Something Wicked This Way Comes

Thoughts of ghouls and ghosts and all things nasty come to mind as we head through the month of October and Halloween approaches. Opinions on this phenomenon are divided and although I celebrated the occasion as a child, with simple apple bobbing, buns on strings and the odd Meg and Mog story, today’s marking of the 31st of this month seems to have far more of the macabre and overtly horrific about it. Consequently as a parent, I didn’t let my children take part in the practice of Trick or Treat - something that they didn’t thank me for.

I didn’t feel comfortable about the process, how it goes against the message we instil of not talking to strangers and instead, because it’s Halloween and they are dressed in a scary mask they can knock on anyone’s door to demand a sugar fix. Aside from the stranger danger and how intimidated the random resident might feel on their doorstep, no one needs an entire bucket full of sweets to devour. I also question the proliferation of frankly disturbing masks, costumes and props that find their way into high street stores in the lead up to Halloween and wonder what young children make of such images around them. It certainly can’t help their bedtime routine.

In case you are reading this thinking I am just a party pooper, my children didn’t miss out entirely and I recall a few Halloween parties attended with friends or family. An image of my daughter in a witch’s hat and purple tutu skirt whilst my son wore a Dracula cape comes to mind and of course, casting spells in the style of Harry Potter was always a popular past time. Such days are a distant memory now and my children may be found at a Halloween gig at a pub or watching a scary movie screening whilst I am at home, cradling a mug of hot chocolate.

My wickedness is currently confined to playing the role of the evil fairy in my drama group’s annual pantomime. Within that I find that I am being thwarted by a subtle serpent. The symptoms of ageing, the menopausal Medusa, slithering in to sabotage my performance. Each week I find myself battling with confidence issues, memory loss and an ongoing problem with my foot that causes a fair amount of pain as I try to dance. Working on my confidence to convince myself that I can actually manage the part I have been given, takes a fair amount of effort. This week I am trying to get some of the lines into my head, as the performances draw nearer, but this is no easy task when on a daily basis I can walk into a room and forget why I went there and I am increasingly aware that I can stop mid-sentence as my brain plays a somersaulting game, trying to find the word that I need next. Whilst this is indeed a concern, I am working on it and making adjustments to be able to succeed by starting the whole memorising task earlier than I usually do and keeping my fingers crossed for that strategy to work.

The thing that I am finding most difficult is the pain and discomfort with my foot and it saddens me, after dancing in some shape or form since the age of three, that dance is proving problematic. Ironically the issues are typical for a dancer so it is even more poignant that I feel my dancing shoes may soon have to be hung up. Throughout my life, whatever size or shape I became at different points, dancing has been my release. A way to forget about everything else for a while and to let my mind focus upon the movement, the joy of the expression and the fun of being part of a performance- whether alone or in a group.

Dance has always come naturally to me, to move in time with the beat, to flow from one part of a routine to the next, to extend an arm line with poise and a smile, were all aspects I learnt early on and are now just second nature. My mind is still willing and imagines me succeeding in the spotlight but the body is finding it hard to deliver the goods these days. Then, of course, that wicked snake slithers in to strike a confidence blow or a lapse in memory and that which I had always thought was a strength of mine, begins to crumble.

My pointe shoes are wrapped up in a dusty box in a corner of the attic, for pointe work is a young girl’s game and I never quite had the whole slimline package for that. But I do not want to wrap up all my dance shoes yet. I have noticed the work of this evil ageing process but I am not ready to surrender to it yet. I am determined to keep dancing, with my painkillers and massage techniques at the ready for the recovery process.

I have heard that something wicked this way comes but she’s ready to rock an evil fairy costume and to kick ass! With a high kick and a pirouette, obviously.

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Performing at the Commonwealth Institute, April 1975

Back to School

This week has seen the annual proliferation across social media of first day at school shots of children standing somewhat nervously, somewhat excitedly, all smart in their uniforms and ready to go off for the new school year. I felt quite emotional about this last weekend as this is the first year that nobody in our house is following this pattern. Neither of my children are packing bags with arrays of coloured pencils and newly chosen lunch boxes and I too, after almost thirty years of being governed by academic calendars, am not returning to a classroom or office of folders, waiting for my attention to help the children whose names are contained within them.

Although removed from that immediate environment, the first week back at school makes itself known in other little ways to the wider community. There are certain times of the day to avoid walking the dog in the park, when it would be busy with the newest intake to the local high school letting off steam on their way home, slinging off their heavy school bags to snack and chat with each other. My husband’s morning journey to work has become more crowded and taken longer than it did each day over the summer break, so he is back to factoring in more time for his morning routine. Just being out and about for a walk or to pick up a few groceries, there seems a renewed purpose to people as they travel to or from school, or pick up placatory treats on their way home for tired and not-so-tidy uniformed children who will want to chill out and play rather than settle to some homework after their long day of listening and following rules.

I think all of that gives a little context to my unsettled feelings this week. I thought I had adapted to this writing life, after all, I have been doing this now since Christmas. A discussion with my daughter last Saturday showed how similar we both are. She said that she felt like she wanted to be buying new stationery, even though she has no need of it, just because she used to like shopping for it and planning for the work ahead. I have always been a lover of new stationery too, even my writing now is still divided between laptop and notebook – part of the joy of writing is the physical act of letting your ink flow across the blank page and then selecting a new, funky notebook to begin the process all over again once the current book is full. My writing notebooks have become like sketchbooks to an artist and I am now half-way through my second one this year. A glimpse inside the covers and you would quickly see what I mean, not neat at all, jumbled notes, some even scrawled up the margins but nevertheless meaningful to me at the time.

I mention this stationery fetish as it is connected to that need to plan for what is ahead, to embark upon a new term, to give yourself something new to boost your mood so that you can continue with a renewed energy. Last week’s blog ‘Fairy dust and wishes’ talked about my determination to manage the part I have been given in our drama group’s pantomime, by setting myself goals to achieve – fitness, weight loss and learning lines etc. For me, the new school year was always a moment for personal reflection where I would think about what I wanted to achieve in the academic year ahead, what I might do differently this time round. I guess that is why I have been asking myself similar questions recently.

I have a new writing project in the pipeline and have been working on that almost every day for a few weeks now, giving both it and myself the structure that is needed to make purposeful strides forward. I also face a challenge connected to my writing. This month I am due to lead a talk about my journey into writing and publishing my book and some of the issues covered within the content of it – menopause, mental health, self-help and empowerment. Planning for this event, takes me back to times when I prepared training sessions for fellow teachers or presentations to support talks to parents. The difference, I suppose, is just the context. Whilst I have the skill set required to lead a discussion and I know the content from first-hand experience as, after all, it is my story, it will feel strange to introduce myself as an author.

I am not going back to school this year, in all honesty I do not think I shall return to school in future years – not in a professional capacity anyway. Yet this month still feels like a new beginning for me, reminiscent of all the new terms that I faced. I am growing into my new ‘author uniform,’ I am working out my own timetable and rules and if I need to, I may even get myself some new stationery.

Aged five or six, at my first primary school in Heston, Middlesex.