Results day

It's That Time of Year again. 'A' level results are out today. When I was a Secondary teacher, this was the day when teachers were as nervous as pupils, wondering how they had all done together.

I went into teaching relatively late, in my thirties. I've never forgotten the day our Head of Department, who happened to be a Linguist, talked about perceived changes in standards. I felt very insecure as a 'wrinkly' amongst all the bright young new graduates. John gave us some French exam papers from 1973 and asked people to guess what level was being examined. There was some discussion as to whether they were second year 6th form or 1st year University. I kept silent, feeling very disorientated. John smiled at me and asked, "What do you think, Gill? What level are they?" Feeling rather foolish, as though my memory had let me down, I stammered, "Well - I was 13 in 1973 and - I think - this is pretty much what we were doing then..."

Cue derisive laughter, to be silenced when John turned to the group and said, "Yes, Gill's absolutely right! This is a Y9 exam from 1973."

I was treated with great respect after that!

I wrote a brief paper based on interviews with local heads of Sixth Forms and University Lecturers, in which I highlighted their unanimous opinion that there was a huge gap opening up between the end of school and the beginning of University. Many of them spoke about having to do refresher courses which were in effect a recap of the last year or two of school.

I did a little research into why this was happening and with my fairly unscientific methods, decided it was mostly down to the existence of the League Tables. Children were not being taught to love their subjects, but to get the school the desired position in the tables. So they were fed the knowledge needed for a good grade, without the breadth of subject knowledge.

As a Languages teacher, I saw very quickly that Key Stage 3 was largely a waste of time, as everything taught was covered again in years 10 and 11 and this bored the children. (I'm generalising of course, but sadly there is a lot of truth in this). My theory was backed up by a family member missing KS3 through illness, sailing through KS4 and going on to Uni and an MA. As an NQT I was given a class of 'UnTeachables' and the curriculum for the French Certificate of Achievement. I engaged them, got through the first part of the Certificate in the first term, and when I went to the Head of Department and asked for the next part, he looked at me in horror and said, "That's meant to last the Whole Year!" Thus was born my theory that a lot of misbehaviour is due to boredom, and a lot of boredom is due to low expectations, and those expectations are fed by teachers' need to concentrate on the brighter children who can bring glory to the school in the league tables.

Years later in my capacity as a Behaviour Adviser, I would bang my head against the wall of a school toilet having seen a teacher ask a class of 7 year olds, "So! What kind of question is this?" I was impressed at children of 7 knowing the difference between open and closed questions, until a pupil volunteered the answer, "A TWO POINT qeustion Miss!" and was rewarded with a hearty "Yes! So don't forget to answer it!"

I think it is unfair to blame exams per se. I do however believe the Curriculum is not healthy. I am incredibly uneasy at the number of schools where I am told there is 'no time' for Art and Music. I once headed up the Infant Music in a school where I was on long term supply, and introduced the children to some classical pieces. which they loved but which they all told me 'made them sad'. I eventually unpacked this to discover that they had no other word for the strong feelings which classical music aroused in them, and it was a valuable starting point for work on emotions.

I estimate that preparation for SATS in primary schools probably removes about 8 weeks' teaching time from the school year. I was asked to deal with a boy of 10 who had become very violent in school. It turned out that he was terrified of 'failing his SATS'. When I asked him "How do you fail SATS?" his eyes widened and he gasped, "If you get less than a 4!" We went on to discuss what the other levels meant, in that case, and (very unprofessionally I'm sure) I told him that SATS were a load of rubbish which only meant anything to the Government, and that when he was in the pub at 20, nobody would even ask him about them. I watched him in the tests, sitting in a huge hall, and I observed at least 3 children hyperventilating with stress.

I frequently remind anxious parents that in many countries, children don't begin formal schooling until the age of 7. Here, we are already formally testing them by that age. I am convinced that our system is driven by poor childcare facilities. Where is the encouragement for parents to spend time with their children, time which feeds into their social development and which can never be regained?

So we teach our children early on, in the UK, that we can fail miserably. And no doubt in a few hours, the papers will all be saying how easy it was for them this year, that their efforts mean very little. What with the vast amounts of money needed to go to University, the scant job prospects and expensive housing, it's a wonder any of them are still standing.

