Wow - the Snails are booked up pretty much until the end of February, and with GenR8 continuing until the end of November, I'm not feeling at all slow and slimy! Being a full time storyteller turns out to produce a fairly frantic lifestyle.
Except I'm still not a full time storyteller yet, because I accidentally became a Latin teacher for two days a week and now I'm finishing THAT contract. I'm really enjoying it, actually - the world of putting silly actions to boring grammar, reading about the adventures of Scintilla and Quintus and dealing with completely unlikely translations of lengthy passages is just as much fun as it was when I was doing it all for the first time. I'm not sure that all the kids I teach agree, but I do my best. At the moment we're translating Latin Christmas carols to sing in assembly and particularly enjoying the macaronic ones (inevitable jokes about pasta included). "Angel hosts are singing nova cantica...they're singing in the new canteen, Miss?" It's also revealing a fairly abysmal knowledge of the Christmas story among my year sevens. "The baby is lying in praesipio...what could praesipio mean, do you think?" Blank silence. "Well, have a guess...what was Jesus lying in?" Pause. "A cradle type thing?" "OK, good guess, but remember the story? Mary didn't have a cradle so she laid him in the....?" Lengthy pause. Finally: "A box?" It's not just my class. A colleague came into the staffroom last week in shock because NONE of her year fours could tell her who Jesus's mother was. She said: "I thought EVERYBODY knew that." Well, not any more.
So in between Latin lessons and sneaky theological instruction I'm writing scripts, learning ventriloquism and performing for the second time with GenR8...loving every minute. Especially the minutes when I've remembered every line of the Creation Rap in the right order and I can sit back down again and breathe.
By the way, this is my new vent partner, Gerald. He still can't say the letter B, but he's pretty cool.
I take back what I said in my last entry. I am not becoming a Real Wife. My reasoning behind this is that most housewives don't spend the morning of their guests' arrival attempting to dry pillowcases with a hairdryer.
The house has never really taken on a visual shape in my dreams. I don't dream of colours or numbers of rooms. But I do dream of a house where the carpets are clean and fluffy; a house with a general feeling of air, light and space; a house where the kitchen smells of toast and coffee in the mornings and where wellington boots are lined up neatly in racks by the back door.
So far, I haven't ever managed to achieve that house for more than a day. The carpets aren't clean and fluffy, mainly because they are cream-coloured and will only look clean for about one hour after hoovering them before I spot dirt on them again, but also, admittedly, because I generally can't see them due to the piles of clothes and assorted papers all over them. Feelings of air, light and space are hard enough to come by in a tiny thatched cottage, without the persistent cobwebs hanging just out of my reach on the stairs; and the kitchen never smells of coffee in the mornings because either we wake up and get out of the house so early that neither of us has breakfast, or we sleep in so late that it wouldn't be decent to have breakfast by the time we finally get out of bed.
For the last month, however, we have been attempting to stick to a Routine. We have been trying to get up early enough every day to say morning prayer. Sometimes we've slipped a bit and ended up saying midday prayer instead, but we have experienced several mornings when the kitchen smelt of toast and coffee at a reasonable hour. Then, yesterday, I blitzed our bedroom and uncovered a large area of carpet through the clever re-assignment of shelves to hold books.
Now, some mornings, I have a moment on the landing as I leave the tidy bedroom and smell breakfast wafting up the cobweb-free stairs, when I am standing on the edge of a dream. It all feels rather fragile. But I've also baked two sets of muffins in as many weeks. Could it be possible that I'm transforming into a Real Wife?
I did it! I'm now a fully qualified teacher! And the best thing about that is that I never have to *say* I am again. Now, whenever anyone asks what I do, I will be able to say truthfully "I am a freelance, professional storyteller. I love my job. I work from home and earn money by having fun. How about you?"
I can't wait.
'Snail Tales' had its first outing on the 10th, and our drama and workshops went down really well. The amount of props and scenery we accumulated for that one performance was extraordinary - in Chip's garage we have a wooden tree, a giant frog mask with extendable tongue and several moon-shaped hats, to name just a few. Hopefully we'll be able to reuse most of that. There's been loads of interest from schools and organisations, and it looks as if it's going to be a busy summer getting it all set up, but like I said, I can't wait. I can't wait!! I can't believe it's finally the end of term!
