Graduation!

Yesterday we had our graduation for our PGCEs. 5 degrees between us feels like a pretty good achievement at our ages. 

It was a lovely day despite the rain. The ceremony was intimate and delightful in St. Paul's Hall at Huddersfield. Words from Patrick Stewart felt relevant and poignant. Catching up with some of our lovely gang of fellow students was fun. 

Our wonderful tutor Judith was there in her cap and gown on the stage looking very proud of us all. She made it all so enjoyable and we miss seeing her every week. Such a wise lady, full of warmth. 

We headed home and decided to stop off for a romantic meal at our fave pub in the hills. Sitting by the log fire it seemed unbelievable that we'd managed to get so far in our quest for education. We are so proud of each other.

A memorable day indeed.

Shall we go to China?

Now then, it all started when him and I met and talked about our dreams of teaching abroad. One first class (no less) degree, and a PGCE later, together with a TEFL course and we are linked to a couple exiting their posts in a University in Shanxi province, China. Were we interested? Well, yes, why not? 
CVs were despatched but too late for the Sept 13 intake. Ok, never mind. 

Cut to October 13 and an email arrives offering us posts to start in Feb 14. OMG! Now what shall we do? We'd completely forgotten about it and suddenly we are plunged into delight, shock, and trepidation.

Time to do some serious thinking...😳

MY LIFE (tribute to Lyn Hejinian's poetry)

MY LIFE

The front window view was of ‘Jack’s Bank’ but I was wrong thinking everyplace had one. Eventually they removed all the slag heaps anyway, shame that, they were great for climbing up and sliding down. Long plaits swing when you move your head quickly. Men in working overalls trudged up the hill every evening looking identical, heads down, steam rising from tired breaths. I wondered about the insides, past the lit open doorways. Wondering brings its own comfort. It would have been noble if I’d been a painter. Love for the written word prevails still. Talking as we walked through the dark, my hand in hers, looking up at stars who saw it all and I did all the talking. Greetings and glances, keeping time in pavement dances. Accidental rhymes dilute obscurity. The old boiler in the corner of the classroom inspired a dissertation for Marina. Women collect around garden gates sharing secrets in important whispers fusing two tongues. New shoes have their own delightful smell. Crisps with salt in blue paper and glass bottled pop waiting in the car at night outside the pub. That May Day was like every other so no one foresaw a heartbreak while the ribbons were floating around. It’s important that uncurly hair is cut evenly; it can’t be pulled into line. The gates were rarely open so you had to crouch and if they happened to be in the gardens and saw you, they said good morning nicely, with a gentle smile. Sour milk isn’t drinkable. It takes a while for hope to fade. London is another world. Noise is deafening. Life speeds up in different places but slows down in others. People become transformed on a bus, no touching, no staring. Keeping lives hidden. Such an important river, a demarcation that discriminated. Still only a river, doing what rivers do. Permission for ear piercing granted at a place by Putney Bridge. If you don’t turn the sleepers they go septic. Parks are different from countryside, a kind of counterfeit imitation, but flowers grow in many soils. Corn on the cob only works with butter and only then if it drips on your chin. Who knew the world held so many clever people. The payslip details in tiny print kept deductions until near the bottom creating disappointments. A bedsit was the epitome of luxury, old furniture dressed up and shiny gadgets from gift wrappings that came with the gold rings. He hated gravy, it’s easy to forget and pour it on. Excitement in a temporary heaven. For a long time there was no ground-floor living, I found it easy to no longer see strangers on the stairs. Funny how life goes, it encircles us just like a merry go round. Pain like no other, but then a pink bundle; a final discovery of love. Life by the clock, over and over. I lost track of the other me, repeatedly. The mother thing isn’t easy, however hard you try. Dear God I tried. Foreign travel should be compulsory for all; sanctioned indelible memories to sear the conscience. Australia’s smell is different; it’s the flora and fauna, stars in another alignment in that hemisphere, but no one to hold your hand. The land of the big sky I called it and old Tom in the garage said I was right. I ached to hold my babies. Mistakes are so easy to make, even in knitting. The first morning in a new home brings its own pleasures when the boxes are somehow forgiven. I felt my admiration going out to those who put down roots and stay. A small boy in white socks looks up at me with trust in his eyes as we walk to school. Musical instruments are not a solution for sibling rivalry, I wish I’d known. There was nothing for it but to carry on. In the end religion is exposed and can be distinguished from a love for God. Battered wives worry about the neighbours hearing. Assistance can be found in sedation, but it’s not a good idea long term. Some gaps are too painful to fill in without feathers. The birds do sing in the mornings, their songs have relevance, wonderful lyrical communications. I recalled it, just in time. It’s important to know that life is for living. It’s as if wisdom has a price list in years. There is no time to go back. Salford is unexpectedly an especially warm place. He’s a different man with much to say and crinkly eyes full of old words like ‘cherish’ and ‘keep’. I remembered how to laugh. It bubbles up from inside and breaks out, like an escaping prisoner. Moving on is a tricky concept.