I'm not sure exams are 'easier' than they were. They are very different. They look strange to those of us raised on 'O' and 'A' levels. But they take a tremendous amount of work to pass with high grades. We ought to be congratulating our children and building their self-esteem, not giving them the message that their efforts are worthless and their futures grim.

If you know a young person who has got exam results this summer, commiserate or congratulate as needed. Remind them that the world doesn't ask what you got at 'A' level for the rest of your life, that they now have time to enjoy themselves, that they are valuable human beings... do whatever it takes to build up our young people, because they deserve it, and they are our future.

NB I've just re-read my entries for February. They seem prophetic now!

The meaning of life...

You may realise from my previous writings that I am running at Midlife head-on to find some answers. Technically I may be past midlife, I don't know, but then I've known people who have died in their teens so I don't let those labels worry me any more.

This morning I was watching a spider swaying outside my window, web invisible, and it struck me as a powerful metaphor for my past couple of years. As my belief in Synchronicity has grown, so has my need to Stop and Be. A spider does what it can to create the circumstances for provision, and then just sits and waits. I could unpack this more, but I suspect it may apply differently to everyone so I'm leaving it there.

And then I read a little of Shirley Maclaine's book 'Sage-ing with Age-ing'. I love this sentence from near the beginning: "I realize that ageing well isn't about the search for happiness, but more about quietly feeling content with what I've experienced." This is so true for me that I felt like applauding. I've just had a week away with my elder daughter, and one of the recurring themes of our conversations was about how I feel the need to differentiate between things I could revisit (eg Education) and things I'd love to do again but which aren't 'Life stage appropriate' - meaning, I'm no longer a teenager! I still yearn to do lots of things in life, but I recognise that some of them would be simply about pretending I'm not an older person. (Some are still eminently doable, however, and I intend to do them until I'm 90+ such
as the terrifying speedboat ride we went on!)

So Maclaine's words chimed with me. I seek the contentment of which St Paul spoke, I suppose. And increasingly I feel it. This doesn't mean, though, that I don't still crave adventure, because I do, and I intend to have it!

This morning my daughter and I were talking about life purpose. I increasingly suspect that we have got this all wrong. When I was a practising Christian there was a lot of talk around about 'our Extravagant God'. Well I do still believe in that God. (Not perhaps in the Church's version.) And I am therefore led to the logical (to me) conclusion that my life might just as well be about the minutiae as the Grand Scheme. Perhaps my life's purpose was fulfilled the day I spent with an elderly woman grieving her husband's death? Perhaps everything else has been incidental? Or has my life been about the biscuits I baked for the School Summer Fair... or the heart-shaped pancakes I made for a Valentine's Disco... or the woman I smiled at on the bus, or the child whose eye I caught as she was being told off... I'm sure you get my point.

We assume that our whole life has to have meaning, but if it's true that there is an inherent extravagance to Creation, then perhaps this 'making peace' with one's life, the Being Content, is about recognising that Being is more than enough. Everything else is a bonus. What do you think?

Holiday

I took my soon-to-be-Dutch daughter to York and Bridlington for a few days last week. We had a fantastic time, ate well, drank champagne once, laughed almost all the time... It was a lovely break and one I shall look back on and cherish the memories when she has left.

I've always felt (like so many people) that I would love to live by the sea. Usually when I visit I paddle every day. This time, however, I found I didn't want to. We went ON the sea in a sailing boat and - possibly unadvisedly - a speedboat. But paddling didn't appeal this time, perhaps because the skies were mostly grey and the beaches very wet indeed.

One day of our week dawned glorious, and we took the opportunity to travel up to Whitby, taking in Filey and the wonderful Robin Hood's Bay, driving along the coast at Scarborough as we returned to our B&B. The East Coast is simply wonderful; there is an underlying poignancy about it because so much of it is doomed to disappear over the next century. Like Venice, there is a sense of Carpe Diem and a resulting joy at having been there before it's too late.

I never tire of being by the sea. I love Deepak Chopra's analogy of human life being like waves in the sea, constantly in motion and each wave visible for a short time but 'you can't put a wave in a bucket and take it home'. The energy of the sea is that same energy which fuels us all - which IS us all... if you put me under a strong enough microscope, all you would see would be the gaps inside the atoms of which I'm made. It is a salutory thought that everything solid seems to exist only because we have some prior agreement to see it that way.

