Patriotic.

“But I just want to get on Alice”, whined Hubby, rubbing his ‘leave period’ unshaven chin in frustration.
“Carpe diem darling, carpe diem”.
“Huh?” Latin is not one of Hubby’s strengths and were I utterly truthful, neither is it mine. I went to an average comprehensive and was put in a stream where the teachers felt that our little brains would fry if, along with science and algebra and our rampaging hormones, Latin verbs were thrown into the mix. They were probably quite right. I for one had bigger fish to fry than my brain at that age, snogging my 6th form boyfriend at break-time being one of them. Still, carpe diem is a Hallmark card classic. Surely everyone knows what it means?
“Seize the day darling, seize the day”.
“Your dad has just invested in a state of the art lawn mower and strimmer. I want to get on and cut the grass. The garden looks like the upper reaches of the Limpopo and to use your proverbial parlance, I want to ‘make hay while the sun shines’”.
There were many points that I wanted to make here, namely, a state of the art lawn mower is an oxymoron unless it’s a tractor; the upper reaches of the Limpopo is a river and is thus not analogous to an overgrown back garden in South East Cornwall; and lastly, to make hay while the sun shines is metaphoric . This last point I articulated.
“It does not literally mean to cut the grass and make hay just because it is a sunny day. What it actually implies is ‘Go to the beach with your wife and family as it’s a glorious day and, as this is England, tomorrow the weather will probably be crap. Ergo, perfect for lawn mowing, less ideal for a bucket and spade and a beer in the Devonport, Kingsand’”. This last point had the most effect and within half an hour a bag was packed and we’d spread out our rug on the pebbley beach, the children were in 7th heaven as was Hubby waving at me from the railings outside the pub, a pint of Skinner’s latest brew in his hand, fashionably named, ‘Kate loves Willy’.
The following day was grey. I detest the colour grey. Other than a warship and a marl, cashmere dressing gown that I wish I owned, the colour has little to recommend it.
Hubby however, on leave and an eager beaver, was out of the house just past the crack of dawn and keen to play with Dad’s new toy. ‘State of the art? My arse!’ As soon as he pressed the on switch it sounded as though CORMAC, the asphalt and macadam specialists were laying a B road in my garden.
We all vibrated in our beds. A sleepy Red-Head walked into my room rubbing her eyes,
“Is there an earthquake mummy?”, she asked.
“No sweetie”, I replied, “Just daddy cutting the grass”. He was like a man possessed. It was pointless trying to sleep.
We all got up and dressed and by the time most normal people during a holiday period are contemplating the first coffee of the day, Hubby had advanced from mowing to strimming, which, if at all possible, was even noisier. Bits of wood and bark were of no consequence to him. With that tool in his hands he was indomitable. The girls were too scared to go outside lest they be floored by flying debris. The cats and the dog cowered behind the cat-flap peering through it, wondering what on earth had possessed their master to brandish a machine that was destroying their natural habitat faster than any multi-national conglomerate with little regard for destroying swathes of the Brazilian rain forest. And me, a card carrying member of Greenpeace.
Eventually and with an Errol Flynn style, thigh slapping, flourish, Hubby desisted. He looked very pleased with himself. “There”, he said, hands on hips, surveying his bald lawn. The children and I looked at each other nervously. Hubby was obviously a man on a mission. His ability to relax when on leave is notoriously unmanageable. The man needs a project. Before you could say B&Q, I heard myself uttering, “The bathroom needs decorating”.
Already blue and white, we meandered around that orange DIY superstore looking for paint and decided on scarlet for the walls. To ‘dress’ the bathroom , I picked up a red, ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’ cushion for the Lloyd loom chair and on the way home insisted on stopping at TK Max for red towels. They didn’t have any, but what they did have and what I found I couldn’t live without, was an enormous, distressed style, union flag mirror. Debenhams provided the towels, a red bath rug and some red, pillar candles. I was very pleased with my purchases. Hubby less so. He’d stayed in the car with the girls, assuming, rather erroneously as it transpired, that buying a bale of red towels would take approximately seven minutes. By the time I’d lugged the mirror and the other wrist cutting carrier bags up Royal Parade my arm had seized and Hubby had to unclasp the mirror from my crooked clasp.
