Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face...

This past week has been devoted to Scotland's national poet, Robert Burns, one of Literature's finest poets, though sadly incomprehensible, even to his fellow-countrymen. Certainly to his Orcadian fellow-countrymen, if last Friday's lesson was anything to go by.

"What do we know about Robert Burns?" "He was a womanising nymphomaniac," announced Graeme.

Burns wrote hundreds of excellent poems, collected thousands of songs, farmed, worked as an Exciseman, toured Scotland, drank a lot and fathered a remarkable number of illegitimate children. Put in this context, his early death seems more inevitable than tragic.

I can't say that Burns' love-songs were a great hit with the kids on Hoy (they're a little young) and poor Iona, bless her, was struggling with 'To a haggis' -

Is there that owre his French ragout

Or olio that wad staw a sow,

Or fricasee wad mak her spew

Wi' perfect sconner,

Looks down wi' sneering, scorfu' view

On sic a dinner?

But anyone that makes fun of the French snobbery about food is a pal o' mine, so Burns get ma vote!

Tam o'Shanter was a great success though and we spent a happy day deconstructing it, illustrating it and planning a film of it. I gave Donald a drawing of Burns' byre to colour in: "What breed of kye is that? What's that wee beastie on the stall?" It was a stoat, which I was foolish enough to tell him was the same colour as my hair, so the beastie is now labelled 'Ms Hainsworth.'

The weather had turned truly dreadful. Housemate Emma had a friend from Hartlepool staying for a couple of days who was due to leave Friday as he had to go to a wedding on Saturday. Every ferry was cancelled and he finally left at midday today. He should have docked by one but the last I heard he was still at sea at half past two. So it was with some trepidation that 10 of us set off for Flotta for their Burns Night Supper. I organised this little jolly, and I was terrified it was going to be awful, as, once we set off at 7.20p.m., there was no possibility of leaving till 2a.m. And, given the weather, there was a serious risk of being stuck there for many hours more. I don't have a vast circle of friends here and I thought it was about to be reduced by 9! But it was a real laugh. Flotta is a small island halfway between Mainland and Hoy. It has a population of 100 and a school with 6 kids in it. Its main claim to fame is that it is a major employer, as is it an oil terminal. It was the workers' boat, a brand-new catamaran called the Flotta Lass that took us across. It went to Hoy first, where Mabel (Scottish dancing teacher extraordinaire and now an accomplished performer of Tam o' Shanter thanks to me: it was because of Mabel that the lesson went so well) Graeme and his grandpa got on. Granpa abandoned Graeme as soon as he arrived, so he sat with us all evening and led us clueless idiots in the dancing. What a star! I feel this auspicious event deserves a little poem:

We set off for Flotta

To celebrate the poet

I was invited by a bloke on the ferry who failed to turn up

(Wouldn't you know it)

So I never got to see him

In his kilt and his sporran

But I ate three helpings of haggis

And got severe indigestion.

After enough haggis and clapshot

To make a girl sink,

They powdered the floor till it was like an ice-rink.

Like Burns' witches and warlocks

We lapped and we flang

And we slipped in the powder

And got the moves wrong.

We dashed the White Sergeant

Wi' Graeme, aged 13 and a quarter

(Ma date fer the neet

On the island of Flotta.)

When we were not dancing (or, in my case, groaning, as I ate far too much - but it was worth it) Graeme entertained us with scurrilous gossip about just about everyone in the room. He also told us that the guys who were running the bar (cheap beer! another first for Orkney!) had made a 'tourist' video about Flotta and put it on YouTube. It's quite funny - just type 'Flotta' into the YouTube search thingy. Anyway, a good time was had by all and the whole thing cost six quid. You might also like the following website:
http://www.wallydug.demon.co.uk/haggis/leaflet.html

Health & Safety

I remember, back in Dartford days, when everyone would be saying around this time "I've been back a week and I don't feel as if I'd had a holiday at all." (Actually, one hadn't really HAD a holiday, seeing as the run-up to Christmas consisted of marking A-level coursework and one started the 2 inch thick pile of GCSE marking on Boxing Day.) Thus I can gloat: I've been back a week and scarcely feel as if I've done any work. I do, however, feel pretty ropey and, as 'news' is generally 'bad news' this at least gives me something to write about, seeing as it's dark here mainly, and days are grey and cold.

