The best laid schemes of mice and men...

It was all going so well.

I set off for Alton, Stoke-on-Trent on Monday morning, with a brief detour back to my own house to collect my mobile which I'd left on the sofa. No big deal.

For a week, I was part of the catering team on the LCET summer camp, On the Edge. Known collectively as 'Kitchen', we were cool, calm and collected in the face of curry from scratch for 100 people, and a whole bunch of fairly fussy eaters. It was a great week. We laughed, chopped, sliced, danced, fried, toasted, sung and ate a few too many nachos.

As I got in the car the following Saturday morning, I was making plans to get home, watch some TV, have a long bath, play the guitar and maybe do some more unpacking. So, waving cheerfully in the glorious sunshine, and honking my rather pathetic car horn, I set off for home. It really was a gorgeous day. Sunny, clear, fresh. The 2 and a half hour drive was going to be a joy. I love driving, especially on days like that. My iPod was cranked up and I glided down the windy country lanes away from Alton. And this is where things went wrong.

I came to a tight bend at the same time as a driver on the opposite side of the road. I was perhaps going a little too fast so I begun to break and move over a little to avoid an embarrassing wing mirror clip incident. But as soon as I tapped the breaks I realised I wasn't going to get around the corner. In an instant, I had hit the kerb. I felt a jolt and closed my eyes. My feet were frozen on the pedals. I remember praying, 'Please God don't let the car roll over.' I heard a thud. Then, as though I'd just woken up, I moved my feet and slammed them both on the brake pedal. The car came to a stop. I could smell soil. I could hear nothing. I opened my eyes and looked through the perfectly intact windscreen. Bushes. Sunlight. Sky. Ground. I took out the keys and took a very deep breath before I got out of the car.

After that, things went pretty quickly. A couple had seem me crash, called the police and come over to check on me. A nurse pulled up behind them and immediately came over. I was fine. Grateful and shaky, and annoyed about my car and my stupid mistake, but okay. This in itself was a small miracle. I had hit a BT pylon. It had taken off my wing-mirror but missed my car. Missed my head. I was fine. My superhero co-chefs picked me up and drove me home, via Costa. I couldn't believe that my day was panning out so very differently to what I had planned. We laughed about the cows whose field I had destroyed. We sung along to songs on the radio. I caught up with friends and family on the phone. I was fine.

After a cup of tea at home and some time in front of the TV, I headed up for that long bath - the only part of my plan I could still complete. No plug. That broke me. I cried. Seriously cried. It's funny how your body and mind respond to trauma. It was a plug that finished me off. Silly, but there it is. Now, two days later, I am a little achy, and it is the thought of buying a new car that makes me cry. I have realised that I am really not a very strong person. Perhaps at the instant something happens I am able to cope, but I am pretty sure I will be feeling overwhelmed for quite some time. Still, it could have been so very much worse. I am home, I am breathing, I am walking, I am loved and looked after. I am fine.

Crushed by Hotmail, the irresponsible, heartless machine.

Just wanted to direct some well channelled fury at www.hotmail.com.

Since earlier this year, my account has been sending all of my email contacts (including my church admin, and employer) spam mails about flatscreen TVs and medicines. You know the sort.

So, I visit the pleasantly titled, 'Microsoft Help Center.' Even the homepage frustrated me. Just a lot of buttons, links and pictures to click. It is all just generic questions answered by some kind of 'help bot.' Still, I pressed on.

Hotmail 'help center' told me to change my password. The emails still kept coming.
Hotmail 'help center' told me to change my secret answer and LiveID. The emails still kept coming.
Hotmail 'help center' told me to delete my account. And still the emails kept coming.

Not once have I been able to speak to a real human. There is no contact address, email or phone number. And I don't have hours to sit digging around the inner depths of Hotmail to find one. Worse still, while I've been slowly going insane trying to get in touch with somebody, I've found I'm not the only one. Time and again, their forums and discussion boards feature angry, upset, worried and just plain pissed off customers, desperately trying to prevent the spam emails being sent out in their name.

