Echoes

I guess my last post - "Lard" - surfaced from my memory sump because I have been reading "Round Ireland With A Fridge" by Tony Hawks. Back in 1997, Hawks took on a £100 bet and found himself hitch-hiking round Ireland with a small fridge on a porter's trolley. His circumnavigation of the Emerald Isle saw him in various bizarre situations and he met a host of random Irish people as well as appearing regularly on the Gerry Ryan morning radio show. Entertainingly, the book charts that journey but it also acts as a vehicle for reflections on Irish life and life in general.

In chapter twelve - "Roisin" - I noticed this aphorism - "Sometimes in life you've got to dance like nobody's watching". That sentiment has been hanging about in my mind the last few days. So often we "dance" or live as if controlled by and subservient to the watching society around us but sometimes we need to be true to ourselves and make the moves that come naturally to us without reference to that controlling audience. Perhaps only through such "free" unfettered "dance" steps will we come to truly be ourselves.

After the "lard" incident at the airport, there were other extraordinary happenings that are vivid in my memory thirty five years later. On my second day in Ireland I was out on Lough Ree in a rowing boat, fishing with a flat-capped bachelor farmer of seventy plus. We took the fish back to his humble cottage and fried them over a turf fire while an image of Jesus stared down from above the mantelpiece.

Near Bantry I met Ronald who was in Europe for the first time. A white orphan, he had grown up in a bush village in Tanzania partly watched over by an Irish priest who had brought him back to the old country and lent him his old Datsun car. Ronald spoke like a black East African and drove at approximately fifteen miles an hour. We got drunk together in Bantry after I had pitched my tent. I was naturally perturbed when he repeatedly asked if I liked to "rub the rhino horn" or "play with the banana".

A couple of days later, after a long wait on a remote County Kerry lane, I got a lift from an artificial inseminator. We made several farm stops where large buckets of scalding water were waiting by the rear hooves of bovine mums to be. At one farm, I was invited to slide my arm into a long polythene glove and then push it inside the moaning cow while he - the inseminator - prepared a long glass pipette half filled with best bull's semen. He laughed at the agonised expression on my face - for this was certainly not what I meant about dancing in Kerry with a green-eyed colleen.

This may be my last post for a little while as tomorrow Shirley and I are heading south to England's rich underbelly for a ten day break in Sussex but if I spot an opportunity, I will blog again before returning to the grim reality that is "Up North".

Lard

Let's travel back in time. Back to June 1974. I'm a university student and not particularly fashion conscious. I have long hair, a full beard and I like to wear an old khaki US Army combat jacket that I bought from a secondhand military store in darkest Glasgow. Earlier that year I developed a yearning to make my first time visit to a large island on the edge of Europe - you might have heard of it - it's called Ireland.

I have hitch-hiked to Leeds-Bradford Airport, staggering under the weight of my old rucksack that is packed with all I will need for a month on The Emerald Isle. I am twenty years old. I check the rucksack in at the check-in desk and then I wander off with my book - "The Magus" by John Fowles. I sit reading it with a cup of coffee, wondering how I might reduce the weight of the rucksack and how on earth I will be able to waddle round Ireland with the damned thing.

Before I can get to the departure gate, I am accosted by a posse of customs men. They frogmarch me into a secret room, dominated by a big oblong table with an inlaid black rubbery plastic surface. Sitting on this table is my designer rucksack in all its khaki boy scout glory.

The customs men stand back. "Open it up!" the leader commands. They edge closer to the walls. I remove my nylon raincoat, my old Blacks canvas two man tent, my carrier bags containing socks and Y-fronts. I toss out my writing pad, my torch, a sweatshirt, a rolled up towel, a pair of blue Adidas trainers, a couple of shirts. a melamine plate and a spare pair of Wranglers. Right down at the bottom is my Gaz camping stove and a clever collection of cooking utensils that click neatly together - a kettle - a saucepan and a frying pan.

Detecting sharp intakes of breath from my observers, I realise that it's this pan collection that most interests them. "Open that up!" orders the mustachioed leader. I separate the pans and reveal a package I have hidden in the saucepan. It's wrapped in aluminium foil. The customs men are quivering. What is it? Hard drugs? Or more likely dynamite or Semtex. I peel back the silver paper to reveal a half pound of best Yorkshire lard. Their relief is palpable.

