Random ramblings of a middle aged, middle class, middle income woman
It helps if you put the tea bag in the mug…
I thought as stared into the abyss of crystal clear boiling water and contemplated what was missing.
Is this a metaphor for my life? Is something essential for a satisfying brew absent from my personal mug? Should I plot a new course and sail into the future with the wind behind me?
Nope.
It’s a tea bag.
It goes in the mug.
Before the boiling water.
AND it comes out BEFORE the milk goes in.
In my efforts to complete my data analysis course I have been listening to the delightful Robin, who talks a lot of sense in a very strong Southern accent, for which read she is from somewhere in the Deep South of the USA.
It has long been observed that all we share with American’s is a common language, so great can the cultural distances be. However I would also add to this, a whole host of different pronunciations of the same word. Some of which make you giggle.
This morning I am in the process of doing my final lesson on master data management. I am chuffed that I am now on lesson 18 and have not quite lost the will to live. I also require a little rest break, hence random post.
The fact that I have just spent five minutes listening to the delightful Robin talk about Masturbation Management with all the conviction of someone deeply frustrated by people’s inability to follow an inputting protocol is an added bonus to a fruitful morning.
Up? Yup.
Awake? Sort of.
Out of bed? Nope.
Thinking about getting out of bed? Nope.
Calculating how late I can afford to get out of bed before I risk sitting in a traffic jam…? Hmmmm
Should really get out of bed….
Five more minutes? Yup.
And the vibration of the stationary train at Leamington Spa is not helping the distressed state of my bladder.
Shortly I will sign off, so thank you if you have read any of my musings today.
I have been tapping away on my new tablet which has a keyboard. Hence the lack of spelling and grammar errors.
The keyboard is connected to the screen by bluetooth which I eventually got to work, but I am not sure how. It is very useful but does slip and slide a bit. I feel a subsidiary purchase of a mat to stop said slipping may now be in order.
His Nibs is fed up and wants food (he had an ENORMOUS breakfast so heaven knows where he will put further sustenance). And Best Beloved disappeared a while ago after giving up on trying to find anywhere to stow our rather small collection of cases and bags. For all I know he could have got a first class upgrade and been enjoying a pint or two in a large and comfy seat, while we sighed and harrumphed at the other end of the train. I doubt it but I am of a suspicious bent and like to nurse a persecution complex.
Methinks I am going to have to brave the station loo to avoid an unfortunate accident. Especially as I could also do with a cup of tea. Builders. Drop of milk. No sugar. Thank you very much.
I am thinking about humming to distract myself. His Nibs has already been serenading the carriage with the Postman Pat theme and a running commentary on all signs of new builds which are his current obsession. We could be a two man train bound vaudeville act at this rate.
His Nibs likes a good sing-song. Once he got to his turn on the London Transport Museum bus driving seat he did a tuneful rendition of The Wheels on the Bus which the assembled preschoolers most enjoyed. I think. He greeted my attempt to train him to say new great grandson’s name with a full chorus of Teddy Bear’s Picnic. He has a whole repertoire to delve into.
His mental disabilities mean he has the inhibitions of preschool child i.e. not many. Therefore bursting into song is something he does on a regular basis.
This reminds me of one of the most beautiful episodes I have ever witnessed on public transport. Namely sitting on the top deck of the 134 as it trundled along Junction Road in North London in the pouring rain, with condensation blocking the view of the dismal street. Admist this cloud of damp and chilly misery a small child sang Kum Bai Yah. The tiny, sweet voice cut through the gloom as we listened to an innocent serenade us with this gentle hymn.
Not quite the same as Postman Pat, Postman Pat, Postman Pat and his black and white cat, but still.
BTW who on earth has a cat who willingly rides around in any car without shredding and/or soiling the upholstery?! Does Pat have an industrial supply of Febreeze???!
I have got to the stage of being in some discomfort as more and more people pile onto this train, further blocking the passage to the loo and struggling to stay upright as we sway gently southbound. I am now obsessing about whether it is worth finding a bog at the station or waiting to use the bathroom at our son’s residential home. Perhaps the loo seat will be warm and more importantly clean there.
This is so crowded that a young mother and son were unable to disembark, with the little one getting caught in the sliding doors as they tried to push through. The throng of people between them and the doors were unable to see that it would be easier for all if they got off and back on again, letting those who needed to get off to do so. Luckily the two Birmingham stops are in quite close proximity but still the weary and worried duo only just made it onto the platform at the airport before the doors snapped shut again.
Personally I am an advocate of the loud and forthright use of ‘Excuse me!’ or ‘Would you mind?’ or ‘I need to get through, please’, with the gentle pressure of a shoulder or forearm wriggling through stationary persons in my way. Call me pushy. I am.
However I am reluctant to indulge in such levels of movement with a very full bladder that I do not trust. So I shall suffer, silently (but loudly in my head).
This is what we should all do. It is why History remains an important subject. History has a habit of repeating itself and to refuse to engage and learn from it means we risk becoming inattentive to the dangers that face us.
Of course learning from history is a double edged sword. On the one hand, Oliver Cromwell learned his strategy of wholesale slaughter from Julius Caesar. Hence one of the many reasons we are not popular with the Irish.