Wake up Hotmail. Your service is unexceptional, at best. At least have the decency to recognise that people's online identities are very important and that, for many, they are in your hands. You may be a hugely successful and profitable company, but the people you deal with should still be your priority. So sort it out or I will find a person to shout at, and it will not be pretty.

Love and Wizards.

I cannot help the fact that I am IN LOVE with StarKid productions, The Very Potter Musical and, more specifically, the glorious, wonky-jawed beauty that is Joey Richter (Ron Weasley). I cannot help the fact that I have watched AVPM and its sequel at least 3 times each in the last 4 days. They run at about 3hours each....ahem. I cannot help the fact that I have downloaded both soundtracks already. I am even contemplating buying a $24 t-shirt all the way from the States, just to show my love.

Love is a strong, strong thing!

Was that a Donkey on the Tracks?!

When you are poor and desperate for a holiday, you take any travel option to save a few quid. A train ride across Bulgaria from west to east? Sure, I thought, that'll be fun!

Let me explain that we began this train ride a little shaken following a slightly white-knuckle taxi ride from the airport to the station. Apparently the rules of the road do not apply in Bulgaria. Not even basic ones like, 'Don't drive directly at another vehicle,' or, 'avoid running over pedestrians.' It was tense.

The train station in Sofia looked like a run down version of a disused train station. The sort of place Kevin Bacon might have gambolled around to perform an angry dance during his younger days. The platform was crumbling, the signs barely lit and the trains, heavily graffitied, looked like something dragged up from my grandfather's dusty old toy box.

As a shorty, sweaty man hurried us to our seats, the whistle blew and I clocked the temperature at 29° at about 1pm. Tired from the plane journey, and breathing in the stiflingly muggy air, we fidgeted into the compartment and tried to get comfy. What happened in the following 8 hours, yes, 8 hours, was both entertaining and extremely stressful. The temperature gradually climbed into the mid-30s. The train did not pick up speed. The supplies of water and crisps dwindled rapidly. We were all tired, all hot, all hungry and none of us expected to make it through the trip,(Dramatic, but that's what happens when your brain overheats and rationale turns to mushy peas).

However, when I looked out of the train's windows, Bulgaria surprised me again and again. Buildings were scattered between wide open stretches of dry grassland, and they all stand in varying degrees of disarray. It looked as though, as fast as someone (communists, presumably) built an apartment, factory, farm shed or outdoor toilet, someone else wouldn't be far behind with a buldozer to knock it down again. Even the buildings that were still in use - train and police stations, houses and shops - by and large seemed to feature crumbling roofs or a distinct lack of brick work! All along the journey, however, we saw signs of fruitful agriculture, hundreds upon thousands of beautiful smiling rows of sunflowers and Bulgarians going about their daily lives amidst this chaos. People, and their livestock, seemd to stroll freely across the tracks, like jay-walking Londoners moving in slow-motion, cutting right infront of the train. We saw mountains, lakes, rivers, suburbs, farms, villages, shopping malls, the sea and holiday resort complexes.

About 2 thirds of the way into the trip, at a comically named city called Plovdiv, a young man joined our compartment. He was obviously Bulgarian (I worked this out because I heard him speaking the language to the elderly gentleman who waved him off at the platform) but seemd very engaged in our semi-hysterical conversation as he sat down. It soon transpired that his English was better than most of ours - he was a music student, specialising in the niche musical stylings of the theremin, studying at a university in New Jersey. He shared his grandma's cake with us (and no, it wasn't until we got off the train that I even considered how eating cake offered by a stranger in a foreign country might have been quite hazardous) and told us about where to visit, what to eat and how to survive the heat. Nice guy.

The train sluggishly hissed into Bourgas 8 hours later, almost as hot and tired as we were. We parted company with our musical friend and dragged ourselves to the apartment. We all had to agree it had been quite an adventure.

The CB3 Experience

When I agreed to be on the cooks team for a 170 strong Christian camp for 14-18 year olds in North Wales , I have to say that I expected 7 days hard labour, no sleep, little contact with the non-culinary world, and a headache by the end of it. I could not have been more wrong.