I explain that I need the lard for frying eggs and bacon. They are smiling now. And it was only later that I reflected on the Troubles in northern Ireland in 1974 and how I might have looked like a crazed paramilitary sympathiser - off to join the IRA or the UDF or some other such organisation. Little did those customs men know, I was planning to see sunsets, drink Smithwicks in country bars, talk to old men, write poems, read books and dance with a green-eyed colleen upon the moonlit strand at Inch.

Inch Strand, County Kerry

Pigsick

Don't worry. It is a proven medical fact that computer users cannot contract swine flu by visiting the website of an infected blogger. For someome who has been outrageously healthy for over fifty years, it's hard to believe the last twelve months. Last August, I picked up a rare and deadly strain of e-coli, whilst on holiday in Turkey. Only heavy duty antibiotics could save me. Then there were all those weeks of waiting for my urethrotomy operation in early June and now - would you believe it - since I "retired" from work a week ago, I have been suffering from symptoms which leave me and my nurse (wife) in little doubt that I have been and still am infected with the H1N1 influenza virus - swine flu.Headache, excessive tiredness, sore throat, sneezing, production of nasty phlegm, cough, achey limbs - if it's not swine flu then it's all a huge co-incidence. On the new Pandemic website, my responses to the sequence of questions asked drew that selfsame conclusion and indicated that I should go to an antiviral medication collection point with my unique patient reference number. Trouble is the website seemed to have an irritating glitch because it could only reveal the address of one antiviral centre in Sheffield - miles away at Wincobank. And why would I need the addresses of similar collection points in York and Scarborough?

Each morning this week I have woken hoping that I would notice significant improvement but to be honest it's been a week of false dawns and physical lethargy. Perhaps tomorrow - Saturday - I will feel a bit better. If it goes on much longer I will be developing bristles, a snout, and a corkscrew tail - which - when I think about it - could be handy in an emergency.

Proud

Recently, I was honoured to receive this blogging award from the nice lady at Hadriana's Treasures. As you can see, the professionally designed and iconic award image is itself one of Hadriana's treasures! The shadow of night-time passes across the planet leaving most of Africa and Europe in darkness. There's a little black line to show the rough position of Hadrian's Wall - the northern boundary of the Roman Empire in Britain. Beyond that there were Picts and Scots and other uncivilised kilt swirling, haggis scoffing hordes. It's surely one of the biggest mistakes of the last two thousand years that they let that wall fall into disrepair. If they had maintained it, we wouldn't have had to suffer The Krankies or that big-headed pseudo-working class comedian, Billy Connolly or that miseryguts tennis player - Andrew Murray and whisky-swiller Sir Alex Ferguson would still be managing Aberdeen... Mind you I suppose there have been some benefits in the union - we get to drink "Irn Bru" and shoot grouse, Reidski has become a "boss" in London and we got to see great Scottish footballers like Denis Law, Kenny Dalglish, Billy Bremner and of course Andy "Jock" Davidson - the Hull City legend (see right).

Thanks to Hadriana for the award. I humbly accept it.

Azzurri

Sunday evening is normally reserved for a traditional homemade Sunday dinner. When the kids are around, it's a family occasion and although Ian now lives near Sheffield United's ground he's usually back on Sundays for a chinwag and some of mama's home cooking - roast beef, roast potatoes, three vegetables, delicious beef gravy - not to mention the piece de resistance - beautiful, golden Yorkshire Puddings - mini-me's!

But not yesterday. It was different. Linked with my "retirement", I had agreed to meet up with some figures from my professional past with their partners. Moira with her husband Roy, Vicky and Patrick and Mike and Jan. First it was a pre-meal drink in "The Nursery Tavern" and then on to an Italian restaurant on buzzing Ecclesall Road called "Azzurri".

I have never been a big fan of Italian restaurants though I love good Italian cuisine. Oddly, the spaghetti bolognaise I make at home is much superior to any I have ever had in a restaurant. But Sunday night's not the best night for eating out - some places are closed and Roy is one of those people who is resistant to curries - so that's why we ended up in an Italian. Old timers who had survived decades of English teaching in our tough urban comprehensive where the sun don't shine and work was grim up North at the cruel chalkface of our broken dreams.

I guess there's more to life than food but I had Uova Alla Fiorentina as a starter - egg cooked in tomato on a bed of spinach and mozzarella - truly blissful. My main course was Pollo alla Crema - a succulent piece of chicken breast cooked in a creamy white wine and brandy sauce with mushrooms and asparagus. Often in restaurants when they bring round the vegetables, I am bitterly disappointed with the meagre child's portions I receive but this time I had no complaints - plenty of roasted carrots and baby rosemary potatoes. It was all delightful.