A day later and the bathroom was finished. It is dressed to perfection. I invited Mags to the official unveiling. She was very quiet.
“Don’t you like it?” I asked, hurt.
She surveyed the red, white and blue; the union-flag mirror, the patriotic propaganda cushion and said, “In the words of Lloyd Grossman, ‘Who lives in a house like this?’”
Nick, who is very much at home here these days, popped his head in and quipped “Alice, it’s over to you”.
I’ll concede that with a bit of bunting it may well look as though I’ve taken the Royal Wedding pageant to heart, but one can’t argue though that it gives the euphemism, ‘on the throne’ a far deeper resonance.

So Many Children She Didn't Know What To Do..

Our house, the first thing in the morning, is not for the faint hearted or for anyone of any nervous disposition. It was rather disconcerting then to discover that my 9 year old fits the former description to a tee. I’m surprised as I have always maintained that is the 6’ 5”, loping, long haired brother who is the most delicate of all my children. As a reminder, he is the one with fire-pants by the side of his bed, just in case the house goes up in flames one night and he finds himself on the pavement, modestly cupping his credentials. He is also the one who is quite literally terrified of wax mannequins, the type found in any tourist attraction where there are tableaux illustrating days of yore. Generally speaking these mannequins have by this time been there almost as long as the historical period they are depicting, their glass eyes glassier, the moustaches lopsided and years of dust having gathered in every crevice and fold of their fake skin, hair and costumes. To say these tableaux give my son the hee-bee-gee-bees would be an understatement. The thought of Flambards Victorian Village still has the capacity, 12 years on, to bring him out in a cold sweat.
And so the other morning, whilst he lay in his bed, his pants carefully by his side, Hubby and my eldest daughter having left for work and school respectively, all hell broke loose. Nick, our latest lost boy, who is a lot less lost of late, was running up and down the stairs as I prompted him with things to remember – books? Damn. He ran to his room before remerging from the basement.
“Glasses?” He looked at me before slapping his forehead.
By the time he’d found them I was making his packed lunch.
“Right then Nick”, I said handing him his lunch and his breakfast bagel, “Are you sure you have everything?”
He nodded, chomping .
“You’ve got your money, your books, your glasses and your phone?”
He looked stricken and once more ran to the basement. Up he came again. At this point other events had taken over. The younger girls had got up and were sitting at the dining table duly awaiting their breakfast. The 9 year old was excited. It has been exactly six weeks since she had her ears pierced and therefore this was the day that she could officially change them for another pair. She had been crossing off the days on her Dog Breeds calendar and now handed me a bottle of Claire’s ear care disinfectant and some pretty dragonfly studs.
At this juncture Jacob, who has just returned from checking out various universities, also emerged form the basement, in a fury.
“Flaming hell Alice”, he said, running his fingers through his hair, “I am going to be blind and uncontactable for the next few weeks”.
“Why?”, I asked simultaneously pulling at my daughter’s stubborn earring back.
“Because I bloody well left my glasses and charger at a friend’s house and now he’s gone back-packing until the end of May.”
Nick ran back up the stairs, waving his phone at me.
“I really am off this time”, he smiled.
“Really?”, I replied pointing at his feet.
“Daaarh”. I think he may just have had the micky taken out of him if he’d turned up at assembly with black, towelling slip on slippers adorning his feet. And this kid was expected to live alone in hostel?
Whilst all this toing and froing was occurring and Jacob was grabbing himself a hot cross bun, the 9 year old had gone a distinct pea-green colour.
“Oh mummy, I don’t like this sensation in my ears. I feel dizzy”, she said, before flopping onto the sofa and without any warning, vomited. Holy hell, I didn’t anticipate that one coming, neither did I anticipate that at that precise moment, the doorbell would ring. Nick, having now once again re-emerged from the basement, really was going to school and opened the door to our visitor. The first thing the man saw was a peculiarly coloured child throwing up onto a rug at the foot of a sofa, two hot and flustered teenage boys and a middle aged woman in a scarlet dressing gown and little else, bent over the aforementioned, puking child.