A normal day started with a scalding hot shower at 6.45am (a full 15mins later than I would get up on a school day!). After that, a gentle 5 minute stroll to the kitchens. Hat, apron and clean shoes on, we would pray for energy, wash our hands and set to work. I say work here in the loosest sense of the word - I would chop carrots, fry hundreds of bacon rashers, turn chipolatas in a pan, grate vast quantities of cheese or simply 'make the drinks.' And it continued - there I was thinking we'd have to eat on the fly, bowl teetering in one hand, stirring a cheese sauce in the other, but no. We sat and ate. We talked. After breakfast the 'helper' team (which I think should actually be called the Hero team) would clean up and we would all then go to a seminar. We had time to attend seminars!

After a few more jobs, we would finish late morning and nip out for a trip somewhere - usually involving tea and scones. Back in the kitchen we'd prepare and serve dinner, the helper team once again making sure we had plenty of time to rest and digest our own meals. We even got time to attend the evening talks and join in the wonderful singing and learning. By the end of the week, we recieved a standing ovation and rapturous applause - it went on slightly too long for my liking, but I'm working on it.

What surprised me most, was the way that the camp organisers had thought so carefully about making sure the helpers and cooks teams, who were not really involved in the main teaching and bible studies with the campers, had sufficient spiritual input. We bonded well as a group - never more so than in our late night jaunt to the Great Orme for toasted marshmallows and silly dances around the bbq!

I have met a wonderful group of genuine, funny, caring, interested, normal people (and some crazy crazy mentalists!) and my sides still ache with laughter. I have learned that my identity is secure, positive, purposeful and eternal in Christ. I have been reminded that suffering for Jesus is normal, fighting for purity is hard and that Christian community is absolutely vitally important. I feel blessed, privileged and blown away by this week. Praise God.

And I will never fry 150 rashers of bacon ever again!

All Change Again...

It's the last Tuesday of this school. The last Tuesday I will teach in Year2 in DeHavilland. The last Tuesday I will have to walk into my classroom and desperately try to remember what it was like teaching in Key Stage 2.

All of these things feel good.

In a few short weeks (not too short, I hope, as I have to fit in summer camp, Bulgaria and a healthy amount of loafing) I will be moving on up to Year 4. Aaah, back in my comfort zone. Sure, I have to move classroom again. Sure, I have to plan a whole new set of units and lessons. Sure, I have no display stuff ready or any idea about the children in my class.

None of these things worry me.

This year has been, well, horrid. It started well and got progressively more stressful, painful, confusing, tiring and pointless. Okay, not pointless. I have learned a lot about my ability to cope under pressure. I don't really have one. I have found out just how emotional I can be. I have discovered that I respond with neither the fight or flight reaction. I just throw in the towel and lose interest. I stay up until 3am watching films. Or worse, watching interviews with celebrities at press junkets on YouTube.

So, with 3 'sort of' days left of term I fully intend to allow my class to enjoy themselves. We will paint, play, sing, draw pictures, watch films. I will give them an end of term present. I will expect nothing in return. And when the school day ends at 2pm on Friday afternoon, I will breathe a tremendous sigh of relief, sign off my computer and drive home. Smiling. For the first time in a long time.

Doctor Doctor!

Today I have Hollywooditus.

This is an ailment characterised by feelings of a destiny far beyond that which you are currently on course for.

Symptoms may include excessive daydreaming, making futile attempts to write something meaningful, displeasure with life's current state, complete immersion in popular culture and occasional escapist tendencies.

It is not yet understood why people can contract this illness so suddenly, nor how it can seemingly disappear and lie redundant for months at a time. There is, however, strong evidence of a cure for Hollywooditus which requires very little action on the part of the patient, and no medicine need be prescribed.

'This is God's Word on the subject: "I know what I'm doing. I have it all planned out—plans to take care of you, not abandon you, plans to give you the future you hope for."'

The day I saw the light again.

It's not a surprise to any of you who know me that I have been becoming mildy disillusioned by the teaching gig lately. Frankly, moments when teaching is a wonderful and exciting privilege are few and far between. Mostly it is assessments, concern forms, planning, marking, discipline and staff meetings. I really didn't want to become one of those new teachers who left after a few years. I was headed that way.

Until today.

