Why Don't You?...*

You tell 'em Johnny. I'm at my wits
end with all the misdirection and spin.

I can only apologise for how small the window of relevancy is for this post. It is tiny. Miniscule. Blink and you'll miss it. But hey ho, let's not let that stop us, yeah? On we trot.

At the time of writing I am reliably informed that the Prime Minster is going to attempt to get support for a General Election. It would be in December - reports say he wants the 12th but then commentators say he has no say in the eventual date, besides, he's already rejected the Lib Dem/SNP suggestion of a 9th December election over the weekend - and it will be voted upon in Parliament at some point later today. Reports also say that the Opposition will vote it down. 

Here's the thing. Let's park party politics to one side for five minutes and think about this sensibly. I don't care whether this is politically savvy for the Oppostition, or tactical and calculating from the Government. None of that matters. What does matter, is that there are approximately 5764678 more enjoyable things to do in December than read about, campaign for, and vote in a General Election. Probably more than that, to be honest. And I'm someone that under normal circumstances, loves the opportunity to get my vote on. But December? No ta. Let's think of the logistics for a second. A man with whom I have more than a passing acquaintance, put it pretty succinctly on Twitter last week. 

'If a December #election does happen, anyone who works on the ground campaign in any capacity for any political party has my upmost sympathy!'

Wise words. Hours outside in the cold, knocking on the doors of people who don't fancy opening their minds to persuasive political natter whilst their central heating escapes from their open front door. Bleak is the word. Bleak and grim. But take heart. This blog will be out of date in five minutes. The second a General Election is voted down, December is freed up for all of us to enjoy, in as traditional a way as possible. The campaigning, debating, pub-arguing, article-reading, Twitter thread-ingesting, and winter walking to the polling booth can be saved for another day. With a December GE avoided, here's what joys we can fill the month with instead.

Fill your house with the smell of oranges
 and cinnamon instead of reading op-eds
about the likelihood of another hung parliament.

1. Make a Cake
This recipe by Nigella is the simplest fruit cake I've ever made. All done in one pan and then baked, it requires a fraction of the effort of more traditional methods. (Like, there's no need to prong the cake with a knitting needle to add the rivulets of sherry to the month-old fruit cake, unless that sort of thing rocks you boat.) I make two of these every year. One to eat from November onwards, and then one for an actual Christmas cake. It provides a shed load more sensory satisfaction than another round of soon-to-be broken promises and spinning bluster. 

Fairy lights provide a much stronger inner glow
than Jeremy Vine pratting about with interactive
graphics through in the early hours. Priorities people. 

2. Buy Fairy Lights
Any evening is enlivened by the inclusion of fairy lights. When I was a kid there was one string, kept in the loft, that was ritualistically untangled at the start of each December. Now, they are sold all over the show. The Internet provides year-round twinkles in a gazillion different formats. Chillis, flowers, multicoloured, clear, battery, outdoor, solar - literally anything you want you can get. And all for cheap too. You know you want to. It's a much better use of your time. 

Fair ye well, old fashioned music provider.
You have seen me right these many years.

3. Dust off Christmas CDs
I was filled with horror about seven seconds ago when I realised that my new car has no CD slot. Since I listen to my Christmas CD on every car journey as soon as the clocks change, this has caused some consternation. On the plus side, this means that not only can I get with the times, I can also look forward to a happy evening, compiling my Ultimate Christmas Playlist. One that will effortlessly sync with my dashboard. Every cloud and all that. 

4. Compile the Seasonal TV Viewing
The Christmas Radio Times usually hits the shops in the first week or so of December. Wouldn't it be marvellous to spend a full evening of highlighting that, instead of watching 

Kuenssberg and her mates try to jolly us through the cognitive dissonance of a winter exit poll.

Last year's December.
Definitely a marathon not a sprint.

5. Schedule Festive Drinks with People You Only See in December
The older I've got, the more this happens. Friendships that are glued together via Whatsapps and Facebook likes, get real in December. Last year I had four nights out in a row during the week before Christmas.** Like I was seventeen! I loved it but it also broke me. I now know from experience that I need SAS-style endurance training before that level of socialising kicks in again. But at least I won't be wasting time reading opinion pieces and deciphering vote share graphs.