On the other, Hitler failed to heed the warning of Napoleon’s attempt to fight a war on two fronts. By alienating his mate Stalin and losing his pal Mussolini, his hemmed in army could not sustain it’s fight on several long and challenging fronts, despite the power of his war machine.
I fear I am becoming boring on the subject of my current disquiet at the state of the world. However said disquiet is reflected by many friends and acquaintances as we wonder what on earth is going to happen next. With DT going for the Hollywood version of American might and power with a short sharp shock move in Venezuela, one feels that he is ignoring lessons of the very recent past.
Venezuela may indeed have a brief South American Spring with the fall of Maduro, but these things tend not to last as the corrupt and brutal shuffle in to fill the void and the laws of unintended consequences take hold. Said corrupt and brutal persons are going to be no more fond of sharing their oil or stopping the wealth generated by the drug trade than their predecessor.
When you stick your nose into other countries you must do it with the knowledge that you must be in it for the long haul. You need the support of the people to avoid protracted insurgence because they have inside knowledge which you will need for success. And you need the support of your own people who need to accept the lives that will be lost for the greater good.
The public pressure to avoid American deaths on foreign soil during the Afghan conflict, combined with the shambolic withdrawal in which people who had put their lives on the line combatting Islamic fundamentalism were sacrificed in an ill-judged and badly thought out exodus is something the world will not forget easily.
I hate to say it but China is doing a much better job of economic imperialism with its activities in Africa. Flooding the continent with dodgy loans and hoards of workers is giving them untold power to pursue their interests in this vast land, rich with precious minerals.
The response of the West seems to involve withdrawing all our soft power (for which read food, health and education programs), bellyaching when people seek refuge from war torn and famine stricken regions, and sulking that takes our word for it.
That is the question.
The corridor outside the loo is jam packed with people and their suitcases. Getting to the loo will be an exercise in tripping over other people’s stuff and apologizing profusely to all and sundry.
I hate train loos with almost as much passion as I hate loos on planes. Why does anyone want to become a member of the Mile High Club?? It’s cramped, unhygienic and you will do yourself an injury.
Yesterday evening I was loathe to use the loo on the train as the heating wasn’t on and I feared getting stuck to the seat. Today I fear getting dysentery.
The problem being that this speeding train is swaying around and jolting gently with just enough force to remind me that I have had three natural births with one head off the centile scale. My need may overcome my reluctance.
Perhaps I should hum to myself. Dum de dum de dum de dum….
We are now trundling down South, passing through a small station called Barlaston without stoping. Not sure how far we have got but the brilliant blue sunshine of the North is giving way to a bitty snow storm which is doing its best to settle. The flakes are mean and small, rather than the big fluffy ones that ensure a soft blanket which muffles all sound and confounds the cat.
I am now thinking whether I will be able to get into work tomorrow morning, to teach my two hours of functional skills Maths. There are at least two very steep hills between me and my classroom, so I am hoping the gritters are already out and about doing their stuff. At a previous school I had ‘”can’t possibly” pacts with colleagues coming in from the same neck of the woods. If one of us couldn’t manage the hills, then no one could.
I am reminded of that point during first lockdown when the first of my colleagues clocked that ‘snow days’ would become a thing of the past, due to online classrooms and Google Meet. Most schools, however, think laterally. They realize that transferring learning to a screen from face to face requires time so departments put together a bank of resources that students can access.
The likelihood of students accessing said resources can be a tad remote. However I am loathe to deprive young people and children of an opportunity to launch themselves down a precipitous slope on a plastic sled or baking tray (as needs must). For those of us who reside South of the Watford Gap, snow is such a rarity that we should enjoy it. A day of fresh air, pink cheeks and hot chocolate does no one any harm. .
Today we had the absolute pleasure of meeting our great nephew for the first time. And what a delightful young chap he is. Blue eyed, with a cap of soft blond hair, he is lively and curious, ready to run his parents ragged.
Being blessed with a new generation in any family is a wonderful thing. Especially so when the family has recently lost one of their number before their time. It reminds us that there is renewal in the face of great loss and therefore hope in the face of despair.
Of course I am now feeling decidedly broody and in need of grandchildren of my own. These are unlikely to be forthcoming any time soon. My eldest has recently bemoaned the men on dating sites who cannot understand and dismiss a woman in her early thirties who even hints that she is thinking about babies.
Of course you don’t think of these things if your own biological clock ticks away merrily until your fifties, but womenfolk are not so fortunate. Pregnancy is hard work so becomes a greater challenge as you get older. And the risks of problems rises with age. Of course there is a legitimate imperative to get one’s proverbial into gear. Though I suppose there is always the sperm bank and the chicken baster.
I can feel the stoney glares of my daughters piercing my euphoric shell as I type. They are preoccupied with career progression and hobbies, which is fair enough. I can but hope that Prince Charming will hove into view (I would settle for Joe or Jane Bloggs, but a healthy bank balance wouldn’t go amiss) and sign up for a joint and several mortgage, a commitment to filling the dishwasher as well as an appreciation of their delightful mother-in-law whose every word of wisdom will be hung on. They can’t object to that.
Minnie’s Musings 