In a week of riots, it struck me that this is how 'Society' is too. It functions normally only for as long as we agree it. This is why it is important that we refuse to let the media make us fearful for the future - we need to carry on believing in ourselves and our ability to live together. We need to agree to have a good and peaceful land, and not to let terror take over in any form.

Family time

My daughters are visiting at the moment and my Ex's sister and husband are visiting from Canada so there's been a flurry of activity over the past few days. One daughter returns to Paris on Monday so we are trying to prioritise and do the Really Important things.

But what are they? My daughters and I are in agreement that they are around seeing family and spending time in the Peak District. We don't have time to go to the seaside this week but Parisian Daughter stayed with Roman Daughter for a fortnight to help her pack for her new life, and they went to the beach while she was there.

Meanwhile here I am in my tiny ex-Council semi, loving having my family here but with very little space to move around in! Roman Daughter is moving to Maastricht to do an MSc, so we are learning a little Dutch before she goes. I almost drove off the road yesterday as we tried to get past our amusement at the word 'Winkel' for 'shop'. I've told her if she gets homesick all she has to do is enjoy hearing people speaking like the Swedish Chef all around her.

As a linguist, I've always been sad that people find German and Dutch 'ugly'. I love the deep, rich sounds and the way my brain has to think backwards in order to speak grammatically. Roman daughter's friends have told her Dutch is a 'Lingua brutta' - 'ugly language' - but she's excited about trying to learn it and hoping someone will let her try rather than speaking English.

So far we've spent the time talking, eating, walking and laughing. I'm the kind of person who thinks ahead, like the White Queen in Lewis Carroll, and usually the dread of them leaving would be weighing heavily on my soul, but I have decided that at 50 it's time I stopped being a ninny, and am determined to enjoy my time with them. Likewise with the Canadian (ex) relatives, who are lovely. We've met them only too rarely - usually at weddings or funerals, and never in Canada, although hopefully one day I'll get there.

Relating to people is one of my primary joys in life and yet... and yet I am also aware of an inter-connectedness which is so exquisitely tender that it's almost painful to me at times to walk along a street, so much do I feel I am part of everybody and everything. It's only just struck me that - just as synaesthetics rarely question their experience, assuming everyone is the same - perhaps I am not 'normal'. Ever since I was a little girl I have been moved by sudden emotions as I go past people... I remember once seeing an old man and his dog and crying for hours at the sadness of one of them being left behind one day. I used to be cross with myself and try to reframe such feelings ("They are happy right now because they have each other!") and indeed peace finally came as I learned more and more to live in the Now.

I am still far from expert. As a child I was tormented by fears and phobias, and I've come a long long way but still some days I struggle to maintain a peaceful equilibrium. But most of the time I am just content to Be. I love to go into the Peak District and feel a part of it all, almost as though I AM a hill. I love to sit in a cafe and feel a kind of spritual empathy with the other people around me; it feels like an active meditation as I quietly wish them peace and happiness in life.

Of course I may be gently going insane, but it feels like a spiritual journey, so that's what I'm going with for now. :) Family time for me encompasses my fellow humans, and when my daughters have left, I shall return to enjoying this feeling of kinship - and surreptitiously spreading a little peace, joy and love as I sip my Latte...

Anecdote

I'm still laughing about something that happened in Castleton yesterday. The town was full of teenagers doing Geography surveys. I was sitting by a stream and heard three boys laughing about throwing things at a duck, so I walked along and leant on the bridge to see what was happening.

They were only throwing twigs, and it wasn't hurt - but it was obviously scared (though holding its own and quacking bravely back at them).

From my vantage-point I said very calmly and nicely, "PLEASE don't do that!" The boy furthest away said "Who said that?" His friend looked at me and then moved so the first boy couldn't see me, as I said: "There's no need, is there?"

They stopped throwing things, and then we had a chat about school, coursework, etc - and after I'd walked away my supersonic ears tuned into the poor lad saying, "I thought it wor't'DUCK talking ter me!!!"

He had just accepted the incident - of course a duck would do that. He never questioned that it had spoken! And so politely, too, as my daughter pointed out...

I'm still laughing about it! :)

Away Day

I've been meaning to go on retreat but haven't had the means. Yesterday dawned bright and sunny so I made my first visit of the year to the local lido, which is set amongst high green hills. The air smelt as fresh as if it had never been breathed before. It was a delicious day, made all the better by the realisation that I'd forgotten my phone. I relaxed into a true retreat. In the Present.

