“Oh, isn’t it pretty?”
Are those the first words uttered by gulag residents every morning they wake up and peruse the bleak and frozen wastelands of Siberia?
The amount of people who have recently smiled those words when describing the continuing perm-state of this year’s winter offerings has astounded me. I want to tell them, nay I do tell them, that the bloody white freezing stuff is not pretty unless one hyphenates the word with shitty.
And I dislike the cosy descriptions of: ‘blankets of snow’, ‘a covering’, and ‘winter-wonderland’. The only wonder is that we have not woken up to the fact that Putin is exporting huge swathes of his weather across European borders, without visas, various travel restrictions, and we are not threatening him with a life-time ban from either owning football clubs or making the top floor of Harrods off-limits.
Mini-Beast go back to your papa.
My wife told me that Stephen Hawking had died during the early hours of this morning. She was scrolling the news whilst we sat in bed with our cups of tea.
It was a death that did not shock. It had been predicted for the best part of forty years. Hs life had become something different from other lives, not because he was famous, highly intelligent, a seer, but because he was a definer of existence.
Incarcerated by his illness, he soared boundlessly beyond the accepted limits of imagination; and then beyond.
Time was afraid of him and kept him longer in this place. Time may well have respected him for his refusal to allow it to dictate his time.
Black holes never die, they simply fade away.
But are still there…
Floyd are playing. Pink Floyd.
Our evening meal is cooking. And I am listening to something that is coming at me from across the decades. The night is slowly fading in through the dusk. And everything is still.
I stopped for a moment and thought back through time. I am sure that this would have been something that Floyd intended. They would have wanted to transport me beyond the seventies, through the eighties, ignoring the nineties…and to here; this moment, this time.
So there I stood.
The twilight offering a conveniently apt backdrop. I looked at our home and recognised how very different it is from the one that housed my childhood. I thought about time and the way it tricks you.
Time is a deceiver. And, hopefully, Time is a healer.
A pupil, today, told me that I looked like Doctor Who. This is a common theme. It’s the David Tenant version which makes me quite pleased. But the universe has not granted me the gift of inter-galactic time travel.
Meanwhile, on planet Earth, Time has come on.
It is Pink Floyd telling me that tea will soon be done.
I was struggling for something to write this morning. I knew that I wanted to write, but understood that, if I pushed it, it would sound trite. I found these two instead.
I like them…
I hope you do too…
It’s nice to come home to the blog at the end of a working day. It’s good to sit down and see what has been going on. It’s wonderful to enter a world of imagination and self-reflection.
Oh, my lord, I sound like a tree-hugger.
Just got back in from work where I have wrestled the very soul of young humanity for the twin prizes of teaching and learning. The kids have been disruptive, argumentative, and obstructive. The word disobedient no longer holds meaning. I expect a rough time and that helps me to plan for it.
In Japan, they expect earthquakes. In some island states, they expect land-swallowing tides. In the United States they expect Trump to be dismissed from office for being a genetically-developed bullfrog with the mind of a greedy five-year old at a birthday party. The reason why his skin looks so orange is that he ate all the cake and jelly and trifle and drank all the fizzy drinks.
My blog is a stop-valve. It gives me chance to say something without having to announce myself to my fellow man. On readafterburnout.com I am semi-invisible. Having said that, I try to keep my deepest thoughts out of reach as my wife thinks that somebody will get hold of them and use them against me.
“What? Like destroy my teaching career?”
My blog keeps me company in the good and the dark days. I shouldn’t say this, but there are many things that I write that I find to be good work or that actually make me laugh. There are times when I think back to something that I have posted and try to find the part of it that I believed was a specific nugget of humour or wisdom; and then I repost it.
I repost frequently as I have a website that resembles a local authority tip. I just throw everything in there and hope for the best. I am a hoarder. My refuse I can not refuse.
Look at my stuff: