Days six and seven of the Great Fast

‘Come and sit with,’ me implores the teenager as he tucks into the dinner I’ve just cooked for him. ‘This is yummy,’ he says as he scrapes forkfuls off the plate. ‘Really tasty,’ he says as I follow each fork from plate to mouth like a slavering dog. ‘Delicious!’

I am sooooo hungry! And really, really tired. I’ve been under the duvet much of the day clutching hot water bottles. I’ve not been able to speak properly either. I was unable to say the word ‘availability’ today. I guess my brain cells are starving and require fud!

So I guess tonight the Great Fast must end. I’ve raided the cupboards in search of edibles and have found yoghurt that has to be eaten tonight! That seems a good choice to begin with.

The Great Fast has been a success. I have lost several elephant dress sizes I think. The weighing scales are very unresponsive to the new me. It is used to zooming up to the higher reaches and now seems bewildered that it has to stop at lower digits. It zooms past my present weight and then reluctantly descends to where it thinks I now am.

I’ve lost 9 pounds in seven days.

Yippee!

Day 5 of the Great Fast.

It took us two hours to cycle seven and a half miles around the reservoir today.

This is not good.

The route is described as being relatively flat and suitable for young children. Lots of young children peddled quickly past me and left me in their dust today. At the slightest incline I had to get off the bike and walk. I guess that must be the effect of not eating for five days.

I have not broken the fast, though just after setting off I did accidentally gulped down a few midges when I tried to reply to the teenager who was ahead of me.

After that I was treated to the dust he raised and I masticated every grain just in case there was any nutrition to be had.

All was going well, and then the teenager’s bike broke down. The chain had come out of position and refused to reconnect with the gears. It took us about half an hour to fix it, which allowed the people whom we’d seen right at the start to walk nonchalantly slowly past with their tiny puppy.

They were out of sight before we were ready to ride again. The teenager tore ahead, keen to overtake them, and I was left far behind in his wake. Geese were swimming faster than me.
Still eventually we made it and we even beat the people with the puppy…just!

I treated the teenager to a chocolate ice-cream and drove quickly home so that I would not be tempted to have one too. His description of the taste of it would not have been out of place on a Marks and Spencers’ advert.

He’s found out!

The Great Fast: Day 4

Wow, I’ve been so busy today! I didn’t realise that I’d feel so energetic. It says in the book that you can expect a boost in energy after not eating for a while. I have not touched a morsel for days and expected to be wilting but instead I felt great.

I was even able to cook a dinner for The Teenager. I resisted the urge to lick the spoons, and the temptation to pop a lone escapee pea into my mouth.

I am so surprised that the fast is going so well.

But whatever possessed me to paint three chairs a pale lilac today? I guess that must be a side effect of the fast: all common sense has just disappeared too. The lilac chairs blend in really well with the blue settee, the pink curtains and the green carpet. The teenager observed that the living room looks gay now before he retreated to the sanctuary of his blue room. I must admit the living room does look rather colourful and festive.

I painted the chairs out in the garden. It was fairly sunny when I started, then the most ominous grey clouds built up. Grey clouds had a magical effect on me instead of the steady rate I was going to adopt I swung into fast mode until all three chairs were quickly painted. It was a pleasant time to speedily paint and talk to my Grandmother whose ashes rest in a bronze pot on the patio nearby.

Grandmother’s pot gave me a nasty turn years ago after I’d first gently placed soil and flowers over her ashes and placed her on the patio. It was a desperately sad moment for me. I was alone and totally unaware that I was in for a terrible shock that would leave me trembling for hours afterwards; for when I watered her pot… the patio ran red with blood! A friend witnessed the event on a subsequent occasion and was similarly shocked. We reasoned that it could have been the compost, or maybe the inside of the new pot, or perhaps even more disturbing rust from the nails of her incinerated coffin. I didn’t water her often after that. I'm nervous about planting a new plant in the pot. Luckily, forget me nots have self seeded themselves there.