For the first time in two years, I remembered why I decided to become a primary school teacher today. The curriculum is being changed (for the first time since the 80s!) in the next couple of years and I am stoked! We are going to be allowed more flexibility; chances to integrate ICT, languages, debate, economics, puzzles, investigations and presentations. It's everything that primary education should be! I just hope that the (respectfully) older members of staff are able to embrace it. Anyway, I'm bursting with ideas.

Excellent!

A Poorly Written Blog About A Girl

It occurs to me that I probably could have made something of this blog if i'd written about something interesting. For example, my year as a trainee teacher. My year as a first-year teacher. It could have been called The Staff Room. Or Confessions of an NQT. It isn't.

This blog is called Barefoot in the Dark because, for reasons best left to the pages of history, I have learned that it takes me a while to settle into anything. I flounder and grope about, my brain chews over and over, my heart sinks and rises. Finally, when it fits, I'm content. I have also learned that very little about this life is permanent. In fact, very little about this life lasts for more than a year. Situations change, people come and go, feelings alter. All very philosophical i'm sure. What I'm getting at here is that it's not easy to maintain anything other than a regular rate of respiration.

Here I am again, getting all thoughtful on the verge of a new year. Those little proverbial digits will tick over 00.00.01 and we will all be expected to shout "Hoorah! Happy New Year!" and I forget why we ever celebrate this thing. I should be nothing but grateful, humbled and hopeful as the new millenium becomes a decade old and '09 becomes '10. Why, then, do I still feel distinctly flat? New Year's Eve - the greatest anti-climax in the calendar year.

Tonight I won't be thinking about the new year (365 days is a long old time!). Rather, I'll be considering the spring term. I've a lot to do. I wonder what'll happen.

Declaration

I'd like to declare: love is weird.

It's a wonderful thing. It doesn't make sense to anyone but the two people involved. It overcomes image, ability, status and occupation. It inspires creativity. It lightens. It darkens. It lifts up, guides, supports, pleases, glorifies and humbles.

I'd like to declare: walls are nasty.

Walls are unkind, unnecessary, unatural, uninviting and unpleasant. Walls are a way of making everything about me. Walls are a way of saying, 'You don't belong here,' and 'We are different.'

Men make walls. God makes love. I know which one I want to be building.

You? x

Quick note...

Hi.

Yes, I am still alive.

No, I'm not cut out for the world of blogdom.

No, I'm not ready to start a new school term.

Yes, I'm gunna take it on.

Yes, you can join me!

Let's talk. xx

Easter, tears and fears.

I made it through Term2 and right into Easter. Phew. Deep breath.

Having two weeks holiday was even greater relief than the kind you feel when you turn your bag inside out looking for your phone and realise it was in your pocket the whole time. I have been able to sleep and drink cider, two of life's great pleasures! But more than this, I have had time to think and write.

I don't want to sound all melodramatic and emotional, but holidays are a good time to cry about stuff. If I exhausted myself with crying during term time, I wouldn't get into school each day. But Easter in particular gives me lots to think about. Like what's it all about, where's it all going and what am I doing about it?

School is still really hard work and, even though there are just 11 weeks until I am a fully qualified wings-and-everything teacher, it seems a loooooong way away. I don't think I'll ever forget this class. They have taught me so much about my ability to persevere, to brush off nasty comments, and to try and make myself better at what I do. What makes me sad, though, is no matter how much I put in now, most of these children will arrive at secondary school and slip through the net. They are not the brightest or most ambitious children and they need a poke in the proverbial rib cage on a regular basis. Secondary school won't give them this.

1 term is all I have left to make a lasting impression. That is terrifying.

Feeling just a little defeated

My kids are wearing me down.

No folks, you haven't missed anything that big - I don't have kids. I mean my darling little class of 23 year 3s. They are wearing me down.

Don't get me wrong, I absolutely love them but they are just very very hard work. Even the ones who started the year as my allies have begun to defect. They call out, they chat, they don't finish their work and they still bring me presents and card on a daily basis. How can I possibly be mad at them?

I'm not even sure where to go with this. Short of being a horrible, joyless dragon until Easter, I just don't know.

Any tips?

When it's time to party...

How did you see the new year in?

