Some Things Never Change, Others Do

The bar downstairs is comparable to Butlins while the one on the upper level moves along the holiday camp class scale towards Center Parcs. We've played a modest game of “Bird or Bloke?” and watched a woman propped between two younger girls (probably her daughters) slumping into a nearby chair. Regenerated by the music, she animatedly sings and her younger companions look mildly embarrassed before giving up and deciding to join in. After failing to win at Bingo and listening to a soulful blonde member of the on-board entertainment belting out popular hits, we leave the lower bar and battle with the door leading to the blustery outdoors.

Heading to the upper deck and back into the shelter of the second bar, we're met with rather civilized piano music tastefully covering a range of familiar easy-listening. Looking for the source of these inoffensive backing tunes, we're both delighted to see the man whose shirt we earlier admired sitting in front of the piano. The wonder of this black crushed velvet shirt is only heightened by its amazing length but its model's tendency to utilise all available buttons makes it all the more striking. Lounging back on low sofas in the aptly named Piano Bar amid faux-greenery is an entirely different world from the Sunset Show Bar with its disco floor and lit-up bar.

Returning to the “Show” bar for one final squiz, we're both tickled by the amount of teens on the dance floor. The table nearest to this mob has become the perverts' front row pew. Two rows of young boys are squashed together eyes fixed ahead, checking out the talent. The two girls that had earlier on seemed somewhat ashamed of their older companion are now queens of the floor, striking eye-catching moves that wouldn't be out of place in one of Louie Spence's impromptu interpretive dances.

Wrapping up our return to the whole ferry sleeping experience, we head back along the corridor towards our cabin, walking past the signs reminding passengers to keep the noise down in the sleeping area. Our cabin is somewhat nicer than the one I remember staying in some ten years earlier for a night cruise from Newcastle to Amsterdam – this time we are en-suite and there is a wall between cabins, rather than just a thin divider that almost reaches the ceiling. We can't spy on our neighbours but we can certainly hear someone repeatedly swearing through the paper thin walls.

After a restless night's sleep in a cabin with some kind of dysfunctional and somewhat random temperature control, we're woken at 6.15am by a helpful announcement telling us breakfast is being served. For the next hour and a half there seem to be deafening in-cabin announcements made approximately every five minutes, ranging from news about the shop to information for motorists and different departure times for each type of traveller. Getting any sleep seems to be futile but something I'm really not ready to give up on. I lie in bed determined not to be defeated unable to stop myself thinking about the corridor signs and that really P&O should learn to practice what they preach!

Boarding the link bus between Zeebrugge and Bruges, we're both amused to see a couple who'd been sitting next to us in the Sunset Show Bar the night before. He is easily recognisable but no longer wearing a tiny dress, huge heals and make-up mask, she looks like a different person. When we notice their lack of baggage, we are all the more amused, realising they are not staying in Bruges but returning to the boat later in the day to put on special evening “boat clothes” once again. They are not alone in this bizarre ritual - others in the bar the night before had also clearly especially glammed up too.

Returning to the boat two days later, we know what to expect and are all ready for bingo just after 9pm. Queuing to check-in, we stand behind a large group for some time before realising they are a school party being briefed by P&O staff and teachers. Skirting around them, I think back to the first time, I visited Belgium with my G.C.S.E. History class for a WW1 tour. I was always the last back to the coach, trying to soak in as much as possible and today little has changed – booking on to a WWI day trip, as an “adult” I am still almost running-over our allocated time for each stop, trying to read all the museum signs. However, these days I am less interested by in-cabin drinking.

Later on retiring to bed, I feel sorry for the school group – they won't get lucky tonight. Clearly from an all-boys school, on this stretch of our journey the lads stick out and there are no all-girl school groups in sight. Tonight the blonde seems out of tune and there are less dance-floor revellers. I can't resist a snigger the next morning when I notice a cabin full of empty spirit bottles being cleaned and can't help but wonder whether the boys spent most of the night innocently “sleeping”. I don't remember my school trip being quite so messy but do recall attempting to decanter extremely thick Advocaat onto a spoon. These days I generally wait for a glass, lemonade and cherry juice.