Searching for a last minute outfit.
The struggle is real. Every year.

6. Wish You'd Started Your Pre-Xmas Diet in July
This happens every year. The jacket I'd like to wear to the work's Christmas do, does not currently fit me. Instead of doing something about that, I will assume that if I just wish hard enough by the time the evening comes, it will be fine. Then, when it is not fine, there will be a last minute dash to a retail park on the day of the night out. I will throw money at a replacement item that will be worn once, and then charity binned because it was always second best to the jacket that still won't fit me. But still. It's what December is all about. Imagine if I had to go and vote at the same time. Madness.

 Lingonberry sauce makes me feel all Scandi
and Nordic. I am Sarah Lund, Birgitte Nyborg, 
and Petra Mede all rolled into one.

7. Add Cranberry Sauce to Standard Sunday Dinners
It doesn't matter that this is technically possible all year round, it just doesn't happen. But come December, I buy a jar of cranberry and add it to every chicken and gravy based meal I consume. Like a dog, cranberry sauce is not just for Christmas. Rule breaker? Rebel? Anarchist? I couldn't possibly comment. And get this. Not only do I pimp up my Sunday dinners this way, I don't even stick to cranberry. Not me. Ever the rebel, I've currently got lingonberry on the go. Imagine if I were too busy getting riled up by Question Time to remember to stick two fingers up to the system. Imagine. 

8. Self-Care
Look. The twelfth month of the year is fraught enough. Christmas cards, gift shopping, working out how fit an increasingly growing family around a table that remains resolutely the same size - it's all mad enough. I honestly can't begin to think about throwing an election into the mix. Not for the first time do I think that the country is experiencing one long acid trip with no end in sight. Long baths, chunks of time away from social media, and brisk winter walks might be the thing to focus on. Or movies, books, and video games. Or booze and drugs, I don't know. Whatever floats you boat. (Don't break the law kids, I was just being silly.) Whatever ends up happening, whether this December election idea is just another of Johnson's dead cats, or whether it gets seriously considered for five minutes, it will all be dismissed the second another distraction comes along. Let's keep December for the December things, and boot elections back to the first part of the year where they belong. There are just too many fun things to do instead.

Have a lovely week, folks.


*Today's title will be recognised by a specific age of reader. If you are UK based and consider yourself a Xennial (post-Generation X, pre-Millenial) then you will remember the popular summer holiday TV programme of Why Don't You. The inspired lyrics to the theme tune seemed particularly relevant.

Why don't you?

Why don't you?

Why don't you?

Why don't you?

Why don't you?

Just switch off your television set

And go out and do something less boring instead.

So why don't you?

Why don't you?

Why don't you?

Why don't you?

Go go go!

Ok. They don't mention elections once. But still. Wise words to live by, probably. Do something less boring in December because before you know it, it'll be January. 


**To be fair, I see all all those people in that calendar throughout the year too. But it certainly gets frenzied as December kicks in. Imagine fitting in a bunch of politics too.

Club Tropicana Drinks are Freeeeeee...

Here's a question. What in the world could drag dozens of peri/actual/post menopausal women out on a Sunday morning, to stand in a three-hour queue, in the middle of a busy shopping centre, without any of them moaning for a single second? What in the mofo world? 

Two words. Andrew Ridgeley.

Modelling my 2018 calendar -
Andew on the left.

What's that? Who's Andrew Ridgelely? Why, you sound like my younger siblings, several of whom seemed perplexed that I'd had spent a chunk of a recent weekend doing just that. Look, it's not my fault you're all too young. I can't help it if half of the best band in the world was happy to slip out of the limelight by the late eighties. For me, his name still evokes a gut memory of poptastic, carefree joy. In 1985 Andrew Ridgeley was all over my bedroom wall. As was his band mate George Michael. We've covered my love for his better known partner before. Now, it's Andrew's time. It's only fair he gets a blog post, considering I have a large portrait of his late-friend on my lounge wall. It's the least I can do.

