: “Oh well, try again tomorrow.”

 

The development of international trade also requires persistence.

The Tea Party

The Tea Party

When performing for the public, it is important to stay focussed...

Last Saturday was our first public engagement as a Tea Party String ensemble. We consist of three violinists, a violist and two cellists. One of the cellists proposed the formation of the group for Saturday’s event, a birthday party for his friend. The birthday girl apparently wanted a sophisticated celebration to mark the occasion of her thirtieth – a tea party - hence the enlistment of our string ensemble with a classical repertoire with a smattering of elegant salon music.

I have found, when giving a public performance that I enter into a trance-like state. I am focussed on the music and playing and, although marginally aware of my surroundings and the audience; I am not completely engaged and thus avoid being distracted. This trance-like state gathers momentum about 24 hours before the event.

We arrived at the venue and were greeted by a six foot tall white rabbit. He directed us towards our playing area, looked at his pocket watch and informed us that we were late.

The playing area set aside for us appeared to be a converted log store with brick walls on three sides and a tin roof. There was an antique rug covering the stone floor, a non-functioning wood burning stove and a stuffed wildebeest head hanging on the wall.

There was natural light emanating from the front of the log store augmented by static disco lighting and a mirror ball overhead. In front of the log store stage was a long dining table groaning with cake stands and tea pots. Cardboard hearts, white on one side and shiny red on the other, hung in the surrounding foliage and flickered mesmerisingly in the afternoon sunlight. All of these sensations served to deepen my hypnotic state.

We played our first set and the tea party guests maintained a dignified silence. Then there were shouts of “Speech, speech!” The birthday girl, sporting a rather impressive top hat, rose from her place at the head of the long dining table.

“Thank you” she said. “and thank them” indicating towards us with a cake slice.

There was no response.

“THANK THEM!!” she bellowed. The tea party guests begrudgingly turned towards us and applauded. I could see them applauding but could not hear them as most of them had furry paws which lacked resonance.

A man wearing steampunk goggles shouted “You’ve forgotten someone!” “I’ve forgotten someone???!!” exclaimed the birthday girl. “YES!” He shouted “The big fat git!” A sturdy looking chap then appeared.

Ah, I thought, I recognise him... Tweedle Dee or maybe Tweedle Dum... at which point our lead violinist whispered “Taydeeyum”. The violist muttered “Tedium”. No, I thought, either Tweedle Dee or Tweeddle Dum but certainly not Taydeeyum or Tedium.

My fellow ensemble members then started to play... Te Deum... composed by Marc-Antoine Charpentier. I missed the first few bars but managed to catch up and regain my focus.

We played on to the unresponsive cats, rabbits and dormice who were intently concentrating on their sandwiches and cakes. I was only vaguely aware of the occasional appreciative exclamation; notably from an unidentifiable furry creature screeching something which sounded like “It must be my eyebrows!”

Then I could hear a rhythmic beating noise. I thought perhaps the pressure was finally getting to me. Then it felt as though a chanting effect was resonating inside my head...chanting which sounded like “trifle trifle trifle trifle.”

Our leader counted us in for the next piece... 1, 2, 3.. at which point my esteemed colleague to my left exclaimed “TRIFLE!!!!!.... I LOVE TRIFLE!!!!”.  I had successfully managed to ignore the occasional glimpse of his comedy cufflinks but now my concentration was shattered. I looked up to see the Queen of Hearts presenting an enormous bowl of trifle to the tea party guests who were excitedly banging their spoons on the dining table.

I can remember little else. It became cold as the sun went down... so very cold. I vaguely recall the violist saying that next time he would wear a vest - tucked into his pants.

We played an encore… a small boy (or perhaps it was a caterpillar) cheered with delight.

The next thing I knew I was at home... there was a little bottle of wine… I looked at the label, “Drink Me” it said. So I did.

I reflected upon the very curious and thoroughly wonderful afternoon that had passed and felt a renewed appreciation of the perfectly amazing people in this wonderland that we call life.

So that is the story of our Tea Party Adventure… “Begin at the beginning," the King said, very gravely, "and go on till you come to the end: then stop.” ~Lewis Carroll~

Listening Skills

Listening Skills

The art of attentive listening…

 

My boss had just been having a lengthy discussion about football with another member of staff before returning to his desk.

 

Me: “I’m playing at a gig tomorrow.”

 

My boss: “Uh huh.”

 

Me: “Yes, it’s at a tea party for a big birthday. I’m a bit nervous.”

 

My boss: “Hmm.”

 

Me: “It’s going to be a long day because we’ve got orchestra rehearsal in the morning and then the tea party in the afternoon.”