The Burning Questions Of Our Future Leaders

After a terrible teaching drought with weeks of nothing, I have recently been pretty busy back in schools and hooking up with old work colleagues. One of the best and worst things about supply is never knowing what the day will bring. I am never sure whether I'm going to work each day until I get a phone call in the morning so must be in a constant state of readiness. This also means I never have to revisit a school I dislike unless I choose to. In the last few weeks I have been to David Beckham's old secondary school, covered Drama/Technology/Geography/ English/Maths/Science/ Textiles/Art/Games/History/RE and been sworn at.

Where it all began for Becks is a ridiculously nice school but unfortunately quite a trek for me – although I'd almost describe it now as one of my regular gigs. Covering a PE lesson, I struck it lucky, sitting in on a G.C.S.E. options talk for half of the hour. In an attempt to ensure pupils don't wrongly pick G.C.S.E. Sport thinking it'll just be a lot of running around, the head of department revealed Becks' actually got a D in the subject and quoted an ex-colleague, describing him as “thick as”. He then went on to reveal Beckham achieved outstanding practical assessments but fell down on the theory - thus highlighting the importance of the sports science coursework component and written exam.

In the same school I witnessed the formation of the self-proclaimed “genetically modified” hand a less than gifted art student proudly held up and watched a year 10 boy measure along his leg with a metal ruler in a wood work class. His motive? I'm sure you can guess!

With the exception of a small girl telling me to “fuck off” and barging past me, forcing the paper I was holding to the ground, I've been teaching a far more endearing lot in one of my local haunts. In one week the top questions I was asked were:

"Why are calculators so clever – do they have brains?” - Year 11

"How do vegetables have babies?" - Year 11

"Can planes go backwards once in the air?" Year 7

As an indication of the variety of children I teach, I feel it necessary to mention the Year 9 twins I did a few home tuition sessions with, delivering English and humanities sessions (History, Geography and R.E.). Their awkward question was actually something I could answer and took great satisfaction in researching properly:

"Where does the word ghetto come from?"

You might be amused and mystified to hear that the very same twin boys quite literally whooped with joy when I set them homework, exclaiming they'd now no longer have to be bored on the plane home when returning from their Spanish weekend break.

And what better way to end a full teaching week but to hook up with old colleagues and teaching friends who manage to make supply seem like a doddle – particularly those still braving the modified and even more horrific version of my old place of employment. Chatting to the Head of Art, she told the story of an A'level student who'd managed to rip his ear-lobes attempting to self-insert flesh tunnels and had decided to cut them off using department scissors in the Art Office. You might like to know this same student had designed and given himself tattoos, working from his mirror image. This might sound like an unlikely story but having once worked in an earlier version of this now academy, I can quite believe it. I'm just grateful no-one's attempted anything similar during my supply stints. Yet.

Following Kafka's “Path”

When friends of mine started gravitating towards London several years after University was “out” and had been settled a while, I recall staying with a friend and hearing the great tube/bus debate for the first time. Obviously for some folk which stance they take in this argument very much depends on where they live and the nearest service but for many it’s a case of choosing. Over the years, I’ve noticed an obvious pattern in the correlation between bus users and long-time London dwellers.

Since tenuously moving to London nearly a year and a half ago, I think I’m still uncomfortably straddling the fence. During peak times in the morning or at the end of the working day, although often more direct, bus journeys can take a painfully long-time. There’s also the added problem of having to loosely know the bus route and nearest stop. Sure buses are marginally cheaper (especially for long direct journeys) but the tube is more accessible for those less familiar with London: one look at the map, a quick Google search for the end of tube-walk or glance in the A-Z and you’re there.