I gave in to the impulse to throw a party for the sake of the stroke of midnight. And what a party it was. To set the scene, I have been battling a horrendous thick cold ever since Christmas day and it was no better by New Year's Eve. I was, therefore, resigned to a night spent at home with whatever family members remained after those with friends and a social life swanned off into the icy evening. Simon left about 6.30, Liz was at work. In short, it was pretty much a full house.

In the Willis house, we don't go down without a fight, and fight we did. We decided to throw our very own makeshift 'DiscoParty.' The single best decision we have made all December! What better party is there than one where you can decide what you want to drink, what music to play, how to dance, and how long to carry on past midnight?! A few of my brothers had friends over who were slightly sceptical at first. What kind of freakish family throws their own exclusive disco party on New Years Eve and enjoys each other's company?! Anyway, after a few drinks, they were joining in the dancing. Excellent. It was disco, it was drum and base, it was dance, it was motown, it was pop, it was electro. In short, it was exactly everything that you could imagine.

We welcomed in the new year in the only way that a new year should be welcomed - with a huge glass of champagne in hand and a bloody good mosh to the melodious tones of Andrew WK's anthem, Party Hard. It was classic. We played it three times. Kizzy got a neck injury from misinformed headbanging technique.

Happy New Year (whatever that means). Have a great January and I'll see you for some partying hard on January 31st!

So this is the new year...

This will not be the first New Year post I've submitted to this blog. I'm sure it will not be the last. Because as much as you try to fight against it, the 31st December makes you a little bit more pensive than usual. All that happens, of course, is that the time ticks over from 00:00 hours to 00:01 and we are in a new year. The 31st becomes the 1st and we're off again. This same series of events happens at the end of every month (except where the final day is the 30th, 29th or 28th) and yet it is only this one occasion when we all have parties, drink alcohol, dance, play games, kiss and make resolutions.

The school year starts in September, not January. The tax year starts in April. So why do we not celebrate then? What resolution is there that is so bound by time, the calendar and seasons that means we can only make in on January 1st and not...today, or yesterday? Nonsense. Make resolutions every day. Resolve to be a better friend, laugh more, drink a little less, use less petrol, visit people, smile at work, work hard, grant yourself a little free time, speak about yourself less, give away more, moan less, allow yourself to fail, move slower, think faster, spend less on clothes and more on stamps, talk to God, forgive and move on. A diet can start on March 13th. A chocolate detox will not be set up to fail just because you start in mid-June.

So tomorrow is January 1st 2009. Think of it as one digit changing at the end of the date as we write it. No big deal. If you can't think of a big life changing resolution, chill out - there's plenty of other things to be getting on with. If you are reading this on some random date in the middle of the year, there's no better time to stop yourself and start over. Get better. Be changed. Be liberated. Do not be confined.

Sermon over. Happy New Year.

A brief rant...about Leona Lewis.

I'm sorry, perhaps I'm picky, but what right does Leona Lewis have to knock Take That off the number1 spot?! She has done a fairly mediocre cover of an amazing Snow Patrol track, and subsequently destroyed all hopes of a Take That Christmas number one! I am angered!

Leona is young lady who has 'conquered' the US, won the X-Factor, and invaded radio waves. She uses vibrato like she's being punched in the oesophagus, and yes, she has an unimaginable vocal range. At first I thought I was just jealous. But I'm really not. I don't like her voice. I don't like her music. And I don't like the way everyone is obsessed with her.

Take That, on the other hand, are a totally respectable man band who had huge success, broke away and lived some real lives and then returned with some solid gold hits. Gary Barlow is a song writing guru (yes, they write and perform their own material, Leona) and they've been there and done it. They're not about breaking digital download records, or conquering any countries. They're just bloody good musicians.

I used to hate Take That. At least, in my younger days, I was not their biggest fan. But now, I cannot fault them. Absolute brilliance. Leona...well she's just a British Whitney. Good set of pipes, a certain amount of interview-likeability and a 'history.' But for me it takes a killer song, written and performed by a killer musician to warrant number one acclaim.