A most pleasant holiday in the company of those I care for, nearly all of whom managed to be ill, or have been ill, or were about to be ill. But not me! she shouted, Lennie-like, something I put down to being under-worked.

I flew down and back, just as well, as the ferries were cancelled and roads very dangerous. You only realise what that means when you come back several days after New Year and find the supermarkets devoid of fresh food. Somerfields had one Savoy cabbage that appeared to have crawled in there to die. That was it. I wouldn't fly if I could help it, though. You don't get fed, even though it's BA, and the security is tedious. I had 2 pots of homemade jam with me and they made me throw them away. You can no longer wheel your case from car to check-in at Kirkwall's tiny airport, as huge concrete blocks now block the access (presumably because they are expecting attacks from terrorists no taller than 9 inches and who lack climbing skills.)

I have put in a full week this week, as I am now the stand-in for the County Drama Advisor (note use of capitals to make this seem impressive) every Thursday. Wednesday's trip back from Stronsay was less than pleasant: it took the best part of two hours to get home. It was a surprise to see the plane, which appeared from an entirely different direction than usual, as it was so windy. Once airborne, it was so buffetted by the gale that we were at an angle of 45degrees, first one way, then the other. It was like being in one of those war films starring Kenneth More. I was so cold when I got home I had to go to bed to warm up. I had a rehearsal that evening for this one-act play I'm directing and walked out into the sort of rain that soaks you instantaneously to the skin. Even cuddling my little hottie, HW Bear, failed to warm me through by morning. But a trip to Hoy always cheers me up, especially as I was being paid a day's supply to do nothing.

The idea is that the entire school will put on 'Joseph and his Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat' at the end of March. Somehow, this ghastly Lloyd-Webber farrago has passed me by and I knew nothing about it, so I spent part of the day watching a dvd featuring Donny Osmond as Joseph and Joan Collins as Potiphar's wife. You don't know the meaning the term 'cheesy' until you have seen this film. It was truly dreadful. Then we had a staff meeting to decide on a modus operandi. I had assumed that I was expected to direct the show, until it was pointed out that I wouldn't be there for much of the rehearsal time. So who IS going to direct it? We're too busy announced the acting Head. (There are only 2 fulltime teachers at the school and the non-teaching Head is off on long-term sick leave.) So a proper show, in a theatre, with lights, sound and costumes is going to be directed by - er - nobody? Hmm...

The week ended on a high note, as Friday's lessons on Hoy went really well - a first - and I let them spend the last lesson attempting to teach me Scottish dancing. Me dancing - always good for a laugh. As for why I want to learn to dance, that'll have to wait till a future post. There was a beautiful sunset as I was leaving - photos above. It was just as frosty clear on the last day of term, when we had a fun day. I let the boys out to let off steam and they put me on the zip-line: they were laughing too much at me screaming to take a photo, so I include one of Ryan on it instead. The calm one was from the ferry that same morning: you can supply, in your imagination, the Viking longships that once sailed these same waters, gazed at the beautiful mountains of Hoy and, with that innate sense of the poetic with which those soulful Scandinavians were blessed, decided to call it 'High Island.'

So I was in a good mood and had jolly plans for a nice long frosty walk today, but walked out the front door and slipped on black ice on the concrete path, so I now feel achey and bruised and generally wretched. Curses be upon Orkney Islands Council and their bloody penny-pinching council house design: massive long sloping path with no safety rail and facing north so ice, once formed, never melts. I've hurt my back, my neck, an elbow and a wrist, so once I've finished this, HW Bear and I are crawling back into bed with a hot whisky and a nice book.