I'm currently in London with Cecily (just back from Greece). We were supposed to be in Worcestershire today, but the floods have put paid to that. Cecily is so determined to be there by tomorrow morning to be at the baptism of her first Godchild that she is getting on a bus which promises to go from Victoria Station to Pershore, despite this being impossible according to the flood warning maps. I hope she doesn't sink.
So, I woke up on Saturday morning and found I could barely move.
It's true that, under the circumstances, this was not a surprise. Friday night had been spent consuming far too much alcohol in the form of some very good wine to accompany an exceptionally good meal with our lovely friends. However, by midday I was fairly sure that the hangover was not the only culprit. Not only had my back and left leg seized up, but I also seemed to have tonsilitis.
In this state, I travelled to London where I sat through Ian Bostridge's melodious performance of Death In Venice feeling like the latest case for House, MD. By Sunday I was hobbling to an emergency doctor at the Chelsea and Westminster who, in a tone not unlike House, told me that the only reason that should stop me travelling back to Cambridge was actually being wheelchair bound. He did prescribe some penicillin for the tonsils, though.
On Monday I made the certifiably insane decision to go ahead and perform with GenR8, a Christian volunteer group that tours assemblies around schools. After 5 primary schools in one day, carrying scenery and props and popping Coprufen+ whenever I could, I then attended a staff meeting at one of the schools where my new storytelling venture is going to take off next month. Finally, I went home, lay on my living room floor and wondered whether I would ever move again.
Tuesday, therefore, saw a visit to the doctor who signed me off work for ten days with 'acute back strain' and prescribed some drugs designed to knock me out entirely. Fun! Since then Ive been lying on the floor, watching bad daytime TV, attempting to write reports (and blog entries) with the laptop sort of balancing over me, and counting the minutes until my next dose. Which I think is now.
My internet connection down here is too dodgy to run MSN, but I'm attempting to check e-mails and, when the connection lets me, to reply. Make my ceiling more interesting by sending me one?
I'm sorry I've been so very long updating. A few weeks ago I tried, and for some reason my password didn't work to sign me in. Today I tried again and for some reason it works now. I don't question technology, I just let it run my life. Yesterday I was trying to show a video to the children, which in school means pushing an enormous trolley with a TV and video player on it from one end of school to the other, plugging it in and hoping it works. I performed this rigamarole twice, but neither telly worked and all I ended up with was 28 fed up, bored and uncontrollable children with nothing to do for the last ten minutes of the wasted lesson. Won't somebody please bring back the blackboard?
Today we cycled into town on the tandem to have lunch at the Castle with Rob, and on the way back Tiffer decided to find out what was down a little path he'd seen. It turned out to be not really meant for bicycles, let alone tandems, but we pressed on and found that it cut straight through to a tiny narrow track running down the middle of a huge field of rape. (This appears to be growing all over Cambridgeshire at the moment; the yellow colour is stunning and the smell seems to have pervaded the whole county.)
So, we rode down the middle of the field. The track was so bumpy and unpredictable that I couldn't keep my feet on the pedals, so I put my legs up on the crossbar and let Tiffer guide the bike. My admittedly unusual reaction to this episode was to laugh hysterically and helplessly all the way - it was probably brought on by direct contact with so much bright yellow!
Also, I was reminded of a book that my sister and I used to love, called Big Sister, Little Sister, in which one of the sisters gets lost in a field of very tall grass. I hope we still have that book somewhere.
Yesterday in church we said the Benedicite instead of singing the Gospel hymn, apparently because it's Lent. It's not a change I'm familiar with, but fair enough. The benedicite is a long prayer in which every line begins "Bless the Lord", and this instruction is given to every part of creation: "Bless the Lord, you sun and moon; stars of heaven bless the Lord" and so on. Anyway, the third line of the umpteenth verse (it goes on for a while) was "Bless the Lord, you toads and all that move in the waters..." I did a sort of blink, but said it anyway, feeling deeply suspicious. I've just looked it up, and sure enough, it's supposed to be whales, not toads. It's been changed just for Madingley. I think that's wonderful. The toads made their way into the intercessions, too.