 

My boss: “Forty six.”

 

Me: “Pardon?”

 

My boss: “What?”

 

Me: “Oh, I was just telling you about what I was doing tomorrow and you said forty six.”

 

My boss: “I’m reading this very long complicated email and I can’t do that and listen to you at the same time.”

 

Me: “Sorry, I didn’t realise you were reading an email.”

 

My boss: “mmm thirty seven, oh, oh right, thirty seven, yes.”

 

Me: “Are you doing anything interesting at the weekend?”

 

My boss: “Well, I’m going shopping in the morning. I need to get some more shower cleaner. If it’s not raining I want to get the grass cut and stain the bench and put it away for the winter. It’s very faded now. I’ll need to rub it down first. That reminds me, I need to get more sandpaper…” <10 minutes of talking later> “… and I want to tidy the shelving unit in the garage. What about you? Doing anything interesting?”

 

Me: “Well I’m playing violin in an ensemble at a tea party tomorrow.”

 

My boss: “Hmm. Really? Oh yes. Yes yes yes yes yes thirty seven that’s right.”

 

Perhaps I need to work on the art of being slightly interesting.

Teenagers’ Rules

Teenagers' Rules

The timeless rules of teenagers...

 

It was music theory class again last night and, due to work commitments, the other fully fledged adults weren’t there. This left a class made up mostly of teenagers. It was interesting to note that, in the decades that have passed since I was their age, nothing much has change.

 

 

Rule #1: Completely ignore adults as they enter the classroom, avoiding eye contact at all costs. To achieve this without confrontation requires being engrossed in a highly important task:-

 

1979:

Tutting angrily whilst intently dismantling your 13-colour biro - ensuring that your hair obscures your face completely.

 

2013:

Tutting angrily whilst intently pressing the keys on your mobile phone - ensuring that your hair obscures your face completely.

 

Rule #2: Avoid engaging in conversation with any adults in the classroom. This is achieved by having a conversation with your desk partner. To prevent an adult entering into the conversation, ensure that the chosen topic is one that’s exclusive to your generation:-

 

1979:

You: “What do you think about what happened to Sid Vicious?”

Your friend: “I reckon it’s his Mum’s fault. I bet she had a go at him over what he’s supposed to have done to Nancy.”

You: “Yeah, I reckon old Mrs Vicious is to blame for making him feel sick.”

Your friend: “My Mum makes me feel sick.”

You: “Yeah, same here.”

Your friend: “What? My Mum?”

You: “No. Mine.”

 

2013:

Teenager: “What do you think of the emo band Bullet for my Valentine?”

Teenager’s friend: “I thought they were more like, you know a metal band ‘cos they wear leather and stuff.”

Teenager: “Yeah I s’pose so. Emo’s are like really sensitive and wouldn’t really wear leather.”

Teenager’s friend: “No they wouldn’t would they? Emo’s are like really nice but really sad.”

Teenager: “Wonder what makes them so sad…  probably their Mums.”

Teenager’s friend: “Yeah. Probably their Mums.”

 

Rule #3: Have a plausible reason for not having retrievable evidence that you’ve done your homework:-

 

1979:

You: “I did do it. I was worried that my sister would scribble on it so I hid it in a t shirt and my mum put it in the washing machine.”

Teacher: “Didn’t your mum notice that your homework was inside a t shirt?”

You: “I don’t know.”

 

2013:

Teenager: “I did do it. My mum borrowed my bag to go to Zumba class and it must have dropped out when she was jumping around; then I think the cleaners must have thrown it away.”

Teacher: “Why was your mum jumping around with the bag?”

Teenager: “I haven’t got a clue.”

 

Rule #4: During the class, go to great lengths to ensure that you’re not seen to be remotely interested in the subject matter:-

 

1979:

General sighing, slouching and passing notes containing unflattering comments about the teacher. When the teacher shows irritation, meet him half-way by asking distracting questions: “When you were young, did you dream about being a social sciences teacher at a comprehensive school?”

 

2013:

General sighing, slouching and sending text messages containing unflattering comments about the teacher. When the teacher shows irritation, meet him half-way by asking distracting questions: “Do you think in a hundred years’ time people will still be drawing crotchets with a pencil?”

 

Rule #5: Outward appearance disguises the fact that you are secretly keen to be well thought of. When the teacher states that the homework must be done on time and presented as neatly as possible:-

 

1979:

Cover your exercise book with pristine brown paper. Draw a border around the edge and colour in with felt tip pens – five felt tip pens in fact - five different shades of blue resulting in a stunning gradient effect.