Being next to Grandma’s pot with the threat of a heavy rain shower was an added inspiration to paint the chairs quickly. I could be heard chanting feverishly,
‘Rain, rain go away.
Come again another day.’

Luckily, the childhood charm worked and the rain clouds passed over. Now the chairs are dry and placed back in the living room.

They are going to take a bit of getting used to but I guess lilac is better than blood red any day!

The Great Fast Day 3

All is going well with the fast.

Though I was woken at 5:30 with a terrible pain. near my heart. Fearing a heart attack I scurried feebly downstairs and found an aspirin to take. Then I trawled through the Internet pages comparing my symptoms with the real thing.

The pain has long since gone, and I’ve put the sudden pain down to the recent stomach bug I’ve just had, and not to anything more serious. I’m determined to go on with the fast. According to one web site I visited a fast is good for heart problems and can help with numerous other ailments too from high blood pressure to psoriasis. I had no idea I was treating myself to a cure all!

In the afternoon, I crawled from under my duvet to do more yoga. This involves very gentle movement with the the highlight being the chance to scare the paint from off the walls with my ‘lion’ impersonation. An expression which could come in handy if ever I'm faced with the real thing.

The teenager oblivious to all of the above secret activity calls for my help to make mouth watering delicious chocolate crunchies. So far I’ve no desire to eat one myself. Though I did have to hide them quickly in the fridge, and shut the kitchen door very quickly. I must admit that I have spent the afternoon breathing in every molecule of chocolate that became airborne under the pretence of deep yoga breathing.

The teenager happily chomps on chocolate crunchies as he treats me to the next instalment of Harry Potter.

As the rain continues to fall outside, we are cocooned in our damp and fusty home, and all is well.

The Fast

The pizza looks like a bejewelled plate with its ruby tomatoes crowning its top as it cooks in the oven. Baked beans are bubbling close by.

The teenager is standing close to me biting the head off a gingerbread man and eating spicy Pringles at the same time.

I am on a fast: a week’s fast.

I’ve had the book on my shelf for years and I’ve never dared to follow its advice before. The fast is to last a week. It says in the book not to tell anyone for fear of getting off putting negative reactions. So I haven’t told a soul. I have started the accompanying yoga exercises too.

The inspiration came after I realised that I looked more like Shrek rather than the exquiste Arthur Rackham image I've always aspired to. A love of carrot cakes has been my downfall.

Day One started really well. By chance I picked up a stomach bug and had to take to my bed. I also had a headache that seemed to like to shift positions. I had such pain from it that I didn’t know what to do with myself. Then came the waves of sickness. Luckily for me the bug seems to have timed its arrival just at the right time. It has completely stolen my appetite.

Day Two has gone well. The bug has continued to lay me low so I’ve slept most of the day. I’ve emerged in pale zombie style only to go shopping for food and to cook for The Teenager, who has no idea as he drops gingerbread crumbs next to me that I am hoping not to eat for a week.

Being poorly has left me feeling rested and more closely connected to the here and now. It’s nice to be just doing the essentials.

There goes the timer! I’ve a pizza to cut up. Its cheese tries to entice me in its stringy nets and there’s more here than one teenager can eat.

I repeat my new mantra, ‘I have no appetite I have no appetite.’

Will I get to Day 7?

The Beauty of the Monet World

I didn’t realise that spiders could jump.

It was tiny but covering huge distances for its size as I scrubbed the carpet. I was following a trail of dried muddy dog footprints that seemed to have followed the steps of the tarantella dance. As I scrubbed on hands and knees I was encountering more wildlife than I’d bargained for. This is something common only to vain myopic people like myself. As I rarely wear my glasses the carpet has always appeared to me to be a delightful green. Only now as I crawl inches from its surface do I become aware of a mosaic of patterns. They were not intended by the designers of the carpet. Instead of a uniform pale green, there is in fact a mosaic of colours: mostly shades of brown. Muddy foot prints are the dominant feature surrounded by Mondrian blocks of spilt tea and dried droplets of hot chocolate. Then there is of course the brown blobs that turn out to be the spiders that jump!