Out- of-towners often find the underground daunting while many “locals” seem to have developed an impatience towards the tube and everything you can expect from peak-time journeys. Horrifically over-crowded and punishingly hot regardless of the time of year, a trip in the underground is almost guaranteed to test tempers. As a natural over-heater, the temperature down there is certainly an issue for me but I find the over-crowding kind of amusing. Morning tube journeys are almost like a game of human Tetris as bodies are quite literally bent around each other and hunched over to fit the maximum amount of people into the carriage while still allowing the automatic doors to close without chopping off any limbs. I still haven’t quite fine-tuned my door-safety judgement. Unfortunately I can think of two or three occasions when I’m standing on the platform convinced I’ll never fit when someone else steps in and contorts their body into the space I had previously misguidedly judged to be impossibly small. Of course I have also witnessed the end result of other people’s rather optimistic attempts to board a full tube - someone nearly getting an arm chopped off or a bag almost left abandoned on the platform. It’s worth a go, eh? There’s nothing worse then being left standing on a platform and watching another loaded train pull in – especially when you’re late.

As the London Underground is the oldest underground rail system in the world (first dating from 1863 on the site of the Circle, Hammersmith & City and Metropolitan lines), tourists who come from cities or countries without any form of underground are often so impressed by the concept they feel compelled to buy tube map T-shirts. The introduction of the oyster card has certainly changed the way Londoners travel with its incentive of discounted journeys and reduced queuing times but I often wonder how these awe-struck tourists fare. Without the issue of heat and overcrowding, there's the small matter of trying to purchase a “ticket” - “What a dated concept!” I hear Londoners cry.

As Britain undergoes more and more cut-backs, we are coming to almost solely rely on machines. A journey from Victoria the other day proved just how problematic this can be. There are very few ticket machines in Victoria, considering it is such a massive station. In addition, between certain times on certain days, no-one mans the few ticket office windows that there are.

The queues for the ticket machines almost merged into each other and I slowly edged forward trying not to pant and sigh too markedly while pointlessly watching the clock. As the minutes passed, I grew weary I'd not have enough time to return home, pack a bag and catch my train. Momentarily breaking the staring match between my watch and I, looking forward I saw the queue in front suddenly disperse. The man directly in front of me didn't walk away but stared towards the machine and my eyes followed. The words that met my gaze were not welcome: “Machine out of use”. I quickly flicked my eyes left and right to be met by the same infuriating message. Heading over to the card-payment-only machines, I struggled to keep my swearing inaudible to those around. Without any ticket machines operating and with ticket windows unmanned, I had no way of topping up my oyster card in order to hot-foot it home. Asking one of the few staff standing at the barrier, I was relieved to hear that my tale of woe would get me through this barrier and the one at Angel. Although a serious amount of time had been wasted and stress levels had risen, I ended up getting a free journey out of British Rail – surely something few can claim in these barrier-obsessed days?

I am just grateful I am not a non-English speaker trying to navigate my way around, injured or in a wheel chair. In so many stations the stairs are the only option. Hauling my trusty Primani stead up the London Bridge stairs or those leading to the Victoria Line from King's Cross, I dread to think how mothers with buggies cope. And I have still not truly mastered the secrets of the underground. When leaving almost any train in any underground station, signs seem to point both ways for the very same lines. I recall on one occasion in my first few months of living in London, I experienced a Kafka-esque moment blindly wondering back and forth around Bank during some kind of route diversion through Monument. Ever since that frustrating night, every time I leave a carriage and decide which way to walk, I am reminded of Kafka's The Castle. With signs so confusing and conflicting, at times the underground feels like a labyrinth, designed to both trick and delight. I certainly feel glee when I conquer its trickery and re-find the fastest route to my next destination.