Happy New Year, one and all. May 2008 bring you health and happiness and, for those among you in the teaching profession, less marking.

Snow Queen has melted

Well, it's all over: the panto, the term, 2007 (well, almost.) Panto was exhausting, with 10 performances, including two Saturday matinees, but great fun. No hiccups at all, which was good, although less interesting from the point-of-view of writing about it. Everyone who spoke to me or whose comments were relayed to me seemed to enjoy it - one of the girls on Stronsay even went twice (which probably says more about being a teenager on Stronsay than the quality of the entertainment.) I appeared on Radio Orkney - not that I remembered to tune in - that's the second time I've been interviewed and I've missed it both times - and got a good writeup in the two local papers. One commented on my 'powerful voice', possibly a reference to my appalling one-octave-below-natural-register rendition of 'Killer Queen.' See above for me with my attendant penguins, bless 'em. (Also a photo of George, the resplendent Dame.) When it was at last over, I went for a long walk to clear my aching head. Thus photo of swans on a freezing winter afternoon. There is about 7 hours of daylight at present, if you're lucky.

The mummers play went well - the kids actually managed to learn all their lines and the audience of parents and children laughed in the right places. The kids succeeding in putting on their own Christmas Fayre successfully and raised £333, which will go towards the cost of their trip to Shetland. (I can't help thinking that a trip to a part of the United Kingdom that isn't another remote, sparsely populated island might be more educational, but perhaps I'm just feeling the effects of end-of-term collapse.) I would just like to point out that Father Christmas had a floor cushion stuffed down her trousers, in case you thought I'd been overeating to compensate for the extreme cold.

I am absolutely shattered. Even packing to come home has been difficult, seeing as BA lost my luggage the last twice flew with them, and so I have had to plan carefully in case they make it a hat-trick. I am dreading crossing London on the busiest Saturday of the year with both a rucksack and an overnight bag, but I am not risking being knickerless and toothbrushless yet again.

Thank you to all of you who have read my literary (bloggertary?) efforts: it has made such a difference to me to know that I haven't sunk without trace from your memories. I hope every one of you has a wonderful Christmas and all the best for 2008, when I shall be in touch once more. MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Dramatic events

That's 'dramatic events' in the same way a book review reading 'far less thrilling than his previous efforts' will reappear on the jacket as 'thrilling.' However, reason for lengthy silence from the land where 'four seasons in one day' seems an inadequate way to describe the mutability of the weather is that I have been tied up with pantomime rehearsals to the exclusion of all else, apart from work, which has also involved drama.

When I was told that they take pantomime very seriously here, I wasn't paying sufficient attention. The last two Sundays have involved rehearsals of inordinate length (ten hours and eleven hours respectively) plus rehearsals most other nights and I am shattered. The dress rehearsal is on Wednesday and we have the first of ten performances Friday. On both Saturdays, there are two performances and we are not allowed to go home in between. I have enjoyed it in the sense that I have a great part - non-stop ham acting - but the responsibility is telling on me. I have somehow allowed myself to be talked into directing a one-act play for February's one-act play competition, which apparently is also taken very seriously, as all the islands compete against one another and the winning production goes on to compete in a national event. If I screw this up, I'm assuming no one will ever speak to me again.

Meanwhile, I have also allowed myself to be talked into (do you sense a pattern here?) taking on another job one day a week, when I will be covering for the county Drama advisor, who has been promoted to Arts co-ordinator. This involves working with Primary school as well as secondary-age children. Help! Short people! Ones young enough to believe that what we are doing is for real. I'm terrified.

Finally, my 11 nutters on Hoy have decided that they will run a Christmas Fayre all on their own (I'll believe that when I see it) and that I will be Father Christmas. Last Friday I was very pointedly informed that they had Santa outfits in Lidls for 1.99, so I am now the proud owner of red suit, beard etc. I have written a mummers play for them to perform. I am quite proud of this, although its (very basic) humour is lost on most of them.