Down the chimney a demented pigeon is cooing as I reach the door.

At this lower level my short-sightedness is in for a treat. However did the door get so dirty? There are splashes of tea (my favourite tipple) that I’ve never noticed before on the paintwork. As I scrub even harder I wonder what my friends have made of me after a visit.

‘Oh yes, well she’s quite nice really, but have you seen her kitchen door?’
‘Oh my goodness. Yes. I couldn’t believe what I saw. I just had to look away.’
‘I was so embarrassed I couldn’t look.’
‘And she seems to be blissfully unaware of all those jumping spiders.’
‘I always wear spider repellent on my socks whenever I visit?
Really?
‘Yes. And isn’t it awful the way she always insists that we take our shoes off at her front door.’
‘It’s cost me a fortune in socks. I have to throw mine away after every visit. I try not to go there too often.’
‘And you can hardly hear yourself speak over the sound of that pigeon!’

I blush with embarrassment as I listen to their imagined conversation.

It’s a relief to stand up again and for the world closest to my feet to blend back into tranquil peaceful greens again, as I return to my myopic sanctuary.
There is beauty in my Monet blurred world once again.

Dog Sitting

She’s a border collie with unusual brown markings who is staying with us while her owners are away on holiday.

She is wonderful!

At the bottom of the garden flies rise up in salutation of her as she lingers in her favourite spot. I won’t be visiting that part of the garden for a while.

The lawn is sodden both with the recent heavy tropical downpours and with the mud that we’ve washed off her after every walk.

She’s a mud hound.

She only has to see a mud puddle and she’s there: sitting in it, wallowing in it, and then coming up really close to us in order to shake it all off; leaving our clothes covered in unfashionable brown polka dots.

Then there’s the sticks.

Most dogs we see trot obedient by the side of their owners carrying dainty twigs. Cassie begins with similar sized sticks but likes to look for upgrades along the route. Before we’ve realised it she is running up behind us carrying a log.

A short log wouldn’t pose too much of a problem but for Cassie a ‘stick’ isn’t worth carrying unless it extends for a metre or two on either side of her mouth. With such a stick gripped tightly she cannons along the old abandoned railway line path, swiping our legs from under us. Of course the muddier the stick the greater the reaction she gets from us!

Then there’s the footballs.

I used to throw back the footballs that landed in my garden; happily extracting them from the innards of bushes and the grasp of nettles. That all changed the day I heard the quiet conversation as I went to bring in my clean dry sheets from the washing line.

‘Did you hit it?’ One boy asked.
‘Yeah,’ the other confirmed. And there was another thwack against the sheet I was about to unpeg as another piece of mud covered broken glass was hurled against it.
That was the day I decided that their footballs would no longer be returned; and told them so. From that day forward I left footballs to fester in the depths of the bushes into which they’d been booted. Only occasionally did I relent and throw one back.


Last night, my own teenager came downstairs and uttered an anguished cry.
‘What is that?’
He was staring in horror at something in the living room.
It was a mis-shapened spherical object that lay next to a panting green goose-grass covered creature.

Cassie must have wormed her way into the deepest bushes in order to find her prize. She was festooned as if for a midsummer pagan festival with garlands of beaded goose grass. Now she was waiting patiently for the acclaim her discovery should bring. Next to her the long lost object emitted primeval odours of decay and sank deeper into the carpet.

‘No.’ I yelled. Much to the dog’s consternation, I gingerly picked up the decaying object that seemed to wheeze with ancient lungs as I carried it outside. All the time the dog bounced up and down with delight. With uncanny aim I threw it, when she was not looking, over the fence and back to its former owners where it landed with a satisfying squelch.