OUR DRAMA GANG

When I toddled into Kate's office, of course she was Miss Adams then, (before she taught us to jump) for the interview for Uni 2 years ago, I wasn't really sure I wanted to do it. Had moved over to Mancland to marry the gorgeous chappie and couldn't find a job. He'd just done a year at Salford and was singing the praises of the place, so when he showed me the UCAS last-minute list of still available courses and I saw 'English, Drama & Performance Studies' I got interested. I'd done a Dip.H.E. back in the 80s and had regretted not going further, and this degree sounded pretty good.

Something changed for me in Kate's office that day, the chat, the debate over poetry, her passion, something. By the time I left there, I desperately wanted to do it. I remember asking her if she thought I'd find it tricky fitting in at my age, and she said, 'absolutely not, it'll be fine' the way only Kate can.

She could have been wrong of course. But she wasn't. This week I've realised how very blessed I've been. I've considered the dismal possibility of being plonked into a group of very different characters to work alongside, its made me shudder and thank my obvious abundance of lucky stars.
From the off, our gang of mostly youngters adopted me as one of 'them' in ways I could never have imagined. And not just me either, him indoors, too. Of course he thought he'd died and gone to hell being kissed and cuddled by nubile, smart and beautiful giggling girls (and Andrew), but he's been stoic to the end and suffered in silence. They shared their joys and troubles with us, making us feel so privileged. And they laughed at my bossy remonstrations, and ignored me when I got arsey and intolerant. When they could have become seriously pissed off with this old dear, they never did, or if they did they kindly never let it show.

Memories of lunches and evenings at the famous Bar Yours flicker through, a little hazy, but that was the wine. So many speeches standing on chairs while we declared our undying love for one another, and any passing lecturer. The unforgettable 'hen night' they organised in my honour, with the very greasy fireman stripper that none of us fancied, not even Andrew. The trips to Deansgate Locks where they sat me and him in a corner and kept an eye on us, ensuring that we could cope with the loud music and debauchery, as if we were their charges. The kareoke nights out where some of them wowed our locals with their fabulous star qualities. The get-together parties full of laughter and dancing, and yet more wine. Perhaps high on our list was the contigent who came to our wedding, at great personal effort on a snowy January day, and made it very special. All this of course was outside of the academia, or subsiduary, if you like. Perks of the job. The invitations kept coming and still do.

Within the degree, mostly in Max 106, we learned to trust each other with our best (and sometime shit) performances, knowing that the support was unconditional. We tolerated each others moods with only occasional minor tantrums. We learned to love the exceptional Frances P, adore Kate Adams, and be wowed by Szylvi whose 'guys' we became.
We even survived Tom, but it might be more discreet not to mention the joys of Peter Buse. Sigh. It hasn't been just me that's thought this gang was exceptional and fabulous either, the lecturers wholeheartedly agree.

It's our final year now, the countdown has begun, everyone has started planning what they're going to do next.
I want to wrap them all up in a big fluffy blanket and keep them safe for always.
Gentle Becky R and her wonderful poetry, Katie C's bubbly warmth, Faye C's witty impressions, Sally's exuberance, Fayemous's mischief making, Angela's excitement at her new ideas, the Bury girls' special take on life, Andrew's unforgettable vocals, the 'one off' Katie T, Jamie-Lea's fabulous smile, Aidan's serious views, Anna's ability to sit cross legged, Robbie's good intentions, Charlotte's craziness, Hannah's confusion, and even Adam's extraordinary gift for story telling lol.
We've lost a few along the way, Amy, Cat, Kelly, Jason, and the gorgeous Becky B, all sadly missed.