“Um, hello, Mrs Band”, he said, clearly terrified, “The Commander sent me. My ship deploys tomorrow and he said that it was ok to borrow a pair of tartan trousers?”.
It was the most random if not surreal comment to make and it stopped us in our tracks. Why on earth would he need tartan trousers was only one of the questions I could have asked him, but this really wasn’t the time nor more specifically, the place.
Nick, shrugged his shoulders and I’m sure that, albeit fleetingly, his expression seemed to imply the thought that, a hostel could be quite comfortable after all. Jacob took over the role of nurse, before I finally recovered my manners and said “Tartan trews? Of course, of course”. I hurried to Hubby’s wardrobe, dragged the trousers from the hanger and ran back and handed them over. The 9 year old was still heaving. Our visitor was shifting nervously from foot to foot, before the Red-Head, in her own inimitable fashion, offered her unique, view on the world,
“Do you think the Queen likes chavs?”
I motioned to the tormented trouser borrower that he did not need to answer this question and with one had on the door handle and the other thrusting the tartan into his chest, showed him out.
“Will there be chavs at the wedding mummy?”
“I don’t think so sweetie”. Lily Langtry, who had recovered from her fainting fit, elaborated.
“Dad shouted at the telly that Wayne Rooney was an effing chav”.
“Yes, well the Roonies aren’t going to the Royal wedding whereas the Beckhams are”.
“Is that because she’s Posh?”

Ooh La La.

I have been called a lot of names over the years. ‘Fat Cow’ springs to mind. It is therefore hard to accept this new moniker of ‘Angel’ which does not sit at all comfortably upon my shoulders. Surely the definition of angel is a celestial being put on earth as God’s messenger. Pure and perfect. Divine. Spiritual. Superior to man in power and intelligence. Anyone who knows me well would read the preceding words and laugh. Uproariously.
The more I think of it, the name Angel Band has a certain je ne c’est quoi to it, alas I cannot claim it as my own as I am as flawed and as imperfect as every other human being on this earth. Hubby and I haven’t even done anything particularly kind, in fact as functioning members of the human race, I consider looking out for our fellow humans as a moral obligation. It is the right thing to do. It is as simple as that. And so the situation is this, a mum at my children’s school died last month. We weren’t best friends, but I liked her. She was very young and had four lovely children: a baby, a boy of 6 and a girl of 7 and a lovely lad of 17. They have different fathers and have thus all gone their separate ways, all except the 17 year old, who has no relationship with his father and, given his age - social services in their infinite wisdom, deem a grieving schoolboy of 17 needing the comfort, love and security of a big family, superfluous and so the lad has found himself, homeless.
Actually, I think that I can count the seconds of how long he was literally without four walls and a roof, around 180, or however long it was for his belongings to be driven from his old address to ours. The rest of the time was spent setting up his room for him, unpacking and plugging in his lovely telly. His mother had splashed out, with weeks to live, I guess you would. Given the trauma he has suffered over the past few weeks, losing his mum, his siblings, his home and a lot of his ‘stuff’, he is bearing up extremely well. I am proud of my children and my other lost boy for having welcomed him with open arms and treating him like a well used piece of furniture – albeit one that needs a little TLC, lest any more stuffing fall out.
I like to think that having him live with us has given him a chance. A chance to save his soul. God knows how embittered and angry he might have become if, when he needed to be shown comfort and human compassion most in his life, he’d been shunned. What gives me the greatest comfort is hoping that by holding out the hand of friendship, it has made him realise that the world is not such a bad place, and that he will grow up a fine young man and in turn do his bit. Lead by example, I was always told, although when one’s daughters strut around in high heels and make-up, that particular idiom does not work necessarily work in one’s favour.
And so that’s where we’re at, a great big family ever more like the Waltons than before. The house is filthy, the washing is piling up, ironing is now a number of items folded; food is served as though in a canteen, conversation is loud and opinions are vehement and emphatic. Nothing new in other words.