At least it has more purpose than the change the hymn "I cannot tell" (the one that goes to the Londonderry air) in our friend Charlotte's church. A line in the third verse on the overhead projector read, "And he shall reap the kumquats he has sown". As it grew closer with terrible inevitability, I knew it wasn't right, but couldn't for the life of me think what the real words were. When we got to the verse, I sang 'kumquats'. Everyone in the church did; and then the entire congregation began shaking gently, and it wasn't due to the Holy Spirit. This turned out to be the result of a bet between a music leader and a previous vicar, that the one couldn't make the other say 'kumquats' during the service, and no-one had thought to change it back on the OHT. I now can't sing that verse of that song with a straight face, which is a problem, as it's a popular choice for weddings, funerals etc.
Of course, now that I've told the story on my blog, the kumquats and toads are out there. I do apologise if anyone has to sing either of these in the coming week...
I ought to explain that our village is famous for toads. As you drive in or out, you'll see a sign with an imposing-looking toad on it, warning drivers that in certain seasons, the road can become hazardous - although it's probably even more hazardous if you happen to be a toad.
The mating ground for these creatures, apparently, is on one side of the road, and the hibernating ground on the other. Around Valentine's day, we're expecting to see toads in their hundreds hopping across to pair off. Of course, since the road is a well-known alternative to the busy A14, and since dusk, when the toads emerge, more or less coincides with the rush hour at this time of year, there are quite a few casualties.
Consequently, today we found ourselves taking cups of tea and biscuits out to a hard-working group of men and women wearing yellow reflective jackets with 'TOAD PATROL' in big letters across the back. They were digging a narrow line in which to plant a low net fence, attempting to channel the lovelorn toads into a tunnel that runs underneath the road. Later on, when the toads actually emerge, the Patrol will return at dusk and stand around with buckets, capturing any wayward animals and carrying them across to the pond. Legend has it that local school children are sometimes asked to join in, and we've met so many people at church that are talking about 'doing their bit' this year, we're beginning to wonder whether the whole village is going to be lined up along the side of the road in shifts from now until the end of March.
If it is, I'm grabbing a bucket and my wellies and joining in.
Well, I've decided that I'm officially a writer now. I am practising saying to people who ask, "I am a part-time teacher - and a part time writer". All right, I know that I'm not actually earning any money for it yet, and therefore can't count myself as a professional, but the point is that I'm doing enough of it, and taking it seriously enough, to count it as a job rather than a hobby. And who knows, when one of my four current projects is finished, it might actually make some money.
Yesterday I was in Birmingham at a Production Meeting (I have written it with capital letters because I am saying it in a Very Important Voice). I am a Writer for a Project called Balance (more important voice) about which I am not going to say too much more here because it isn't being advertised yet; but I am writing an animation screenplay, which I have never done before, with a lovely animating lady who is very much more experienced in it than I am, and the whole thing is being sponsored and distributed by a large and worthy charity. I'm excited enough about it to go into all the ins and outs of the project, but I had better not because the manager might eat me if I do it before the proper website is up.
In other writing news, I have one book on the go currently being read by 45 teenage girls on the internet; I'm on a Writing For Children Course about which I have done nothing at all so far; and I still have my http://www.nanowrimo.org novel to finish as well. I know exactly what's going to happen in it now. All I need is time.
And that's why, dear readers, I have started to call myself a Writer.
I have just spent a merry morning (well, the bit of the morning that was left after saying goodbye to the family, plus several hours of the afternoon) organising my life into a big black folder. It seems that I begin every new year, or new term for that matter, organising my life into ever bigger and blacker folders, and it never seems to have much effect. However, this one is looking very impressive. Unfortunately, the thickest section in it is the one labelled 'inbox'.
Tomorrow we have the ever-wonderful Inset Day at school, when teachers go in and sit fidgeting in the staffroom, discussing some new policy or other, and wishing they could spend the time re-organising their classrooms instead. I intend to sneak in early and count the tables in my classroom, as I have been kept awake at night by whether or not there are sixteen of them, and how to sit everybody so that they don't either misbehave or do the wrong level of work. If there turn out to be not as many tables as I've drawn on my plan, I reckon my best option is to sellotape the worst behaved children to the ceiling.
Even scarier than Inset Day is the prospect of getting there and back on the motorcycle. If I disappear tomorrow, you will find me in a blind panic going round and round the Bar Hill roundabouts, probably in the wrong direction.