Re-enacting the Last Christmas
video. Almost exactly the same.

When I was in single figures, George and Andrew were EVERYTHING. Their three-year reign of the charts, along with their albums, Smash Hits covers, and Top of the Pops appearances were snatches of colour amidst the ordinariness childhood. Wham were glamorous. They were cool and aspirational. I've written this sentiment before, but it bears repeating - the Last Christmas video is perfect. It's everything I love about winter, weather, Christmas, friends, food, and twinkly lighting all in a four minute and thirty-seven second burst. I am sure it is the reason that at this time of year, when I spot a bit of frost on my windscreen, I feel deep joy and a sense of being grounded. It's my time. It's nearly the Last Christmas video time.

But anyway, I've digressed. Quite spectacularly it seems. Let's get back to the story. It's a really quick one to be fair. A couple of weeks ago, I turned up to a Waterstones in Manchester with my ticket for Andrew Ridgeley's book signing. For £20, I'd got a ticket to the thing, a copy of the book, a T-shirt, and a commemorative lanyard (I know! Get in!) which now dangles from the headrest of my driver's seat for the amusement of any backseat passengers behind. Bargain. 

I was still an hour and a
half away at this point.

The interesting thing about the whole shebang was that I had completely underestimated the turn out. I knew that Andrew held a special place in the hearts of many people my age. But when I got there half an hour before the start, and was directed to the end of a queue that trailed out of the shop door, zigzagged around security barriers in the centre of the shopping centre, before cutting off and recommencing out of an exit, and up some staff-only stairs, it was quite the eye opener. Manchester and the surrounding area had turned out in force. I asked one of the staff about numbers. There were three hundred people there - the maximum number of tickets that they were allowed to sell. The queue began to move at 1pm. That's when it officially started. I got to the front at 3.30pm and there were still plenty of people behind me. I had imagined I'd be in and out. As it turned out, a sizeable chunk of the day was taken up.

But during all that time, everyone in the queue was pretty chipper. I chatted to a woman in front of me, who - despite my menopause joke at the start of this ramble - was eighteen. She had come on her own and loved eighties music. We had a good natter as we waited. Then there were a group of women behind me. One of them was massively regretting coming in heels. By the time we'd made it to the zig zag barriers, she was four inches shorter and holding her shoes in her hand. Then there was the woman a few people ahead of me. Her partner was keeping their one year old amused by wheeling him off into different shops as she waited. When she finally got to the front of the queue, about ten minutes before me, she cried as she took photos with Andrew holding her kid - a kid that was wearing a Choose Life T-shirt. She left and walked past me in the queue, looking dazed, happy, and emotional. I felt genuinely chuffed for her. 

Yep 

When it came to my turn, something rather lovely happened. Wham songs had been blasting out from Waterstones as I had reached the final stage of the queue. The shoeless woman and her mates behind me had been particularly vocal during Wake Me Up Before You Go Go, which had kept us all amused. But then, just as the woman in front of me got her turn and I was able to see past the bookshelf and get a glimpse of the guy I'd been queuing up for all day, Last Christmas came on. I don't do crying, so I didn't. But if I did, then I would have done. It felt like the most perfect timing. 

The minutes that followed were hazy. I rambled. Andrew Ridgeley smiled lots. He was kind, said some things, and I rambled on again. I don't know really. Three hours of standing with no liquids, a bit of a hangover, and the adrenaline of meeting a childhood idol wasn't very conducive to an incisive and intelligent conversation. Happily for me, a member of Waterstones staff had my phone and photographed our chat. I have a frame by frame account of the entire exchange.


And then it was all over and I drove home, playing Wham all the way. The good news is that the book is a lovely wander down Memory Lane. It's a bit nostalgic whilst giving me more insight into stuff I was probably too young to grasp at the time. And even though it was a long wait to meet him, there was something lovely about the camaraderie of that queue. 

The country has been torn in two, the economy is buggered, and the uncertainty of the next week in Parliament is playing havoc with businesses, services, and stress levels all over the place. But for three hours, a couple of Sundays ago, three hundred people queued up to see their eighties idol. It was good-natured, supportive, and exhilarating. It transcended everything else that is going on, just for a while. And now I get to read the book, to eke out the escapism for a little longer.

Have a lovely week, folks.

I'm So Old-Skool...

I'm glad I got out of teaching when I did. Soon after I waved my glittering career goodbye, the English curriculum changed beyond recognition. My favourite core subject to teach, the one in which I was qualified to degree level, changed immeasurably*. 

I saw this because the author, Joanne Harris,
 retweeted it with the comment, 'Lovely
example of how to put kids off using words forever.'

I tend to tune out the details when I hear them these days. When friends with kids ask me what their child's homework is about, I look at it and have no idea. Truly no clue. My English Literature degree knows nothing of this terminology. When characters, themes and plots have been sidelined for rules and technicalities, it will suit scientific and mathsy types perfectly. A fronted non-finite clause, anybody? But for people with an instinct for story, drama, emotional connectivity, and imagination then it seems no fun at all. It would kill me to teach English this way, so like I said, I'm glad I got out when I did.

I think my view of education and its purpose doesn't seem to fit anymore. For me, it was always about giving children the tools to become happy adults in the future. The specific aspects of the curriculum were secondary to that. (Yeah, I know. My PSHE is showing.) Sure, knowing how to read and write, add and subtract, are all necessary skills. They are important to pass on over the course of time and will be needed for pretty much all avenues beyond the school years. But supporting a child as they develop their self-confidence, giving them pride in their abilities, nurturing their talent and encouraging perseverance during trickier tasks, are a gazillon times more important IMHO. Whether or not they learn Long Division by the end of Year Five is irrelevant. Their self-esteem is set by then, and is of far greater value to ensure a productive and happy future. Sorry Long Division but that's just fact. (Slight disclaimer: IMHO once again.)

In related news, I bumped into an ex-student of mine last week. It turned out that the man serving me glasses of wine on Friday night was one of my Year Fours from a hundred years ago. (*Stops, has a think, counts on fingers* OK, nine years ago. It's been a while since I've had to do Maths.) Anyway, It was a right lovely blast. He recognised me and asked if I was Nicky Bond. I knew straight away that I must have taught him but I panicked because I had no idea who he was. He laughed, told me his name, and then all the memories came back. His friendships, his Mum, his pets, where his seat was in the classroom...it was uncanny. These days, I'm hazy on which year was which class, or whether child A was in the same class as child B, but I reckon I remember every individual child that passed through my classroom. I think it'd be impossible to spend thirty-eight weeks focused on all aspects of thirty children - their learning, attainment levels, attitude, progress, friendship groups, confidence, participation, and banter - without having the memory of every single one of them branded indelibly on my brain.

Not my classroom,
and I'm not a teacher here.
But hey, it's a
semi-related picture.

So, back to my ex-student. We had a lovely catch up. He told me what he was up to, updated me on some of his friends that I also taught and we talked about the stuff he remembered from Year Four. Here's the marvellous thing. He didn't mention the lessons on speech marks or apostrophes. He didn't talk about the Mental Maths tests or lessons about factors. He didn't bring up science topics, nor anything to do with Geography or History. None of that was referenced during our brief natter down Memory Lane. What did come up was the class assembly. It was the culmination of a Literacy project that resulted in a performance of Romeo and Juliet. It was one of my favourite memories from that class too. The amount of learning that took place over those weeks was immense. Character breakdowns, diary entries, newspaper articles, drama, dance, confidence building, problem solving, collaboration, and finally performing in front of an audience. It was so lovely to see that it had been remembered by one of the students, years later.**

The measure of quality learning is not whether it can be recalled enthusiastically years after the event. I know that. But having happy memories and creative learning experiences are the things that support engagement with education. They are what make the harder learning times easier to navigate. They are what push children to keep going, keep trying, and eventually become the happy adults that everyone wanted them to be one day. I just don't think memories of fronted non-finite clauses will have the same emotional connection in years to come. But whadda I know? I'm just old-skool.