Getting out, I must admit, when Hubby wants me suited and booted by a certain time, is more of a challenge. Supper takes some planning. There are, depending on the menu, a lot of vegetables to peel, meat to cook, pasta to boil and bread to butter. My tea bag consumption has, since October, increased almost one hundred fold. A packet of biscuits lasts no more than 5 minutes, a tray of yogurts is eaten at one sitting and cocoa-cola is rationed, along with orange juice.
“There’s plenty of water in the tap”, I say, echoing my mother.
Of course, when one is in a rush because one’s husband wants you to look vaguely presentable, garlic butter has the habit of stymieing your efforts and last night was no exception. Lasagne, salad and garlic bread were the dish du jour, but as I retrieved the bread from the oven, the butter ran off the baking tray, down my sleeve and into my bra. It was hot. It was smelly. All I needed was a Gauloises hanging from the corner of my mouth and a jaunty beret atop my head and I would have looked and smelt, stereo-typically Francais.
Hubby was incensed, “For Pete’s sake Alice, there are four perfectly able bodied teenagers in this house. Two of them are legally men. Couldn’t you have delegated just this once?”
I ran upstairs whipping off my top and oily bra as I went. Luckily, as all the kids were chowing down, all were spared that sight. I mopped and scrubbed away at my skin until it was raw. I bent my head down towards my cleavage and sniffed heartily. Damn. I still smelt like a sodding salad. I threw on a clean bra and different shirt and all the time Hubby was roaring at me. It was a very fancy occasion, we couldn’t be late. I slipped my feet into killer shoes and for good measure, liberally sprayed some perfume over the offending odour. Hyper-ventilating, I ran downstairs and into Hubby’s arms.
“Dear God Alice, you smell like a French prostitute”.
“I most sincerely hope that you are not speaking from experience”, I replied loftily as I made my way to a waiting car.

Streets of London.

It was the tonic we needed. Two full days. No work. No household chores. No cooking. No kids. Well, for Dad that wasn’t exactly true as he had his daughter either trailing behind, gazing longingly into designer shops, or blazing forward, A-Z in hand, leading the way.
First things first, having bought the train tickets, we arrived at Plymouth railway station at some utterly ungodly hour in the morning and, after a restorative coffee, made our way along a snaking train before we found our carriage. Dad looked at our bags. He had a wash bag, a posh shirt that I’d bought him for Christmas and some clean pants (at least I assumed he’d brought some clean pants). I, on the other hand, had a weekend bag which held, a few frocks – just in case, not quite sure in case of what, a hairdryer, various shoes of differing heel height, make-up, jewellery and nightwear. That was nothing compared to a handbag, a laptop and a Morrison’s, heavy duty, carrier bag which held so much school stuff that only a trainee teacher could comprehend. Dad was certainly stymied by it.
“Sweetheart, did you really need to bring this?”, he asked, huffing and puffing in my wake. I waved him to hurry up.
“Course Dad, loads of work to do. Long train journey is the perfect opportunity”, I wasn’t really concentrating on his needs as he wheezed behind me. My mind was set on finding our seats. I held the tickets at arms length and was most disappointed to find us squished into a tiny space.
“Where’s the table?”, I pondered out loud, “I need a table. I can’t do all this work on a…flap”.
Dad dropped the bags.
“No Alice, you can’t. Let’s upgrade”. My eyes lit up. Upgrade? I didn’t hesitate.
“Yes, let’s”. We made our way up the train to the pointy end, the one the other side of café and sprawled in big, comfy chairs. A big smile animated my face.
“This is the life Dad”, I said, slipping my shoes off and opening my lap top bag. I plugged the charger into the ‘wall’ and started to work.
“Good on you Alice”, said Dad, approvingly, “And we haven’t even got to the big Sainsbury’s yet”.
Seemingly 24 hours later and a journey I’m sure that went via Aberdeen, we arrived in London.
Two country bumpkins, we heaved luggage to the taxi stand and waited in line. They’ve got queuing for a taxi down to a fine art in London and it wasn’t long before we were hurtling up Park Lane. Bliss. Until it dawned on me that we shouldn’t be anywhere near Park Lane. Shizer. I checked my friend’s address. Balls. I’d given the driver the wrong address, worse, Dad would think I was an incompetent buffoon. I moved out of my seat and attempted a subtle discourse with the driver along the lines of “I’m terribly sorry, but we’re going the wrong way”.