I begin my day with a lot of breath-holding so that I can gaze at the pattern of shining ripples on the bottom of the pool. The shallow end is home to tiny children being encouraged to practise leaping into the unknown - yet always landing in the nurturing arms of their mothers.

After an hour of blissful (and Factor 30- protected) sun-bathed swimming, I make my way to the grass by the side of the pool and enjoy watching people splash and just Be. We are a small community of escapees from the Rat-race.

I leave and go on to Castleton, a favourite of mine. A ruined castle sits high on a hill above the entrances to caves, a sparkling river, numerous sheep and ducks, and a picturesque village with plenty of provision for the hungry tourist.

Sitting at a table on the pavement I watch as women lead tiny horses along, teachers lead slightly bigger children along, and walkers amble happily towards their lunch. I fall into a conversation with an elderly woman whom I'll call Mary; I don't ask her name, it would break the spell of her lilting Devon accent and the rhythm of her tales of life. The gist of what she says is, "Find out who you are, go and be that person, and be happy!" She sounds to have had a hard life but has skipped happily into widowhood and now travels the world - wherever takes her fancy. Lithuania, Russia, China, "And one of those Vampire Castles!" She regrets having taken forty years to realise she has a brain, but is now getting on with using it.

A lively crocodile of ten year olds makes its way past, a teacher rather ominously holding an enormous number of wooden swords. Are they going to re-enact some battle by the river? Or has he had to confiscate them? In calm and weary, well-rehearsed words he says, "Yer in't'middle o't'ROAD Mason - yer doing wrong." I am impressed at the delivery of such judgement. So is Mason, for he quietly finds his place on the pavement. The children and their noise disappear around the corner, and the day closes around them as though they had never been there.

The sun continues to bake the village. A woman emerges from a car in a long-sleeved, leopardskin mini dress. She must be roasting, despite her long bare legs, which draw the gaze of every man in sight. A group of Germans discuss first where the Men have gone, then where the Women have gone. Those who are presumably neither find a table and resignedly sip coffee as they wait.

After lunch I'm not sure what to do, so I sit on a wall and write. Write this, in fact, as well as jotting down snippets which will some day germinate and grow into poetry.

I think about Mary. Was she some kind of messenger? I'm thinking hard at the moment about the role of ambivalence in my life. I hope to meet someone else who might shed a little more light. Mary advocates the single life and lots of travel. I know for sure... I do know... that I don't want to work behind closed doors for the rest of my life. Is it possible to find some other way? A compromise perhaps, where I work part time for other people, and make the time to write during the rest of the week?

I decide to find some water - I love to sit and contemplate its noise, its movement, the light-play on the surface... A small stream runs by the car park; I stand and gaze at the unthinking beauty of the scene, and a tree leans across to hold my hand, its leaves brushing my fingers.

I think about how my father would have loved it here, and feel the familiar pang of regret that I simply don't know what my mother would have thought of it. My love of such places is surely the fusion of their lives and psyches? Perhaps not. I have no idea whether I brought a new 'me' to my experience of the world, or if I tread the traces of others. It troubles me, this easy connection with my father and not my mother. I feel the need to carry something of her forward into the world, even though I'm aware that the traits I ascribe to her may be pure projection.

I walk on, and come to a burial ground - a place of real peace and solitude. I read the gravestones, weep at one, and ponder our frailty as I often do. Why should I waste my life doing work I don't believe in? The answer - for me - has to be that I shouldn't.

As I walk back through the village a strange synchronicity occurs. Yesterday I went with a friend to a place many miles from where we live, and met a woman known to both of us, a former teacher. We shared a coffee and many memories and I asked after her cousin, whom I'd also known. I hadn't seen either of them for about 5 years. "Oh, she's happily retired and globe-trotting!" came the reply.

So it is with some surprise that as I walk along to find a tea room, in this place also some miles from where I live, the cousin herself greets me with a joyful cry of recognition. It is quite a coincidence, and as such I search for meaning after she has gone.

I buy an ice cream instead of a cup of tea, wanting to sit in the warm sun. I find a bench and two sisters come to sit next to me. They tell me how they left Holland in the war and moved to Australia. The one who lives nearby still has a strong Aussie twang, the other (who lives a 14 hour flight away back in Australia) has a heavy Dutch accent. They, too, have just travelled all around Europe and highly recommend it. They, too, are man-free and happy. Like me, they are eating ice creams and enjoying the sun.