Love it or hate it, currently the tube is more often than not an essential part of my day. I may grumble but I still get a disturbing sense of satisfaction from seeing the orderly lines of people standing to one side on escalators, allowing those in a hurry to pass – something never seen in Leeds that has nearly caused me to miss trains on several occasions and resulted in a police restraint for one of The Boy's colleagues who had newly moved from London to Leeds.

And if you're not into people watching and have forgotten your book, you are almost guaranteed to find reading material on the tube. Although signs encourage customers not to leave “rubbish” behind, I'm always grateful to those who do and get a strange warm feeling when I watch someone reach for my recently discarded Metro. Aside from the lines I'm travelling on, this recycled reading matter fleetingly makes me feel connected and the forced experience of being sardined into a carriage reminds me we're all just trying to survive however we can and sometimes in order to do so you need a bloody good sense of humour.

The Asthma Pussy And The Flat Cat

For some time now, The Boy and I have been on the look-out for flat cats and recently decided Maine Coons are our ideal find. I love a massive moggie with plenty of fur and Maine Coons, like me, are known for their barrel chests and large bone structures. Like Persians (or Ewoks as I like to call them), Maine Coons have long flowing coats, but unlike Ewoks they don't require regular brushing.

They're known as one of the largest breeds of domestic cats - males can weigh anything between 15-25 pounds while females are a more petite 10-15. They can be between 25-41 cms tall and 100cms long (including their bushy racoon-like tails). In 2010 the longest Maine Coon recorded in the Guinness Book of Records was Stewie, measuring an impressive 123 cms from the tip of his nose to tail.

I've always grown up with both pedigree and moggie cats, loving them so much, The Boy has become a pretty radical convert, now campaigning for the flat cat acquisition more fiercely than me. In the past I've tried to explain the ailments of some of the cats back at my parents' house in Cranners and I'm not sure I did the best job. As I have had a heavy week of job applications and have taken on far too many reviews, I'm going to leave you be with an amazing video of Pingus Ming (aka Mr Diddles), the asthmatic rather handsome appearance-proud Siamese Tabby Point. He hasn't always sounded this way, possibly getting this infliction after the arrival of another cat, saw him constantly living in fear. He takes meds but they never seem to stop the wide array of noises that he makes. I have described these sounds as snuffly, snake-like and reminiscent of a guinea-pig before but you really have to hear it to believe it....

and now imagine trying to get to sleep with him sharing your bed.

Strange Scribing

Back in Kent again and I'm heading Sussex-ward, going to meet my Nan for Sunday lunch. Little sis and I are dropped in Hartfield in order to make it to the pub in time for our booking while The Olds go and collect her. On the way there, we walk past an empty field and on the gate leading into this rather lonely-looking green expanse, there is a sign. What this sign says is the topic of discussion for much of the short but blustery walk to the Hay Wagon.

The wording reminds me of another equally baffling sign on a playground gate, The Boy and I saw in Adelaide that was presumably either aimed at paedophiles or drunken adults (see above). The Hartfield sign we can't help but speculate about has a similarly sinister undertone: “We are retired beef cows. Please treat us with respect & keep dogs on leads”, it says. We wonder how a “beef cow” can possibly be retired and decide the wording would perhaps be better changed to “We are the cows that got away”, "We are the rejects" or “We are retired amputee beef cows”... Looking at the empty field, there is little evidence of any lucky surviving cows - even one legged!

After lunch we head back to my Nan's house and attempt various crosswords. Flicking through one of those comical free catalogues that often come with Sunday papers and are aimed at the elderly, crammed full of useless goods, I come across a grotesque advert:

This reminds me of the legendary “dick pants” that were the source of many a joke while at school, aged 16. I often now wonder whether these “dick pants” ever actually existed – they just seem too good to be true! “What are they?” I hear you cry. Well, some bright spark had noted how unfair it is that women can't pee standing up and are often inconvenienced by this so had designed rubber pants that women could wear that would allow them to do so. This ingenious idea was featured in just the kind of magazine the advert above appeared in and sadly I have never seen or heard of it since. Instead, coming across useful gems like the revolting “doll” depicted above.