The doctor, doing the customary list of cures ("I can cure the itch, the stitch, the palsy and the gout/ If there's 99 diseases in, I'll fetch a hundred out...") has the lines "Rabies and scabies and foot-and-mouth/I've cured in the north and in the south".

Donald: That's shtupit. A human being can't get foot-and-mooth.

Me: It's a joke, Donald.

Donald: No it isn't.

Me: It's a funny play. It has jokes in it.

Donald: Well, it's a shtupit choke.

Rehearsals are progressing slowly.

I haven't taken many photos recently - in fact, with all this rehearsing, I've barely seen daylight. I did dutifully go to see the annual Orkney bird show, as Donald was competing. The other pic is of my housemate, Emma, whose mum has sent up a costume she found in the attic of their house. She's got a fancy-dress event coming up at her school. I think she looks rather amazing, even in the dismal light of an energy-efficient lightbulb. I hope to have some panto photos for you next time. It's taken me hours to post these pictures and they're still in the wrong order. I never had this problem with a packet of kodak from Boots.

O westron wind, when wilt thou blow...?

When I told people up here that , no I wasn't on holiday but had in fact taken a job up here, the usual response was "have you spent a winter up here yet?" Not, "welcome to Orkney" or "Oh how fascinating!" or "bugger off back to England ye peely-wally Sassenach." Now Winter has, not exactly arrived, but sort of waved at us from a distance, I'm beginning to see why. With the clocks back, I now spend my working week in the dark. Weekends it rains. I tried to rid myself of a long-standing headache by going for a walk this morning. Blue skies were smiling on the front and back windows, but each time I opened the door, it wazzed down. I'm beginning to think that there is a little black cloud attached to the Sky dish, probably placed there by Orkney Islands Council in retaliation for us having installed it without their consent.

So it's just been work and kip in the main. Pantomime rehearsals occupy three nights and Sunday afternoons now. In addition to my previously mentioned Queen item, I am singing a duet of a Blondie song so obscure I can't remember the title. Or the words. Or the tune. He's axed my solo number. Can't imagine why.

Fans of the shipping forecast ("and this one's for all you insomniacs out there: yes, it's 'Sailing By', top of the sleeplessness chart since 1937") may have noticed that severe - or extreme - or appalling - I forget what they call it these days - weather was forecast for last Thursday. All schools in Orkney were closed. Hurray! It was my day off and so I lost a day's pay as my supply teaching was cancelled. Boo! It was merely windy here, but was apparently pretty dire on the west side of the island and over on Hoy. Staffroom tales were of flying byre roofs and barn doors.

So, in lieu of actual news or hot-from-the-press photos, I append some of 'oor day oot' in Stromness, just before theholiday. Arty, eh?

A trip to Fairyland

The plane on theStronsay airfield. The livery is that of Highland Park whisky, which is possibly also what it is fuelled by.

I had to babysit two of the Hoy boys on Friday cos they'd 'forgotten' their swimming togs, so they helped me tidy the room, then I let them draw on the board. This is Kieran's drawing of me teaching.















I wish I could pretend I took this stunning picture, but in fact my housemate Emma took it on her mobile phone! This was taken the first weekend we were here, in mid-August.




This is a Green Man in Kirkwall's St Magnus Cathedral. It could, however, be a local fisherman who has caught a squid in his teeth, possibly during tonight's Force 9 gale.



A quiet week, mainly because the flights to Stronsay were so rough I had to crawl into bed when I got home. Thank God (and Lisa and Stewart) for HW Bear, who is, along with lemon & ginger tea, my resident stomach-settler. The new plane schedules started after the holiday: I now have to get to the airport two hours earlier than before. Loganair runs a flight especially for teachers in the winter. They and the Council seemed to be experiencing teething problems last Monday: they'd booked a colleague on the flight who always travels by ferry, while Lorraine, who'd been doing this run for 4 years, was left off the list and so left off the plane. She coped bravely with the fact that she was thus prevented from a day's toil and forced to head off home to her duvet.