“What was that Alice?” asked Dad. Drat. He’s deaf as a post most of the time, I won’t fall for that next time, it must be bloody selective.
“No worries Dad. Slight GPS malfunction, that’s all”, I explained, tapping him reassuringly on the arm. Within a second, the taxi had turned 180 degrees on a sixpence and we were, at last heading, towards our destination. Dad was in his element, sitting back and enjoying the view, humming quite contentedly, ‘The Streets of London’.
“Oi, Ralph McTell”, I said to Dad, “We’re here”. Dad tipped the taxi driver generously for having an incompetent daughter and, then after a few steps, we unlocked the door into the flat.
“Well, well”, he said, looking around, “This is very London I must say”. I never really ascertained what ‘very London’ was as we had to hot foot it almost immediately across Hyde Park to the Royal Albert Hall.
“All sorts of types up here isn’t there?” announced Dad as woman boinged her way past us, like a latter day Zebedee on what can only be described as stilts with springs; one attached to each foot. Air-trekkers, by all accounts.
Dad was further impressed that far from yet another cramped seating situation, I’d pushed the boat out and we had a box at our disposal. There was a Moet & Chandon bar behind us, which dad rather infuriatingly seemed to ignore rather than acknowledge. Never mind, it was a wonderful concert. A real Classical Spectacular, although, I must admit, HM Royal Marine Band at HMS Raleigh are just as impressive if with fewer pyrotechnic wizadry.
It had been a long day. By the time the matinee performance had ended we were both pooped, but it is so rare that the two of us have time to hang out together that I was determined we would keep going until we dropped, which is why it was, that an hour later, as dusk began to settle over the West End of London and an enormous moon seemed to have trouble staying in the sky, we meandered around Soho, one hand holding on tightly to my A-Z, the other clutching Dad’s.
“C’mon”, I said for the hundredth time that day. It’s not that he couldn’t keep up with me, but that he just kept lingering in front of shop windows that were nothing, if not a little indiscreet. I do not mean that he peered into the more seedy of these windows, good lord no, but it would be fair to say however, that to him a gents outfitters is exactly that, he was a little surprised then when the very gay shop assistant gave him a little camp wave, before the salutation, “Bonjour matelot!” We hurried on, laughing, “It must have been your Jolly Jack Tar tattoos that gave you away Dad”.
Not for the first time that day, Dad shook his head with the refrain, “Well it is very London I must say.”

Superhero?

So, first things first,. We have two new cars. Well, not exactly new, in fact one might go so far as to say they are quite old, but, and this is the crux of the argument- they go. From A-B, without hiccupping, without kangarooing and without the all too familiar, ominous noise of banging or rattling. This is more through luck than anything else, because, no sooner had Hubby and Dad been across country to purchase the second, more large family accommodating, car and had driven in convoy back to the wardroom for lunch to celebrate Dad’s not insignificant birthday than it all went, horribly wrong. I have been regaled thus: Hubby got half way out of the new car, too late to realise that the handbrake hadn’t been applied hard enough to secure it to a parking spot. Being on a slight incline, the car started to move, and rather horrifyingly it moved with Hubby’s leg sticking out of the door. Dad’s car was parked right next to Hubby’s and as Hubby frantically tried to apply the handbrake- which, Hubby realised rather too late, is placed on the right hand side of the driver, a rather alarming and in this case calamitous revelation given the vulnerable position of Hubby’s leg, the two cars rather predictably scraped together and Hubby could not get his leg out of the way fast enough to prevent it being crushed between the cars. How Hubby didn’t lose his leg is a miracle. The metal inside the driver’s door is buckled where his leg got in the way.