My amazement at such strangely worded signs and stomach-churning adverts is only surpassed by the fact that someone out there scribed these beauties and someone even more disturbing might actually buy the “Little Umi”, dummy and all!

Reliving A Hair-Curling Experience

I am not sure what it is about mothers and curls (or perhaps it's just my family) but a recent visit home found me re-experiencing a childhood nightmare. With dad unwell, I am often on a train back to Kent at weekends and generally spend much of my time trying to ignore the dire rural-set detective shows my parents seem to enjoy watching (sorry if you're a fan of this type of programme but they're something else I just don't get).

On this particular trip, I was sporting a particularly bad haircut. I don't feel it's fair to blame my hairdresser as she did the best she could with appalling materials (thin “fly away” dyed snapped off hair of uneven length) and did a fantastic job with the back. As normal Big G looked at my hair and pulled a face, this time pleading with me to let her curl it.

As a child, both little sis and I were subjected to many a night lying in bed desperately trying to sleep with agonising hair curlers jabbing us in the head. I also remember the pain of having them put in and worse still the feeling of them being tugged from my hair. The prospect of reliving this experience wasn't appealing but as I knew I wouldn't be attempting to sleep with curlers in and wouldn't be spotted by anyone I knew, for some reason I decided to indulge Big G.

With only a few hours before the performance of The King's Speech that we'd booked tickets for, I was about to undergo a major transformation. About a year ago, I gave in to the pressures of Big G and little sis constantly telling me to dye my hair. I used to have very blonde hair but as soon as I hit my teens it turned much darker and my roots now look almost black, despite the ends remaining pretty light. I was going through a particularly depressed time when I'd had quite enough with my appearance and decided any change would be for the better. Of course since agreeing to that first application, it's been pretty hard to go “au naturale” again and I'm now a slave to dye manufacturers.

Washing the dye out of my hair, I got a nasty surprise. My hair has once gone a strange orange colour from the combination of hair dye and chlorine but has never been this blonde before. With my dark eyebrows, it looked pretty strange but I had little time to fret before Big G was winding my hair round small black plastic tubes. Occasionally making hissing noises I had to repeatedly remind her to take care with the little hair I have.

After sitting under her old-skool 60s salon-style hairdryer and painfully having the curlers wrenched from my hair, the final result was met with hysterical laughter by little sis. Of course with glee Big G rather disturbingly cried: “You look just like your sister used to!” Clearly pleased by the end result, she waited in the lounge while I went to inspect myself in the nearest mirror. The final result was something I couldn't help but also laugh at, safe in the knowledge that I could at least instantly remove the curls, if not the rather artificial-looking colour. I looked like I was wearing a blonde Scouse wig and with my glasses on, rather disturbingly resembled a boy called Nathan I knew through a friend at University.

I expect you'll be wondering whether I actually made it to the cinema like that and the answer would be “yes”. I have to confess though, that I took the coward's route and made myself look rather freaky by wearing a scarf around my whole head for the entire film.

Later that night as yet more dodgy detective programmes were viewed, I entertained myself playing around in Photoshop and discovered that with a little doctoring photographic evidence of my temporary “do” actually bared an uncanny likeness to the Moors Murderer, Myra Hindley.

No disrespect to those with curly hair because there are plenty of both famous and everyday folk out there who have great curly hair.... but I'll never understand the attraction of spending hours creating artificial curls - especially not when you've got really short hair and the aim is to create huge wavy ones that remind me of the older generation, in particular my nan and the Queen. If I think back to being a child, the old nursery rhyme comes to mind:

“There was a little girl,

who had a little curl,

right in the middle of her forehead.

When she was good,

she was very, very good,

but when she was bad, she was horrid.”