She’s asleep right now, freshly washed and warming the feet of the teenager who is reading Harry Potter.

It’s a perfect scene. For that I can even forgive her the muddy paw prints across the carpet.

The World's Worst Teacher

Generosity

The envelope had been stuffed under my nose last week and even then I’d had no coins to drop into its depths.
‘I’m buying the present tonight,’ the really nice teacher says. She smiles at me with a smile that rakes my conscience into shreds.
‘I think I’ve some money in the car,’ I say and hastily race off.
It’s raining.
Cold drops of water trickle down my back as I lean into the car.
There are usually notes under the car mat, and failing that there are guaranteed to be abandoned coins in the well in the middle of the car. The pound coin for the supermarket trolley is sure to be there.
It isn’t.
I remember buying ice-creams with the loose change.
All I can scrape out of the car is a meagre eighty-six pence. It’s all the money I have.
I’m hoping that I can drop the coins anonymously into the envelope where they will hopefully make a satisfying jiggling sound signifying generosity and munificence.
‘Ah,’ the tall teacher says as I re-enter the school clutching my hoard like a crazed dragon. ‘There’s an envelope in my pigeon hole for the classroom assistant who is leaving. Would you care to put something in it? It’s in the staffroom. My pigeon hole,’ she repeats as if speaking to one of the slower children.’
‘Ah,’ I say, I nod and head there first.
The classroom assistant has done well. The envelope is fat and jingles with coins.
I peep inside. There are pound coins, a five pound note and assorted copper coins.
I drop my own few paltry copper coins into the envelope and momentarily toy with the idea of exchanging them for a pound coin for the next envelope, but I don’t.
I go in search of the nice teacher clutching all I have left: a fifty pence coin. It’s not much to drop into an envelope for someone who has given fourteen years of service.
The nice teacher beams when she sees me, and holds out her hand expecting to feel paper dropping onto her waiting palm. She frowns as my damp 50 pence coin drops into her hand. Her mouth opens and there’s no sound.
I’m reminded of the leaving party we’d had the previous week for the flowery teacher who is also leaving. The music had been so loud that nobody could hear what anybody else was saying. We had all gaped at each other in the same way as the nice teacher is now gaping at me. The brave ones had shouted something into a nearby ear and those with the keenest hearing had caught the odd word, laughed and replied. I had struggled to hear anything and had hated asking the now hoarse person to reprise their ordeal of screeching. It was easier just to smile, laugh and nod, and to pretend to have heard everything.
The nice teacher is showing no signs of smiling, laughing or even nodding. She is still staring transfixed at the moist coin in her hands. She finally mutters something along the lines of, ‘But it’s for…’ then she pauses, recovers herself, and looks at me.
In front of her is Scrooge personified.
I smile weakly wishing that the loud music from last week was still playing and could drown out my feeble excuses so she too would have to smile and laugh and nod.
There is silence.
Last week when it had been my turn to speak my voice being soft and low had been instantly lost in the cacophony. I had tried to shout and found to my horror that I was almost eating the ears of those who were half interested in what I had to say, or even worse that I was now spitting in the faces of those who had unfortunately turned their heads in an attempt to lip read instead.
I expected the nice teacher to spit on my 50 pence coin.
My quiet voice in the still classroom boomed with what seemed even to my ears utter nonsense.
I felt like a naughty child that had been caught out and had now lost the nice teacher’s goodwill for all time.
‘I thought I had more money in the car.’ I feebly conclude.
The nice teacher smiles ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she says with her customary politeness.
Mortified, and feeling like a six years old, I leave.

Should I ever succeed in leaving, I know that my envelope will not jingle with coins. Judging from the expression on the face of the nice teacher my envelope will be full of spit!

If I’m lucky!