It was a bad start to the new car that my dear husband had been so chuffed to find. Not only that, but it was after all Dad’s birthday, and not only that, but the poor guy had only just had his car returned from the garage where it had been rebuilt after a drunken driver had smashed into it late one night. It’s another story, that after the impact, which I heard from my bed, I’d hurriedly pulled a dressing gown around me, and ran outside to see what was going on before desperately trying to make the miscreant see sense and stay put at the scene of the crime. It’s a further story that the whole family were now also in their nightclothes out on the pavement; Hubby on the phone to the police, the teenagers looking on open mouthed and poor Dad, standing there bewildered, scratching his bald head, as I, naked under my dressing gown, ran up the street, hell for leather after a swaying drunkard, the whole while pleading with him to stay put. I didn’t stop until it got very dark and I could hear Hubby imploring me to come back. You’d have thought that the sight of my nether regions flapping under my dressing like some pornographic super hero would have been enough to apprehend the chap, but on reflection, it was probably more of an impetus to keep on running.
Suffice it to say then , the last thing that Dad needed on his big birthday was his car to be once again damaged, but as is Dad’s style, he was very magnanimous about it and I was very glad that I had spent a small fortune on four foot, silver, helium balloons that signified his age.We spent a pleasant evening, regardless, eating party food, drinking champagne and dousing Hubby in Arnica ointment.
The following day, a long scar disfiguring my nice, new car, I drove to my ‘Placement B’ school. The children are delightful and one can understand how teachers, however knackered and however disenchanted with the goings on in education, stick with the job. The kids are what it’s all about. I am surprised by how much I thoroughly enjoy standing at the front of the class and teaching my students. I am very enthusiastic. The trouble is, is that I tend to go ‘off script’ and my mentor, whilst being very positive and encouraging, had to point out that in an hours lesson on creative writing where the ‘learning objective’ – oh yes, the students must have an agenda these days – was to ‘explore genre, setting and characters’, I had spent fifteen minutes spouting on about Lent, Jesus in the wilderness and sacrifice.
“Rein yourself in Alice”, she advised, “Or you will never meet your objectives and when the head honchos come to call they will criticise you”. But it had been so apt. I’d provided pancakes and syrup and napkins, hell I’d even had the wherewithal to buy baby wipes for sticky little fingers. I felt it needed a little clarification as to why we gorge ourselves thus. I felt it just as pertinent to point out that in Mexico, Shrove Tuesday is referred to as Fat Tuesday and regale them with an anecdote of when we lived in America and how it was celebrated there. No doubt I see myself as some modern day Miss Jean Brodie, hell bent on given my students extra curricular information, to be the ‘crème de la crème. It doesn’t go down well with OFSTED apparently, they like ‘focus’ not imagination. Pah.
I sloped off to my next class, entirely made up of high achieving girls, who are up to debate against a class of equally bright boys. Printing information from the internet about girls versus boys, they found statistics about female incarceration.
“Are you familiar with that expression? Do you know what it means?”, I asked.
Rows of big eyes looked back at me, “Is that where they get burned miss?”.
Regardless of wounded car and wounded husband, I laughed all the way home.

A Warm Embrace.

“Must you go gallivanting at every given opportunity?”, enquired Hubby beseechingly.
“Must we have this conversation every time we have a holiday?”, I retorted.
“Some of us are not on holiday”, he replied. I sighed. Here we go again. Hubby had better get used to the holiday situation if I pass this teaching course and find myself, every six weeks or so with a week or so off.
“The petrol will cost a fortune to Wiltshire you know”, Hubby added.
“I understand that, but once there I will spend a lot less on the kids as they’ll be happy to run amok in the garden with the other children and the free range chickens, the trampoline and the Avon and Kennet canal.” Hubby raised one eyebrow.
“For heaven’s sake I was using hyperbole for dramatic effect. They will not be going anywhere near the canal unless they are tethered to me. Ok?” For one fleeting moment I’m sure I saw a faraway look in Hubby’s eye that seemed to suggest, rather murderously “What if?”
“Ahem”. Hubby pulled himself together. “And I have no plans for mid winter bathing”.
The following day, I packed the Passat. Hubby was not best pleased about that either as it meant that I was leaving him with the clapped out, leaking like a sieve, Fiat.
“I’ll be bloody lucky if the car make sit as far as work.”
“Well it’s not going to make it to Wiltshire then is it?”. This was met with silence.