I ponder it all as I drive home. Have I just been given a glimpse of how happy I shall be in retirement, or is there some more urgent message for me here? I have met people who are relieved to be out of their former jobs and who are happy travelling and Being. Is that something I dare aim for at this stage in my life, or must I wait it out?

I recall the startling words of one of the Dutch sisters, as she suddenly leaned across and smiled at me with her piercing eyes on mine: "This place is calling you!"

And so it is - ah, but WHICH place? The geographical one, or the metaphysical?

Words...

WORDS
They're great, words are!
Babies roll them round their mouths
savouring them for months
before spitting them, fully-formed
into the air around them.

From then on, that's it -
Words, words, words...
On the telly
On the radio,
On a teacher's lips...
They never stop coming at us,
Bombarding us with knowledge.
I've got some favourites:
Scudding, Micklethwaite, deelyboppers, iconoclastic...

They're great, words are!
You can tell people who you really are inside,
explain your dreams, hopes, desires...
ask for what you want,
tell it like it is,
comfort, caress your lover's ears with quiet whispers...

They're a great responsibility, words are!
You can irritate the HELL out of people,
invade their headspace,
say things you didn't mean, and can't un-say,
use them as playing-pieces in the game of love.
They can hurt people, break people, bring bad news...
Words are EVERYWHERE; they mean
Nothing and Everything,
all at once.
Sharp rocks, tumbling from our mouths,
cutting others as they fall.
They're dangerous things, words are...

But on the whole, I think they're great.
You can hide behind them,
Talk about things so you don't have to face them,
Express emotions so you don't have to feel them -
Project your preferred version of yourself into the public eye.
Everybody does it, don't they?
Except me.
I don't.
I just say what's on my mind, but
I like to do it right.
So of course, I choose my words. Carefully.

I sometimes wonder...
...whether they choose me.

Gut feelings...

Right, no more apologies, I shall blog much more regularly again from now on! [REALLY? -Ed] I've been so busy - but that is no excuse for not prioritising the enjoyment of catching a few of my thoughts as they fly past, and popping them onto the screen.

My walk along the top of the Learning Cliff continues. I'm really enjoying Supply, and once more am in a school where they are very keen to keep using me, so that's good for my professional self esteem. If you recall, one of the reasons I left my Advisory role was that I felt I was lacking integrity; telling teachers what to do when I hadn't taught for nine years didn't feel right. But I knew I didn't really want to go back to teaching French in Secondary, so I asked my agency to place me in Primary schools.

Almost a full academic year on... I still have food in the fridge, I haven't defaulted on the mortgage, and I've even been on holiday to see my daughter in Paris. On paper I've taken a drop in salary of at least £15,000 but I honestly haven't really felt it.

Now I'm being head-hunted for a year's post in a parallel Advisory Service. It would mean being paid the former salary again, and I'd be paid through the holidays (despite the hype, Supply does NOT pay enough to see you through the holidays, but I enjoy the challenge of budgetting).

I'm trying very hard to think it through what is known as 'sensibly' (ie 'thinking about the money') but I find that my intuition is screaming so loudly that it's almost a no-brainer. What on earth would be the point of plucking up my courage to leave a job, only to walk back into its identical twin? How can I ignore the sinking feeling I get just at the thought of being 'back in harness'?

I owe it to myself to be responsible and to check out my reactions fully. For example, it's possible I need to go back and face those feelings. It's possible it would be 'sensible' to have a year of guaranteed salary.

But I'm not one to ignore my gut feelings. I've raised my daughters to listen to their intuition. I can live no other way. It really doesn't even feel like a choice. I have been so HAPPY this last year, loving being in the classroom, and (so I was told by a parent of a child with Aspergers) "changing lives". Former colleagues have been amazed at 'How great you look!" (I'm not sure what they were expecting!) Some of them are envious - but they all had far more choice than I did, as I was the only single person on the team. They all had financial back-up and yet have chosen to remain in a place which, they tell me, is even more stressed and unsafe these days.

I'm not even sure that teaching is where I shall ultimately remain. But I'm sure that I need to carve a life where I can take time out if I need, to retreat and write, or to be there for family and friends.

Nevertheless I am very conscious of the old joke which ends "I sent a helicopter!"

To be honest, my mind is made up. Or rather, my gut is. This is where I find out just how much courage my convictions hold...