The World’s Worst Teacher

Chaos Theory

I was walking to school with leaden feet.
Though the air was fresh and still and there was not a butterfly in sight, I knew, with that sense of foreboding that only teachers of long experience have, that somewhere a butterfly had flapped its wings and I was walking out of the eye of the hurricane and into the storm.
There was an uncanny silence in the library as I side-stepped quickly into the sanctuary of the nearby washroom.
I didn’t want to emerge. I covered my eyes with my palms trying to find peace in their deeper darkness.
In the distance were voices.
‘Have you seen her?’
‘No.’
There was tension in the air.
I hoped it was nothing to do with me.
I had ahead of me quite a straight forward day: an hour to prepare and plan my lessons; an hour with two delightful Polish girls and then an afternoon with the ‘delightful’ Year 6 class.
I took a deep breath and slowly re-emerged into the library. It was already the centre of a vortex of anxiety.
‘Here she is! I need to ask you a favour.’
Many butterflies it seemed had flapped their wings.
My teacher friend who works part time had inadvertently been double booked to teach a Year 5 and a Year 1 class at the same time when the enticing orange and white butterfly had fluttered brightly by.

The school secretary, though she had the weekend to resolve the problem by finding a supply teacher for the Monday afternoon Year 5 lessons had been hypnotised by the power of the gatekeeper butterfly into locking the gates, ‘There’s nobody available,’ she insisted when I asked her about it later. She read through the supply list that contained only two names; both of whom were unavailable that day.
‘Nobody wants to come in just for an afternoon,’ the secretary stated.
I didn’t believe her. I’ve worked as a supply teacher and I know how precious the offer of work can be especially with the long summer holidays looming.
I looked at the telephone sleeping in its cradle and I knew she was not interested in making any effort to help.

Exactly a year to the day, the black butterfly of death had fluttered feebly, over the mother of the Year 5 teacher. Understandably the Year 5 teacher was unable to forgo her planning and preparation time, she needed to be home with her family.

My teacher friend explained how the Year 6 teacher had said she would stay and look after her Year 6 class.