Dessert was a homemade strawberry cheesecake - all washed down with a couple of pints of Becks lager. Unusually, I could hear the entire conversation round our table with people I have known for twenty to thirty years. Thankfully, the place was very quiet and there wasn't all that background guffawing and gabbling that often makes me feel deaf in the foreground. It was a great meal - I would recommend the "Azzurri" to anyone but now it's Monday morning before I shower and watch "Homes Under The Hammer" on television. Could this be the pattern of future mornings now that I am "retired"?

Speech

All week it has been about saving stuff and chucking other stuff out - getting my classroom ready for the next incumbent. I had kept news of my going secret from the pupils but in the last two days, my fifteen year olds got wind of what was happening. There were hugs and photographs, tears and cards. At breaktime I danced like a maniac with my "harem" of English teachers and Moira brought in two lovely homemade cakes. I picked the lemon one with lemon cream and lemon icing - delicious.

The clock was ticking and the end of term buffet was nigh. Does anybody really look forward to giving speeches? Two ICT (Computer) teachers were leaving after just one year. Then there was Adam the Technology teacher transferring elsewhere after five years in the job, Head of Art Derek - seconded to be a trainer with a fast-track graduate teacher programme, Emma the fellow English teacher promoted to another Sheffield school and Sandra the Science technician leaving after fifteen years in the job. Last but not least was yours truly.

Having worked for Sheffield Council for more than twenty five years, I knew I'd be getting an official citation in appreciation of my service though a fat cheque would have been nicer - "...you have worked tirelessly... continuously conveyed your passion for your subject.... totally committed to the education of young people in your care.... devoted service... well-respected."

Then it was my turn. I was determined to leave that workplace with dignity, a sense of achievement and a certain light-heartedness. Not for me the bitter departures I have witnessed from various departees in recent years - people who felt they had been truly shafted, blaming a self-righteous but ineffective senior management team led by the gabbling innovation-addicted harridan we call the headteacher.

I was calm and unhurried. I gave a history lesson about how the school had changed in quarter of a century. I praised the non-teaching staff and raised laughter when I referred to the number of cleaners I had been through. Above all, I praised my immediate colleagues for their energy, commitment and their unwavering support. I finished by referring to a memory I have retained since 1978 when I was a young teacher in the mining village of Dinnington.

It was early September. I looked out of my tumbledown terrapin classroom and saw two eleven year old boys wandering on the adjacent school field. I went out to them and I could see that one was clutching a map. Because a map is not three dimensional, the mapmaker had drawn the first floor Science suite in the nice empty space where the little boys were now walking. "What are you doing here?" I said. "We're looking for Science," they replied. Ending my speech, I said I very much identified with those two boys and their geographical dilemma.

There was warm applause and afterwards many hugs, handshakes, kisses, good wishes. I finally drove away, not quite knowing how I would feel but a voice from deep inside me said "Thank Christ that's over!" It was my time to go. I felt it in my bones.

Road

Friday creeps closer. The end of thirty two years as a wage slave. The earning will have to continue beyond Friday but it will take different forms and I feel no pressure to get straight back in the work groove come September. Instead I may travel....Tanzania, Antigua, Guyana...who knows? I gave instructions that there were to be no flowers, no present, no card but my immediate work colleagues kindly mustered £85 and asked me what I wanted.

At the weekend, it happened to be "The Great Sheffield Art Show" - an annual exhibition of amateur art held in the university's Octagon Centre. I met up with Sofia - our Higher Level Teaching Assistant - and we moseyed along the aisles and through the catalogue until I found a picture in the price range that I could live with and which would be a simple but lasting memento of twenty four years service in one secondary school.

The view is of a country road in Derbyshire not far from the Nine Ladies stone circle. It's called "The Road From Stanton Lees" and it is either by Philip Towler from Doncaster or Geoff Kersey. The label on the reverse is unclear and the picture isn't signed. I like the idea of the road going off into the distance - a journey travelled. I like the architecture of the winter trees and the confidence of the colouring, the big tree clothed or choked by ivy. I wonder where that road will lead me now that the chalkdust of thirty two years and more is finally settling. Beyond the nine ladies and into tomorrow.

"The Road From Stanton Lees"