Have a lovely week, folks.

*At the Primary level anyway. No idea what goes on post-Year Six.

** The 2010 World Cup class sweep also came up. A World Cup year always provided quality classroom fun times.

Here's to Paint Splattered Activism...

I’m not a fan of a slogan T-shirt. Some people love them. Fair play to them. But for me, the inner sparkle of Christmas would become tarnished if I were to emblazon Prosecc-ho Ho Ho across my chest during the social whirl of December. It's just not me. Likewise, as empowering as Girl Power or Sassy Since Birth may be to some, I’m not sure telling people I AM something is as effective as simply BEING that same thing. But it takes all sorts. Far be it from me to tell others what to wear. Not on my watch. Slip into whatever you like, if it makes you happy. It's me that has the issue.

Image taken from eBay

The tricky tightrope I have to walk is when it comes to charitable support and political protest. The second there's a whiff of some activism in the offing, there will always be a T-shirt printed to raise money for the cause. I have no problem with this at all. Indeed, after that Supreme Court hearing two weeks ago, it was hugely gratifying to see the love for Lady Hale and the law, be espoused through the production and sale of a T-shirt - a plain black top with a strategic spider playing the role of her brooch. By the following day, the sale of the T-shirts had raised £15,000 for the charity Shelter. It’s hard to argue with that, and I don’t plan to do so here. 

In fact, the truth is, I have plenty of politically slogan-ed T-shirts all of my own. Just because my fashion sensibilities dictate I am unlikely to wear them outside, I still want to financially support the cause they are highlighting. In fact, I am a true fashion pioneer. In order to negate the fact that I'm not really sartorially comfortable in a high neck, I like to artistically slash them across the collar bone for a Kids from Fame style off the shoulder look. It’s my gift to the fashion world. (Jeff Banks, you are welcome.) Fabulous customised neckline or not, I still prefer to avoid lettering across my chest when I am out and about in the world. It seems unfair to reprimand a perv whose eyes are focused on my chest, if I’ve given him a catchy slogan to read as he tries to maintain eye contact. No, my political T-shirts are relegated to the bedroom. They are usually oversized, comfy, and the perfect thing to sleep in on the nights I'm trying to be socially provocative, not actually provocative. (That'll be all nights, then). 

But something rather lovely occurred to me last week. I was looking for something to paint in. Not in a watercolours and easel way, but more of a Dulux and dust sheet vibe. Rather than ruin something I wear for realsies  I went to my PJ drawer and looked at my slogan tops. The usual suspects were there. Bollocks to Boris, Bitches Against Brexit, All I Want for Christmas Are My Reproductive Rights... all good options, all things I wear in bed and not outside. Then I saw the one I knew I would use. No More Page Three. It’s my longest serving slogan top. It’s been washed and washed and washed. The white of the lettering comes off every time I wear it now. But here’s the thing. The campaign was successful. The T-shirts worked. More or less. Page Three in all its tacky, dumbed down, and patronising infamy was laid to rest back in 2015. From The S*n, anyway. I believe it still exists in less widespread tabloids if you're really desperate for it. But the campaign against the ‘most read UK newspaper’* was a success. With that in mind, using the campaign T-shirt to get covered in paint seemed like a fitting decision to make. It is past tense. Its power is no longer needed. I wore it as I painted the hell out of doors, frames, dado rails, and bannisters. I got it plastered in paint with no need to worry that I'd need to dust it off for a march or rally at a later date. 

Now with added paint splatters

One day it will be lovely to look back at all these slogan T-shirts and consign them to history. It would be lovely for them all to be relegated to painting clothes because we've actually and decisively said Bollocks to Boris. Or that Northern Ireland has the same reproductive rights as the rest of the UK. Or that Prosecco Ho Ho Ho. Whatever that means. 

Have a lovely week, folks. 

*Not 'most read' in Liverpool since the city-wide boycott. A fact that never fails to make me proud of my home city.