“Just take it easy Alice ok? Driving fast is not economically efficient regarding fuel consumption, nor is it responsible. I don’t want a phone call to say you’ve dented the ruddy thing because you drove into the back of another car. Remember, ‘two chevrons apart’”.
Prophetic words indeed. Driving along the M5, approaching Weston-Super-Mare, the car suddenly issued a directive from the warning light panel to STOP, STOP, STOP – it being German, it would have felt more comfortable to yell, HALT!, HALT!, HALT, but it was no less intimidating in English. Driving at 75mph and singing away to Buddy Holly, I was cut short in my tracks.
“Bloody hell”, I yelled.
“What’s wrong mummy?”.
“It says to stop because we are out of oil”. My mind raced, what to do for the best? Pull over on the hard shoulder and stand by the side of a terrifyingly busy M5 with two little girls and a dog or, continue until we were safe? I chose the latter. Soon, we were in the petrol station of a Morrison’s supermarket. I bought a container of oil, opened the car bonnet and looked at the engine. Hmm. Which one of these screw lids was the correct one, I pondered. As is often the case in these situations, the age of chivalry is proven to be far from dead. A chap appeared as by magic, gallantly rolled up his sleeves, unscrewed the oil cap, poured fresh oil into the thingy, checked my dipstick a couple of times and wiped it off with his hanky, before slamming my boot shut and checking all was well before leaving me to it.
The girls were impressed, “Who was that man mummy?”, the Red-Head asked.
“I don’t know, but he was very kind”.
“But if he was a stranger you shouldn’t have spoken to him. He could have kidnapped us.”
“Listen sweetheart, it would take a special sort of man to want to kidnap a middle aged woman, two little girls, a large hairy dog and a crappy car. Just ask your father.” We continued our journey, but on the M4 just before the Bath exit, the car, rather alarmingly started to squeak and make kangaroo jumps. I swore out loud.
“What is it now mummy?” asked the 9 year old.
“Bloody, bloody car”. The next services weren’t for miles and miles, I had no choice this time, but to pull over onto the hard shoulder. If I’d thought the M5 was busy, then by comparison to this race-track it was a drive in the countryside. We piled out of the car. Ensuring the girls were safe, whilst at the same time retrieving a golden retriever from the boot was hair raising. We clambered over the crash barrier and in the rain and wind, huddled together on tiny strip of grass verge. The lorries shook us as they trundled past in their droves. I called the AA.
“One of our patrol cars will be with you very shortly Mrs Band. Try not to worry”. Worry? I was terrified. The Red-Head was crying and clinging to me, both shivering from the cold. The dog was trembling and whimpering. Suddenly, the elder one started to sing, ‘These are a Few of my Favourite Things’. We picked up the refrain and by the time we’d worked through the whole of the Sound of Music and were about to embark on Doh- a-Deer again, the comforting, flashing, orange lights of an AA van hove into view.
My reaction on greeting ‘Mark’ was perhaps a little too welcoming. It was as though he had returned from war.
“Oh thank God”, I said, over and over, hugging him, “Thank God you are here. It is so wonderful to see you”. It must be a rewarding job. He bundled the girls into his van and towed me and the dog back to Bristol, waited until all the admin had been sorted and a hire car had been allocated before leaving us.
The garage ran a diagnostic test on the car. The prognosis was terminal. It was a write-off.
Hesitantly I dialled Hubby’s number. “You there safely?” he asked.
“Not quite. Remember you said you didn’t want me to ring saying I’d dented the car? Well…” He took the news as well as any man. As well as any man who has been told his ‘good’ car is now a worthless piece of scrap.

2+2

“I could have cried Alice”, she said, pouring a hefty slug of chilled white wine into one of my nicer glasses, “I mean, really cried”. I wanted to be sympathetic. I wanted to share the bottle, put my feet up and agree, that yes, all men are bastards. Thing is, not only did Hubby rise to the occasion and pre-order me a personalised Valentine card from Moonpig.com, but I honestly haven’t got time to ponder the misgivings of thoughtless husbands. So, whilst poor Mags described her mortification on receiving, with great excitement, an enormous box of flowers from the postman, only to realise they were for the woman next door, I chewed my pencil and intermittently made sympathetic noises.