‘So which class would you like, Year 5 or Year 1?
I was beginning to get the picture.
Now being offered a choice of Year 1 or Year 5 is rather like being offered a choice of two chocolates from a nearly empty box. The two that remained would not be anyone’s favourites. Should I choose the sickly strawberry cream of Year 1 or the vomiting marzipan delights of Year 5? The whirlwind of chaos whipped around me as I contemplated my choice of poisons.
My teacher friend usually taught Year 5 all afternoon. She always emerged from their classroom frayed and shattered. Her eyes had that slightly glazed expression that, apart from in the eyes of teachers, is only seen in horror films at the moment when the victim looks up and discovers that they are gazing into the eyes of the Devil himself.
‘I’ll do Year 5,’ I offered. ‘It will be a change.’
My teacher friend sighed with evident relief, and smiled, 'Thanks.'
‘I’ll go and find the Year 6 teacher and give her the work I’ve prepared for them.’ I said.
I walked down the dingy corridor under the Gothic arch into the chill Victorian part of the school. The Year 6 teacher was already in the corridor.
‘Can we talk,’ she asked. She whisked me conspiratorially into the nearby kitchen. She was close to tears. ‘I’m not happy about this,’ she said. ‘I’ve so much to do. I really needed my planning time.’
‘I’ll put both classes together and do both,’ I heard myself saying.
‘Are you sure?’ the Year 6 teacher asked.
I nodded, wondering at the same time if I could ever switch off my altruistic gene. What was I thinking? Year 5 with Year 6? That’s like mixing fire with petrol.
The Year 6 teacher sighed with evident relief, and smiled. ‘What will you do?’
‘Well, I guess I could show them a DVD if I can find one. I’ve never shown one before and I guess this is an emergency; but I haven’t brought my laptop and I can’t go home at lunch time to get it as I walked in today.’
‘You can use my lap top,’ the Year 6 teacher said happily beaming.
‘I have some DVDs at home,’ the classroom assistant said later. ‘I’ll bring one in for you at lunchtime.’
It all seemed sorted.
At break I tried to diplomatically remind the classroom assistant about her promise.
‘You are not going back home at lunchtime just for the DVD are you?’ I asked innocently, trying hard to mask my rising panic. What would I do if she forgot?
‘No, I often go home for lunch,’ she replied.
With five minutes before the start of the afternoon lesson I am pacing the corridors looking out for a glimpse of the classroom assistant.
There’s no sign of her,
I pick up the two registers just as she appears.
‘Oh,’ she says as soon as she sees me. ‘The DVD! I forgot it! I’ll go home straight away and get it.’
A lazy brown butterfly flaps against the window.
With a sinking heart I lead the two classes from the playground and call out their names from the registers.
They are at flashpoint.
The slightest spark, the tiniest flame and they will erupt.
Someone has told them that they are going to watch a DVD. They are expectant.
‘What are we going to watch?’ someone asks.
‘I don’t know,’ I reply honestly.
‘She doesn’t know,’ he broadcasts to the rest of the group.
‘Are we going to watch Grease?’ he asks.
‘I don’t think so,’ I reply. I’m hoping for something more suitable for nine and ten year olds.
‘We are not going to watch Grease,’ he broadcasts to the rest of the group. He’s revelling in the attention he’s getting. As my frowns deepen his smiles become broader. He likes this game. He must have been a town crier in a previous incarnation.
At that moment the door opens and the classroom assistant, who is also one of the school governors hands me a DVD. I thank her and look at the box. It’s Grease!
‘It’s Grease!’ The town crier announces.
There are cheers.
The computer reluctantly loads up the DVD taking more time than usual. Eventually a screen appears, but there’s no sound!
I check cables, as the discontent behind my back rumbles.
I check plugs, as the menacing malcontents behind me mutter belligerently
I check switches, as impatient voices call out ‘helpful’ scornful suggestions.
A cherubic Year Five boy presses something and we suddenly have sound.
There are cheers and the class settles.
After ten seconds the DVD freezes.
I wait nervously studying the still from the film with interest.
After a ten second pause it begins again.
And then freezes.
I console myself that it seems to freeze whenever there is an interesting expression on John Travolta’s face.
Then I hear the language on the film and cringe inwardly.
‘Look at me I’m Sandra Dee, Lousy with virginity.’
I’m hoping that it will all go over their heads.
Some of the Muslim girls are looking at me. They are as uncomfortable with the film as I am. There will be a fatwa against me as soon as their parents get to hear about it.
The song grinds mercilessly on. Still it can’t get any worse.
‘Look at me….’ Rizzo sings.
The classroom door opens…
‘I’m Sandra Dee.’
The Head walks in with…
‘Lousy with…’
an inspector…
‘virginity! ’

‘What a lot of children,’ the Head exclaims.
I’m shocked and speechless.
‘Music,’ I finally blurt out.
The Head gives me a withering glance and I wither.
She closes the door on me living me entombed in my living Hell. I wistfully think of the lesson I had planned to teach on the theme of ‘Peace’ and the poems I had prepared for the groups. The chaos butterfly beats around my head and spins me into fractals of despair.
There is however a silver lining: the ten second pauses means the film does indeed last all afternoon. I’ve watched every second of the clock. It has been the longest afternoon of my life. The children have sung the songs with relish. They are apparently learning some of them in their music lessons.
It’s an afternoon I’d like to forget.

Two days later I am in my garden enjoying the evening light when in the distance I hear a familiar song. It’s the Year 6 boy who unfortunately lives just three doors up from me.
‘Look at me….’ he sings.
I cringe…
‘I’m Sandra Dee.’
He’s singing to his little sister…
‘Lousy with…’
Oh no…
‘virginity! ’
‘Do you know what that means?’ he asks her. His voice is loud and it is travelling for miles.
I hide behind the buddleia listening.
‘It means… ‘
Argghhhh!
A peacock butterfly flutters against my face.