And of course that old trick to get children to eat the crusts of brown bread – “it'll make your hair curly”. I have never wanted curly hair and I can now confidently say I still don't – perhaps that's why I'm not a brown bread fan.

For now I will have to tolerate my radioactive-looking hair and reassure myself with the notion, “ice blonde” is apparently this season's colour. Perhaps when I'm the same age as my nan or the Queen I'll be happy “au naturale” again and willingly trying to curl my hair.

When Technology Invades

2010 was the year of visiting hospitals and it seems 2011 is going to be no different. Mid 2010 “Little Bitch” (aka Tiff, my younger sister) developed a nasty kidney infection and ended up on a drip. After it was discovered Dad has Myeloma, in combating this rather nasty incurable but containable cancer, trips to the hospital became a norm for him. As his immune system is so low, last year he ended up in hospital several times with a whole array of pretty unpleasant ailments. Then just before Christmas a bad fall down the stairs backwards saw my Nan in hospital. I am pretty certain I had never had so many trips to the hospital in one year.

Just before Christmas the “Bitch” had a sudden relapse and was threatened with celebrating a “Happy Christmas” back on a drip but with some persuasion was allowed to return home. Just after Christmas, seemingly better she returned to work before her sick note had expired and within a few days wound up back in hospital with an infection, E. coli (yes!) and an abscess on her Kidney so I began 2011 with yet another hospital visit – something that rather depressingly seems to increase as you get older.

I recently heard about a school that uses online canteen accounts and scans finger prints rather than using good old fashioned cash or even a canteen swipe card. Gone are the days of children being bullied for their dinner money as fingerprint swiping heralds the arrival of the child gangster lopping off their peers' digits left, right and centre.

Visiting “Little Bitch” at University College Hospital in the last week, introduced me to similarly bizarre newfangled hospital workings. In all my recent hospital visits I have never come across patients having to pay to watch TV but in this establishment, “Little Bitch” was spending like crazy. In order to watch TV or use the Internet (yes, the hospital is that high-tech!), she had to purchase a card and regularly put money on it - we're not talking a full array of satellite channels or movie channels but just regular TV in all its glory.

In a similarly bizarre move, all out-going phone calls to land lines are free for patients. Despite being in a ward with a woman unable to press the assistance button who continuously cried out “ 'Scuse me” to little sis, each patient had their own phone. Every time I rang her I had the pleasure of listening to a lengthy answering machine message telling me that I may have received a missed call from the number, kindly explaining who this missed call might have been from and helpfully suggesting that I donate TV credit. Sis spent each TV viewing day living by the hour, awaiting updated news of her condition before putting more money on the card, unsure what would happen to any unspent credit.

Hearing this reminded me of London Underground and all those people trying to sell on one day travel cards near the end of the day. Recently returning from one of my Leeds-London stints, in Victoria Coach Station these very same people were desperately trying to sell travel cards at 10.30 at night for more than the average single fair when it's most likely purchasing such a thing is pretty pointless. I now can't help imagining patients outside the University College Hospital trying to sell on their TV “credit cards”. Hospitals are such strange places such a sight probably wouldn't seem out-of-the-ordinary and certainly not in London.

I'm always amazed by the lack of communication that seems to occur between medical staff. Sure I know that these days patients are often allocated “teams” to look after them but when the patient is being asked to fill in what they've been told for the next doctor and given two enormous bags of almost identical drugs surely there's something wrong. During one of my dad's hospital stints a slip up almost saw him being prescribed a lethal dose – it was only after he noticed the mistake and rang his consultant that the error was rectified. Both my dad and sister have been forgotten by staff - left without liquid for hours on end and abandoned to a hallway already feeling nauseous.

I have a few NHS employed friends (you know who you are) who I know do a great job but clearly not everyone out there is as on the ball. What's happened to communication and basic admin? I have only ever been in hospital twice and both were flying visits for stitches so I can only hope that I manage to remain the one family member in 2011 who continues to act as visitor.