I was concentrating hard. I raked my fingers through my hair and bit the rubber off my pencil, jumping feet into the air as though electrocuted because the metal underneath had made contact with my fillings.
“Bloody hell”, I winced, rubbing my jaw.
“You can say that again”, added Mags. I’d forgotten she was there. I had hoped that, had she not been given the attention she craved, that she’d have downed her wine and gone home, unfortunately she was still tamping mad with her husband’s floral disappointment, so she stayed put to help. The point is, unless you are maths teacher trained to work with students with special needs you can’t assist me because I only respond to specialist help. In the end, I just had to be blunt.
“Mags, my love and dearest, bestest friend, whilst I fully sympathise, nay empathise with your disenchantment in the male species, I have a maths test in a couple of days time. You know as well as anyone how utterly useless I am at it and yet I have to pass this ruddy test or alas, no matter how hard I work at teaching and planning and assessments, targets, behaviour management, global dimension and safeguarding of the little darlings, I will not qualify. Therefore, I need you to go home that I may give changing decimals into percentages my utter devotion”.
“Well, if that’s how you feel”, she said, sticking her chin rather defiantly into the air, “Then I won’t hinder you another second”.
“Mags love”, I soothed, “Please don’t take umbrage, but it’s ok for you and Hubby and all the youngsters on my course who can simplify to the lowest common denominator with impunity. Trouble is, I never got it when I was five and I still don’t get it now I’m forty five”.
“Well what’s so hard?” she asked, adjusting her pashmina.
“All of it Mags, all of it”. I’d resorted to raking my hair again. And, like all those before her who have absolutely no grasp on what it is to be numerically challenged, she kissed me before airily adding, “Oh you’ll be fine”.
The door shut and once again I turned my attention to my book: QTS Numeracy Test, Pass First Time. I’ve been having private tuition since September by a local maths teacher and in fairness to the lad, he has been patient, kind and has enlightened me on many aspects of previously, nightmare inducing sums and yet, processing certain aspects of arithmetic, eludes me still. To genuinely struggle with a subject that most people can do on two hands, literally, is a horrible feeling. It makes me feel dumb and stupid, not helped by having often been the butt of jokes. Some so called friends have found it a spectator sport to goad me by throwing unreservedly random problems in my general direction. I have sat at dinner tables or in bars when the topic of my apparently hilarious handicap has reared its mortifying head and the company therein have found it highly entertaining to shout, “Go on Alice, what’s seven times eight; what’s eight times nine?” and I’ve had to mentally trawl through my tables searching for the correct answer.
“What’s twenty three per cent of seventy three?”, they titter, knowing I have no capacity whatsoever for finding the correct answer.
“Um”, I start, “Well, 20% would be, um, let me see, er..” They give up on me at this point, smug in their consensus of opinion that the woman in their midst is a thicky. Do you know what really gets my craw? Were I dyslexic they wouldn’t be half so cruel. I very much doubt they’d throw multisyllabic words at me and wait for me to stutter and stumble. They would never chuck a book at me demanding, “Go on, read it”. Why then is it ok to take mick out of my maths?
I’ve brought the subject up at Uni and all they can do is wave at me dismissively and advocate practise. It’s frustrating to say the least. Surely they want me to pass my course? They are helping a fellow student with dyslexia and what really cheeses me off is not the fact that he gets extra time to sit the literacy test but the fact that he gets recognition. I’ve heard staff speak to him in muted, gentle tones, offering all manner of ‘extra sessions and coping mechanisms’.
It could of course be argued that unless we can pass the basics in numeracy, literacy and ICT then we don’t deserve to be teachers. I disagree. Given time, I’ll eventually get an appropriate educated guess at an answer that isn’t too from the correct one. I would concur that for primary teachers, it is obviously essential that they know their times tables off by heart but when I am let loose in the classroom with John Donne and Andrew Marvell for example, I can never foresee an occasion when I say, “One moment whilst I get my calculator”. Similarly when I’m in Monsoon and there is 75% off a dress, I know I am getting a bloody bargain.