 

2013:

Type up your homework on your iPad, add stunning Photoshop graphics and wirelessly print it to the colour printer before laminating it.

 

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Come Dine With Me

Come Dine With Me

My boss had a rare visit at home from a friend…

 

Me: “How did it go last night, with your friend?”

 

My boss: “It went very well. Do you know what? He brought a bottle of wine!”

 

Me: “Oh that was nice of him. Did you cook?”

 

My boss: “No, no. He came round to watch the football match with me.”

 

Me: “Did you have nibbles then?”

 

My boss: “HE brought nibbles with him. We had a glass of wine and some peanuts watching the football.”

 

Me: “Don’t you think you should have bought some nibbles?”

 

My boss: “I did buy some Doritos but I didn’t need to get them out because he brought peanuts.”

 

The cleaner <under her breath whilst mopping the floor>: “Tight git!”

 

Me: “Will you be seeing your friend again soon?”

My boss: “No, I don’t think so. He said he’s usually very busy every evening and at weekends.”

 

I notice a small packet of “Tangy Cheese” Doritos on his desk.

The Hair Washer

The Hair Washer

I’ve just booked an appointment at the hairdressers…

 

I really don’t like going to the hairdressers. I used to be worried about such factors as whether my hair would be cut well or whether the style would suit me. Nowadays my major concern is not the skill of the hairdresser but the uncomfortable interaction with the person who washes my hair. The vulnerability, the controlling instructions, the discomfort and the questions, so many questions…

 

Hair washer: “Hi there! Are you ok?”

 

Me: “Yes thank you, are you?”

 

Hair washer: “Would you like to come over to the back wash?” (It’s actually a sink).

 

I sit in the chair in front of the sink.

 

Hair washer: “Could you sit back for me please?”

 

I shift back in the seat.

 

Hair washer: “Can I just put this towel around you?”

 

She puts towel around me without waiting for confirmation.

 

Hair washer: “Can you lean back for me?”

 

I lean back cautiously and she rams the adjustable sink down onto my shoulders – the position of complete vulnerability is established.

 

Hair washer: “Is that height ok for you?”

 

Me: “Yes thank you.”

 

I hear the sound of rushing water.

 

Hair washer: “Is that temperature ok for you?”

 

Me: “Erm, I can’t feel it yet… oh, actually it’s a bit too hot.”

 

Hair washer: “Is that better?”

 

It’s still uncomfortably hot.

 

Me: “Yes, that’s fine, thank you.”

 

She starts shampooing my hair.

 

Hair washer: “Is that pressure ok for you?”

 

Me: “Yes thank you.”

 

It was until she started vigorously jabbing into the back of my ears with her long fingernails.

 

Me: “Your nails are a bit sharp.”

 

Hair washer: “Sorry?”

 

Me: “Nothing.”

 

She flicks shampoo into my eye as a deterrent to further complaining, I wipe it with the towel but my vision is blurred.

 

Hair washer: “Are you ok?”

 

Me: “Yes fine thank you.”

 

Hair washer: “Are we having conditioner today?”

 

Me: “Yes please.”

 

She starts massaging strawberry-scented conditioner into my hair, and then into the corner of my good eye.

 

Hair washer: “Is that ok for you?”

 

Me: “Yes thank you.”

 

She rinses my hair with freezing cold water before rubbing it violently with a towel.

 

Hair washer: “Could you lean forward for me?”

 

This is actually very difficult; my neck doesn’t seem to be working properly. With enormous effort I manage to lean forward.

 

Hair washer: “I’m just going wrap this towel around your head, ok?”

 

Hair washer: “Can you just lean your head back for me again?”

 

She wraps the towel around my head and tucks it under at the back, painfully pulling my hair in the process.

 

Hair washer: “Would you come and sit over here please?”

 

Somehow I manage to lift my head up again and can just about see the seat being offered.

 

Hair washer: “Can I get you a drink of tea or coffee?”

 

Me: “No thank you, I’m fine.”

 

Hair washer: “Are you sure?”

 

Me: “No, really, I’m fine. Thank you.”

 

I have my hair cut and make my way to the front desk to pay. There she is again; the hair washer.

 

Hair washer: “Did you have a coat?”

 

Me: “No, I didn’t. Thank you.”

 

She hovers around me expectantly. I take a couple of pound coins from my purse and hand them to her.

 

Me: “Here you are - Thank you.”

 

She looks at the coins; clearly disappointed.

 

Hair washer: “Oh. Thanks. See you again then.”

 

Me: “Yes, bye then.”

 

I leave the hairdressing salon; smelling of soft fruit and feeling hugely relieved that the ordeal is over.