Whalebone

The village hall puts on a range of entertainment throughout the year. It's mostly low key stuff - yoga classes and the annual gardening show. They have a toddler's play group and there's a pantomime most years. This weekend a folksy, rootsy band called Whalebone was playing. I wandered across in a thick jumper and hat and met Elaine and her three boys there.

The band is made up of two guitarists and a fiddle player. They don't sing, they just play infectious reels and jigs. The hall was decked out with tea lights, giving a subdued cosy atmosphere. Very soon, I was tapping along in time to the bouncing shanties. They were very good, and as always with live music, I wonder why I don't get out to see more of it, more often.

Spiders of the Wyre

Autumn is here. I walked the dog this morning and took a few photos in the forest.

Geographical details

I took the dog for his morning walk in the forest today. I promised myself I would keep walking until I had clearly decided what I was going to achieve today. All too easily, the day disappears in a blur of taking the kids to school, checking e-mails and cooking something for dinner. I wanted to be sure that I didn't waste the day messing about on the internet.

Hmm, what to do? Since I gave up my job, I have slowed down considerably. It's got to be good for my health. I was heading for an early grave. The teaching supply agency offered me full time work until Christmas, but at a school well over an hour away by car. I don't want full time and I don't want to travel, so I turned it down.

Actually, I sent them a list of where I would work, as I thought they were quite ridiculous to suggest such a distance, and they don't seem to know where my rural village is.

So, there I was in the middle of the forest, slightly muddy and missing the dog, who had raced off after some local wildlife, when my phone rang. It was the agency. Please could I go and work for a half day in Hereford? Well, Hereford is an hour away, but I agreed. I want to buy the kids some winter coats, so the cash would come in handy.

It was quarter to ten and they wanted me there for 11.20. That gave me half an hour to get home, get changed, find out where the school is, print a map, make sandwiches and get back in the car. Oh, and find the dog, who was nowhere to be seen. I told the agency to e-mail the details to me.

I rang Mum to come and wait for the dog to make his way back to the car park, and arranged for her to pick up the kids from school. The dog turned up, just as I was driving away, so I had to call Mum and change the arrangements again. Back home, the agency called as I got in through the door. Could I fill in a form online before leaving? Erm, well, it'll be a little tight for time, but I'll try.

I logged on and looked up which school wanted supply. Uh oh. The agency had got it completely wrong. They said Hereford - in fact the school was 20 minutes drive the other side of Hereford. Fill in a form? I didn't have time to scratch my bum!

Nick had left his sandwiches behind by accident this morning, so I grabbed those and leapt into the car. It took me 1 hour and 10 minutes to get to the school. I signed in and walked directly into teaching a Y8 Maths lesson without drawing breath. Fortunately it is a nice school, with mostly good kids, and I enjoyed teaching them algebra.

Next up was an ICT lesson. Not bad. There were some entertaining kids in there, who made me laugh. A couple of the boys (teenage boys are all the same) managed to find a link to the Daily Star Page 3 girl. She was wearing frilly knickers and not much else. Erm, shouldn't you be looking at a web-site on recycling?? (I mentioned to the ICT administrator later, that maybe they might like to put a block on that particular web-link!).

Lunch time! Yeah! Cheese and salad sandwiches... oh no! Nick has made himself cheese, salad and ketchup sandwiches. What?? Who puts ketchup with cheese? Eeew. So, there I was surrounded by all these smart professionals. I look like I've been dragged through a hedge backwards, thanks to the rush of getting out of the house. I've just had to deal with soft porn and now I'm trying to look like I'm not freaked out by eccentric sandwiches. Joy!

One last lesson to go. I took the register, then back into Maths. The group was noisy and it was the end of the day. I confiscated a rubber band, which was being used as a make-shift weapon. The child in question then asked straight out if I had another one he could have. Erm, no. Pinging your friend is not a learning enhancement option.

I let them out, leaving the room looking like a herd of wildebeest had trampled across it, and headed home. As I was leaving, the cover co-ordinator said I'd been complimented on how calm my classes were. Ha! If only they knew...

Thought for the Day

Some people don't deserve our compassion.

We should give it to them anyway.

Post strike.

Some time ago, I started writing to a man in the States, called Sean. He was in prison for bank robbery, something I verified before writing to him. There are web-sites dedicated to finding pen-friends for prisoners. I have a lot of prison pen-pals, and I always check them out before answering their ads. There are some types of criminal I won't consider for a pen-pal (anyone on the sex offenders register, for example). Justifying why I want to write to someone in prison is quite difficult, but I shall try to explain.

Prisoners are human, just like the rest of us. They have made some poor choices in their lives and now they are paying the price. Hands up who hasn't made a poor choice in their life? No? Nobody?