All wonderful people, stars in their own right, incredibly gifted and talented. 
As is inevitable, some have become closer than others...the kindness, understanding and loyalty many show truly overwhelms me...I have no words for that.  

To round up, I have loved our gang, from Romeo and Juliet to the serial killers...we've shared something special and you made it wonderful for me...thank you...take good care all of you. Now carry on and graduate with honours. 

Lozza/Lola x

Life is a game of darts...

See it all started with Kimberley wanting me to join up with her Ladies Wednesday League Team at her local. Now Kimberley is one of those irresistable types. We met over a kitchen table during a family crisis. Not really a time for laughter, but sometimes there's humour to be found in tragedy, its the only thing that helps, anyway we found it. Unfortunately, first there was the problem of my 'dartitis', oh yes a bona fide affliction (Eric Bristow had it) which prevents the player from letting go of the dart. This results in darts flying off into skirting boards, ceiling lights, the odd passers by (you get the picture). Well the solution/cure is to keep playing and gain confidence. I discovered this while sitting on the sidelines getting a little bit drunk week by week, paying my subs. However, with the assistance of a devoted sportsman type husband things improved. Lozzilicious was born. The night I got my first two doubles for the team, Kimberley was ecstatic. Overcome with emotion and pride, bless her. With the transfer of her darts board to the back of our kitchen door, life took on new meaning. Round the board in 7 minutes. Soon another team, more local to me had 'poached' me for Mondays. New heights indeed. A different league with different game play. Six single matches three double ones and the Gallon. (Dont ask!)
Meanwhile, lots of anecdotal stuff came to light. You see another side to ladies on a darts night. Him indoors picked it up and ran with it...into his Word Doc. and into his M.A. Clever sod.
Winter looms and Wednesday night excursions with Kimberley sadly started interfering with my health (too much booze) and time (3rd year degree at Salford). They had to be cut. Priority decisions had to be made. God I hate that expression.
Nevertheless, the kitchen darts prevail. As does the Monday night team. There's a lot to learn about oneself while aiming a dart. They have lives of their own too, shapes, sizes, weights, all very highbrow.
I owe Kimberley a debt of gratitude. Another string to my bow. Another recovery of confidence lost. So many giggles along the way. We won't talk about the Blackpool annual trip. Discretion, you understand?
She might be nutty as a fruitcake and need some anger management occasionally, but my life is richer for knowing her, Kimberley.

The HAIRY nightmare

What is it about us women and our hair. Going for a hair appointment equates with the dentist for me - terrifying. Its such a vulnerable position in that chair, while they wield their fast sharp blades and talk about your holiday plans. Who can answer questions about foreign lands under that kind of stress? Why should we have to? And in a world where straighteners are everyone's necessity I'm still yearning for curls. At least these days I dont have to endure the perm that frizzes me into an alien lookalike, which costs a fortune in posh lotions to de-tangle. Of course now they're called 'products'. What's all that about? Have they lost the ability to specify? 
And why dont hairdressers learn about things being 'even'? Do they think we can see crooked lines in our mirror at home? I almost wish I could take a spirit level with me so that if the stylist's having a bad day I can bring her into line with the bubble. Currently its about colour. Its taken me two and a half years to trust this girl and she's destroyed it all in a two hour slot one Friday. The only compensation probably was, that I was dashing off to Blackpool for the weekend, where I fitted in just bloody perfectly.
Now it means weighing up pros and cons...do I go back and tell her, get her to repair/modify it? Endure her barely hidden fury at being challenged? Or, do I abandon her, and go and cough up more money on a new one to try and build trust with.
This has gone on for most of my life. You find one that's ok and they get pregnant or move salons, thus disappearing off the face of the earth. And is that a male conspiracy that so many good stylists get pregnant? At this rate I'll just about sort one for life when I'm getting laid out in the coffin. Let's hope she wont expect a tip. 
Ok rant over.  

Time

Catching up with people you no longer see every day, is a joy. If you've liked and loved them a lot. Hearing the party sounds surrounding them, lifts your heart.
Conversations with your lover about times past - griefs, awakenings, many things that matter still, that always will.
Appreciating what you have, however small, is of such value.

Thank god to be alive, when so many aren't.