The new schedule involved some bizarre routing. We flew over Stronsay, landed at Sanday, headed back south to drop me off at Stronsay and finally the little plane headed off to Westray. On the afternoon trip, the same thing happened, which meant that the Westray teachers spent almost as much time in the air as they did at school and were not very happy. It gave me a chance to see the seals on Stronsay four times though. I've seen them before, maybe a dozen or so, but this time there were hundreds. Last back end they had them on AutumnWatch on some Hebridean island, covered in sand and going blind in a howling sand-storm. Clearly these are the dimwits among the seal population. The Stronsay seals had it sussed. What I had initially thought were sheep in a field proved to be a seal maternity ward. "Catch me lying-in on a beach? Not bloody likely! Give me a nice lawn-birth anytime dear."


The pilots on these inter-island flights are fantastic. They each have their own style. There's an English one who insists on giving us a full safety run-through every single time, even though the passengers are the same teachers who take the flight each time and, in the afternoons, the same ones he took out in the morning. "The emergency exit is the same door you came in by" - just in case, I assume, you fancied using the other one while you plummet. He also gives us a report on what we'll see as we fly to work and the weather conditions. Wouldn't it be great if bus drivers did that? "If you look out of the window to your right, you may glimpse Sainsbury's and, if you're lucky, you might just catch B&Q beyond it." I'm longing for him to say "We'll be cruising at an altitude of 525 feet."


The other one is more laconic. His safety measures consist of "All strapped in?" He clearly enjoys a bit of field taxiing. Why go down the airstrip when you can bump over the grass?


More experienced staff have taken great pleasure in regaling me with things that have gone wrong on previous flights. The time the door flew open at 100 feet and Moira's handbag fell out onto the airfield. "All strapped in?" The time the fog was so dense that the pilot handed the passengers the chart and asked them to shout if they were able to spot anything they recognised.


The highlight of a fairly quiet week and the reason for the title of this week's offering was Sunday night at Woodwick House, a country house hotel down a lane, down a track, down a drive and brake before you fall in the sea. A storyteller called Marita was telling tales of the Green Man, or, to be precise, Green Men, Green Maidens and Green Children. (Had this taken place on Friday, when I had a fairly rough crossing from Hoy, I could have added one of my own about Green Teachers.) It was a wild night and only 7 people turned up, so instead of it taking place in their little theatre, we repaired to the Doocot (dovecot) in the garden, a ruinous stone building covered - inside as well as out - in ivy. Light was provided by an elaborate candelabrum and tealights in each of the little pigeonholes. The ivy was cut away behind her to make space for an old carved court cupboard, so the ivy became a kind of tapestry behind a green altar. She told the story of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight...those of you who know this wonderful mediaeval story should be able to imagine how appropriate the setting was: it WAS the green chapel!

Hit had a hole on the ende and the ayther syde
and overgrowen with gresse in glodes aywhere,
and al watz hol inwith, nobut an olde cave
or a crevisse of an olde cragge he couth hit not deme
with spelle.
"We lorde," quoth the gentyl knyt,
"whether this be the grene chapelle?
He myt about mydnyt
the deil his matynnes telle."

Fortunately for my health, however, she insisted we move to the house after that, so I enjoyed the tale of the Rain Maiden while sitting by a real fire while cuddling a mug of tea.

Saturday night and Sunday morning

Off to tea with the neighbours


The neighbours (Kirkwall coven, Education Chapter)

Double rainbow at the Broch of Gurness

The Broch of Gurness (or what remains of it)

Sunday morning felt a need for fresh air and exercise. I got soaked. Wuthering Archaeologists on tour.

It's vile today - so rough on the plane coming back from Stronsay, I had to go to bed when I got in. Hope today wasn't too traumatic for all those of you returning to the chalkface.

Hey! I got a comment from a stranger. I have a readership! (in addition to you kind and supportive friends.)

Hope you appreciate the new minimalism - last one a bit lengthy, methinks.