Exactly. We all make bad choices. Some of us get away with them, and learn to make better choices without going to gaol. Others get caught. Hang on, I hear you cry, I never did anything really bad, like rob a bank or kill someone. Nope, me neither, but I bet we've all broken the law at some point, whether intentionally or not. Some people make really big bad choices and have to live with the results of their actions.

Next questions: what was the worst thing you ever did?
do you think it defines who you are?
do you think you have more to offer than the worst thing you ever did?
would you like to forget you ever did it, put it in the past and never mention it again?

A guy sitting in prison, for whatever reason, generally doesn't want to be defined by the worst thing he ever did (unless of course he is a total sociopath wishing to be known as the next Vlad the Impaler). Most of them, and I know I'm generalising, are fairly normal people, caught up in events that led them to commit a crime. Their family and friends may have abandoned them. They are lonely and bored. They're sorry already, but have another 12 years to serve.

There but for the grace of God go I. Many of the prisoners I write to, committed their crimes because of drug addictions. They were high at the time or they were so mixed up in drugs and gangs that the choices they made seemed sane when they made them. To look for a cause for murder or robbery - look back to what got them involved in drugs or gangs in the first place.

Then, thank your lucky stars that you had a better up-bringing and caring parents. Be thankful you weren't born to parents in a Mafia or on an estate where only the tough survived. Be thankful the choice to do the right thing was easy, rather than the other way around.

I know, I still haven't answered why I give these guys the time of day.

Firstly, because I can see beyond their crime. They are not just what they did. They are still humans, needing contact with the outside world.

Secondly, I see writing to the incarcerated as a sort of service. Maybe, I put a smile on someone's face. Maybe, I can show someone how to escape from their past, just by giving them a window into another world. Maybe, a crime won't be repeated because I believed in them, or they thought I did.

Thirdly, it challenges me. I have had my assumptions and preconceptions changed by writing to people on the inside; by writing to "bad" men. I get a lot out of it. I have grown in understanding by doing this. I have learnt more than I could possibly have imagined when I started writing. As a leap of faith, it has been very rewarding.

So, Sean, whom I mentioned at the very beginning. He wasn't my first prisoner, nor my last. He was, however, my favourite. Sean was a very funny guy. His letters were filled with a sharp wit and he would take an idea and run with it. He was very in tune with me, understanding what I meant without me having to explain things in detail. We bounced letters back and forth for a couple of years, and I would look forward to each missive coming through the letterbox. He made me laugh, and frankly, I miss him.

Behind bars, people are 'doing time'. They have plenty of time to write stuff, and they are bored stupid. Letters are a nice distraction. Once that long awaited parole comes up, the parolee suddenly discovers a whole wide world out there full of busy things to do. Release date generally sees the end of correspondence. They don't write once they get out. Some of them really intend to carry on corresponding, whereas others don't even mention their parole date, they just stop writing. I understand and I try not to take it personally. I couldn't do this 'job' if I did.

Sean got parole, I think, last July. Consequently, I haven't heard from him since. I know, he's probably having a whale of a time. I know he (of all people) probably intended to write to me, but freedom got in the way.

Anyway, I miss getting letters from him. I have other letters to answer, but the magic is gone. They don't sparkle and inspire in the same way. I know, I'll get over it and things will move on. I feel better for having written it all out.

;o)

Photos from Mum's Farm

I just wanted to post these photos I took of Mum's place. It is so beautiful there - typical English countryside. I love it so much - hay, apples, damsons, roses - gorgeous.

Shake that Funky Thang!

So, somewhere back before the road-trip, I had made a promise to Beth that I would try out her sport. Beth is my friend that plays the trumpet, and also for some unknown reason, goes belly-dancing. What was I thinking?

There were about 15 women at the class, some of whom I recognised. Beth seemed to know everyone, as you do. Elaine (as in Frank and Elaine) wandered past, carrying a badminton racket. I think the black-haired woman on the back row was the same person who had bullied my life into misery when I was a teenager. I hope she didn't recognise me. Either way, I didn't introduce myself.

The class is run by Pam, whom I've met before, over the years, during different exercise classes. She is earthy and funny and tries not to take things too seriously. I like her. She handed out scarves with jingly coins on, to newcomers like me. They are for wrapping around your hips to give that extra noise when you shake them.

This type of belly dancing is the Turkish style, she informed us, not the Egyptian sort. I can't say I know the difference. It is certainly a style of dance designed for men to watch, rather than for the ladies doing it to enjoy. One track we danced to (apparently modern Turkish pop) was called "Let me see you bounce". Nothing left to the imagination there, then. Fortunately I was wearing a sports bra!

So we shimmied and shook our hips and rippled our protesting stomach muscles for the best part of an hour. We waggled bits and thrusted hips and made the scarves jingle. It was quite good fun, and thankfully the youths playing football on the other side of the hall took no notice of us at all.

I ended up feeling supple and limber and only mildly sore. I may even go again, though I doubt if I'll be practicing at home or anywhere else people can see me, for that matter.