Remembrance of things past...

I've returned to this blog (my other one still exists in impoverished form) because I'm more concerned with general, rambling thoughts than with being 50 (which continues to be great!).

Lately I've been thinking a lot about religion. As in, Christianity. I was converted as a teenager into Evangelicalism (the story is all there earlier on this blog if you care to look). And from a very troubled place I came to a point of relative calm, though the legs were paddling away under the surface as I approximated to Adult Life.

A friend of mine who was an Anglican Priest for many years has just come out as 'having no faith left' and it has made me think again about my attitude to what I have left behind. It's particularly hard as an ex-Evangelical because you are taught all the Bible verses about the dangers of falling away, and even today I can remember my abject fear of doing so, and my determination never to desert Jesus.

And yet - I have. It astounds me still, after twenty years as a clergy wife and having brought countless people to faith through reasoned discussion and prayer, that I find myself in this place. But a pilgrimage can't just be abandoned when you find a comfortable roadside cafe. I always promised myself that I would never give up using my brain (which after all was presumably God-given) to question my faith, and that if I found it lacking in integrity, I would do whatever it took to remain in a place of integrity as far as was possible.

What I never expected was to feel angry. I have spent a good many years suppressing anger in my life; as a child I was prone to terrible rages which terrified me and left me hiding from the power of those emotions. Christianity enabled me to 'rise above' that - although to be fair it was my interpretation and not the Church or Bible which taught me to hide from such a large part of myself. The Bible clearly says we ARE to be angry when appropriate. I had just hidden too well from myself, and it took a few different counsellors to help me see that it was safe to be in a room with myself however I was feeling. Dampening down anger meant that I dampened down every other emotion, and I've been on a long, slow learning curve back to 'normality' (whatever that is!)

Now, I DO feel angry at how the brand of Christianity I bought into robbed me of the realisation that I possessed huge inner strength. By attributing all my successes to 'God', I externalised everything.

GOD was strong, I was weak. All loving thoughts came from God, I wasn't a loving person without him. I didn't realise how many inner resources I had until I was in my forties. Until then, I truly believed that I was nothing without God, and that everything I needed had to come from/through him. So I was able to shift all the responsibility for major decisions onto him too. "God doesn't want me to have sex..." "I have to stay in this job /relationship/place because God hasn't told me to move on..." etc.

I realise that a lot of this reflects on me, not the Church per se. However, nobody at any time encouraged this naive young (and later, older) person to move on in her view of herself, to take more responsibility, to dare to make decisions. And in fact I know many people in unhappy situations who are there 'because it's what God wants'. It couldn't possibly be the case that God might want them to take risks and be uncomfortable, to face their inner demons and admit their faults. Oh no, it's God's will that no boats are rocked.

There are those who have taken precisely the opposite approach. God has told them to go out and do daring and wonderful things. Can you imagine a Billy Graham who admitted to loving having power over people and being a public figure? Or even a St Paul who had a midlife crisis?

It is all much to ponder, and I continue to do so.

Glorious day!

I just wanted to record how good it feels to wake up to a glorious, sunny, frosty morning.

The sky is an absolutely brilliant blue; the sun is already casting crisp shadows and there is a definite feeling of Spring on its way. After a long, hard winter this is wonderfully welcome!

I've had a tough few weeks emotionally; the nest has felt very empty indeed. As someone who spent her entire life from the age of three planning to have two little girls (and had them!) I still have to work on making the shift into Life After Motherhood. It's not as though I didn't prepare, nor is it that recent but - I suppose nursing someone through a horrible illness for seven years brings you extremely close.

I have lots of other things to do in life. I write, swim, walk, enjoy the countryside and have a full-time job. Yet still I am aware of an emptiness in my heart, feeling bereft on a bad day and merely nostalgic on a good one. This is classic midlife stuff and I know I shall get through to the other side.

I feel a little irritated with myself to be honest. I am thrilled that my daughters have built their new lives. I am excited by what they are doing. And it's quite possible that I am feeling the stirrings of needing to get out there myself. Is there any excuse for someone who speaks several languages to sit at home in England wishing she wasn't lonely at times?

Money - of course. But... there are jobs abroad. There are cheap holidays. And there are two beautiful capital cities to visit in the company of my daughters, the locals.

Now that I'm off crutches and no longer hobbling around, it's time to get off my backside and stop feeling sorry for myself!

Watch this space...