I thought it would be fun to look back at my last blog and see what I was up to this time last year. I found this amusing entry.
Last year, it was our first married Christmas, and we were preparing for the entire family-in-law to join us in an enormous house where the only small piece of furniture was the tiny little table we had to eat around. This year, we're going to my parents for Christmas, and we only have a tiny little cottage to clean and look after, but bizarrely, I feel almost as unprepared. It's not the cards or the presents (sent those! feeling smug) but the general cleanliness of the house, and the pitiful decorations. Especially the tree, which isn't really a Christmas tree but some other kind of garden bush which is vaguely the right shape, and which now looks very silly with lights on it, and which I stood in a Quality Street tin filled with water just before discovering that Quality Street tins leak.
The freezing fog is a bit worrying too, with three family members attempting to fly home in time for Christmas, but I'm sparing a thought for the poor people at Heathrow who are stuck in the middle of their journeys, camping out in a country they never planned to be in in the first place. "Women with children, including babies, are standing outside in the cold because the marquee is chock-a-block with people," said Mr Matthews on the BBC website. However, it's all in keeping with the first Christmas. I'm sure that if God had decided to stage His coming to earth in the 21st century, we would soon see flight attendants from the nearby airfields heading for the marquee, a single star (or is it a plane?) piercing the fog above it, while three lost-looking wise men from the East have been caught up in Customs and are having the highly suspect frankincense and myrrh removed from their hand baggage in case it can be mixed together to form an explosive device. Meanwhile angels squint through the fog, warbling soon-to-be Christmas classics such as "Silent night, holy night, Foggy dawn, cancelled flight" and
"O Little Airport of Heathrow,
How still we see thee lie,
Above thy loud and angry crowd
No aeroplane goes by..."
The comments section awaits your completion of these.
Merry Christmas!
I have just finished writing this year's round robin Christmas letter, the purpose of which is mainly to let everyone know our new address. I won't reproduce it here, because then it won't be a surprise when you get it. However, I will warn you that it's in very bad rhyme which doesn't scan properly, due to each line ending with a feminine rhyme and starting with an upbeat. I recommend having a drink or two before opening the envelope, and treating the whole thing as a tongue-twister.
I've noticed that several people have blogged on this subject, and have some quite strong opinions on round robin letters. Personally, I'm ambivalent. I really enjoy the funny ones, patiently chew through the unfunny ones and definitely prefer them to sending a card to someone I haven't seen all year which only says 'Happy Christmas' in it. I have got to admit that to me, that seems a waste of a stamp and a decent amount of envelope space.
Having said that, we got so tied up last year worrying over what to put in the cards that some people got printed letters, some got handwritten notes, some got the thank-you letters that we still hadn't sent from the wedding, and some got nothing at all. Hopefully this year will be much more uniform and successful. However, to ensure your safe receipt of a Robinson Christmas Card, I advise you send me a nagging e-mail containing your postal address NOW.
A school visit from our lovely lady parish priest this week has provided several interesting insights into children's minds. One child from another class, while preparing for the visit by writing down questions to ask, had evidently got the idea that they were going to meet God himself: "Is it nice in heaven? Do you know James (name of a boy from the school who died last year)?"
In my own class, the questions were varied but mainly showed that despite all attempt at preparation, the children had no clue at all about exactly who they were going to meet. One boy very seriously asked her whether she was religious, and how many Gods she believed in? There were lots of questions about whether she liked her new house (she's moved from the centre of Cambridge) and about her hobbies, resulting in drawings afterwards of a lady in a cinema, a cafe and (mysteriously, as this didn't come up at all in conversation) on a skateboard. There was only one drawing which actually included the church.
One boy was desperate to ask his question, and it was obviously something that had been bothering him for a long time: "You know in the church? You know when you look up above the stage and there's a cupboard and the doors are always closed? Well - what's in there?!"
Some observations that the children wrote in their books as follow-up to the question and answer session:
"Our new minister is good because she helps people."
"Our new minister doesn't like the cold, but sometimes she has to get cold if she wants to photocopy something because the steps are outside."
"She marries people and helps with death."
And a picture of her with a bride and groom, and a speech bubble coming from her mouth: "I preset you husband of wife". Now the implications of that one deserve an entire blog entry to themselves.
Variety in a Life of Spice 
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