So I don't know about you but if Christmas 2008 is going to be tarnished by yet another X-Factor winner, or an ex-X-factor winner (and to vocalise how much I despise that show would take at least another blog!)...I'm hopping on board the Rick Roll and doing everything in my ability to get Rick Astley to number one!!

A Fairytale Situation?

We have a problem. It has taken me twenty-two years to realise the following, but I hope that I can spare you the same amount of time. Join me, won't you, on an exploration of the moral cloudiness and general evils of...Cinderella. I know, it seems petty. But just you wait.

If by some freak possibility you are not familiar with the story, here it is in short: Cinderella is a beautiful, young lady who is forced into working like a servant by her 'evil' stepmother and three ugly and bitter stepsisters. One night, her fairy godmother appears, turns her rags into a ball-gown and Cinders dances the night away with the Prince at his grand ball. They fall in love, she has to scarper just before midnight and leaves a single slipper at the party. The Prince scours the land for a lady who fits the slipper, finds Cinders and whisks her off to live happily ever after. Aww.

Here's what's wrong with this story. It basically asserts the idea that youth and beauty are desirable and ugliness is essentially bad. Likewise, half-parents. Cinderella's godmother comes to her rescue (whipping up some other 'normal' things into 'beautiful, new' things) and she gets to the ball, where people are shocked by her sharp wit, intelligence, gentleness and caring? Nope. By her beauty. When the prince finally finds her again (because none of the women in the kingdom have the same size shoe as Cinderella), she gets her happily ever after. I'm not sure how happy I am teaching my kids that beauty will eventually get them wealth and position. Because those things aren't the most important. Especially if it means you have to put pumpkins out of their day-job!

Which way?

There are lots of routes I could have taken in my life.

If I’d worked a little harder, I could have achieved the grades I needed to go to Sheffield university (my first choice) and study. If I hadn’t decided, at the last minute, to take an A-level in French rather than Music, I would not have been doing a French specialism PGCE. In fact, I’d probably have gone into something to do with music, English or drama. If I’d gotten over myself sooner, I might have started playing music in 1^st year, cajoled a few band members and played a few low-key gigs. If I’d learnt to be more comfortable in my own skin sooner, I might have made a real go of the relationships and friendships I have allowed to slide past.

But I didn’t take these routes. At the time at which I decided which way to go, I was either too scared, or convinced of the alternative. And that’s ok.

It's ok because nothing I choose to do is a shock to God. God knows exactly and in detail everything I have ever done and will ever do in my life. There is no panic in Heaven. They’re not running around saying, “Aargh!! That girl shouldn’t be doing that there/now/in that way!!”

What if’s and if only’s really get us nowhere. It is not too late for me to write more music, learn more languages, speak more confidently to more people, draw more pictures, and try my hardest at whatever I do. I just have to want it.

And I do.

Welcome to the New Year

2008.

What? It's 6.30 on January 1st 2008 and I don't feel any different. I didn't make any resoultions. I saw the new year in with friends. I slept in 'til 10. I watched a great movie. I thought a bit too much. I started planning a lesson. Now i'm going out for dinner.

If the year started on January 2nd, this would be new years eve. It's really nothing special, a new year. So how about just being grateful for a new 24hours. A new 5 minutes?

You did what, Darling?!

It's like something out of a fiction;

Two discs containing the bank details, dates of birth, national insurance numbers and addresses of 25million UK citizens have been lost in the post. God bless the Royal Mail. Actually, they probably sent the discs using some flash, secure postal service. Well, that was a mistake! Let's be honest, the discs were a mistake. Who does that?!

Nobody knows who has the two password-protected discs. In fact, the passwords are probably the same. One alphanumeric code stands between a potentially very smug fraudster and the personal funds of every British family with children under 16. How safe do we feel?

It is more than a little alarming that the Government can't be trusted with our personal information. Made worse by the fact that the only advice they can offer is, 'monitor your bank accounts.' Sorry Alistair Darling, I'm going to need a little more reassurance than that! And while the government sort it out, can we replace Darling with a chancellor with a more ballsy name like, Dick Dontmesswithmycountrymen?

I just hope they find the discs. This is one slip-of-the-hand the government need to rectify pretty sharpish or there might be a revolution of Guy Fawkesian proportions!