'Break a leg'

An eventful few days. In brief, the play I have been directing opened the one-act play festival - and failed to win. I do not care about this: the adjudicator was, in my opinion, fair and his ideas were good. He praised my direction, which was most encouraging, seeing as it's the first play I've directed (apart from a group of teachers in the SATs scenes from 'Romeo and Juliet' a few years ago in Wembley, something that had the happy outcome of introducing Andrew (Romeo) to Charmaine (Juliet) and bringing about a romance that has, for all I know, ended in marriage.) Unfortunately, one of my cast of two is, in her own words 'highly competitive' and I doubt whether she will ever speak to me again. It was good, but the other plays were better. We did, however, receive high praise for the 'Ecuadorian fertility figure' - our best prop - and I hope to embarrass yo'all with a photo of it very soon.

The morning of the play I slipped on the highly polished lino of Kirkwall airport and have sprained my ankle. I was in shock, methinks, which led me to attempt to get to work notwithstanding (literally - I had to be pushed down to the plane in a wheelchair) I had to get off at Sanday to let off another teacher, so I told the airstrip chap - imagine elderly Orcadian Viking-type - that I needed his arm because I had fallen over. He glared at my shoes (as chosen by Mrs Martin, stylish yet sensible) and said "This wouldna have happened if ye'd been wearing rrrubber boots!"

I got to Stronsay, whereupon Mae, the Head, packed me off to the doctor, who decided he'd like to put acupuncture needles in my foot. "Can you feel that?" I could feel nothing, as between the sub-zero of the plane and equal chill of his surgery, my feet were numb with cold. I then went home on the ferry, took a cab to get my car from the airport and went to bed for the rest of the day. Thus not going to work took 5 hours and cost me 14 quid.

Today I hirpled to Hoy (yes, they actually say 'hirple' here - I thought it only existed in the novels of Sir Walter Scott) to endure several hours of Andrew Lloyd Webber. The kids were great - I explained that I had hurt my ankle and was therefore in pain and in a foul temper and they ran round fetching me chairs for my foot and fresh ice-packs and being good, bless 'em.

I have taken no photos since last week, but the photo above is for Doctor Mom. (It's just the alternative route to Stronsay, Viva.)

Stranded in Sanday, Afloat in Flotta

Bloggable - my new word. I have had a lovely fortnight, but unless this turns into the online equivalent of a newspaper's 'Nature Notes', not a great deal that is bloggable, as a lot of the pleasure has been in seeing amazing skies and being aware of rapidly lengthening days, so that a trip to Hoy was in the dark on a Tuesday and in the dawn by the Friday.

There is no half-term holiday for teachers this term: the kids had two days off while staff had to attend in-service training, but as I am only contracted to teach 0.8 of a timetable, I had to go to only the first day and thus was able to spend three blissful days on Flotta.

Last week brought the only fly in the proverbial ointment, when the short flight home turned into five hours of frozen misery, as Kirkwall airport was fog-bound and we flew, first to Sanday, where we hung around for over an hour while my body temperature plummetted, and next to Westray, where we waited for a ferry for even longer and I was approaching hyperthermia by the time the ferry arrived. It is, however, a large ferry, and served hot food. I'm not fond of bacon butties, but mine tasted like manna from heaven.

On Thursday I did my first day of my new job teaching Drama here there and everywhere. I was sent to Dounby and earned a day's pay for two hours work. I stayed in the afternoon to see the little ones enact an Orkney wedding as part of their work on 'festivals.' It was very sweet: the bride and groom, only three feet tall, took their vows very seriously in the 'kirk' and then there was a reception in the hall, with traditional food and Scottish dancing and even a real wedding cake. The 'brither o' the bride' made a speech, in which he declared he'd be 'glad tae see the back of her cos she used to break ma peedie tractors. No, but seriously, she's no sae bad and bakes the best floory bannocks in Orkney.'

Fridays I now teach two gifted primary school children for an hour before my own class. It was a stunningly beautiful, very still and frosty day, so I took them outside with notebooks and they just listened and wrote down everything they experienced, then went back in and wrote poems. Mary, in particular, is very creative with language. I pointed out that the sheep were silent but that in a few weeks the fields would be full of baaing and bleating, once the lambs wwre born, as all the ewes were pregnant. 'It's field hospital,' said Mary thoughtfully. A flock of starlings descended on the roof of the school and started showing off: 'The starlings are seeking stardom, ' she wrote.

It has taken me several days to get this to publish, as the broadband connexion keeps failing, so refs. to 'a fortnight' have stretched into two and a half weeks. Photographic offerings are of dawn over Scapa Flow, the first from the road in a gale and the second from the ferry to Flotta on a beautiful morning, while the other two feature the penguins of Flotta and the spectacular aerobatics of the Coast Guard helicopter. (He bought me a box of Milk Tray.)

The North wind doth blow and we shall have...

a day off school. Thank you, Orkney Islands Council.

The O.I.C.

is turning me

into a lounge lizard

as on Friday

they decided

there'd be a blizzard.

There wasn't, I'm pleased to say

but I had a duvet day

and Saturday brought snow

to make Kirkwall almost pretty,

which sadly has all melted

as down the rain has pelted

so I must return to work, which is a pity.

(Blame Mrs Martin for this nonsense. She requested poems.)

Yes, it's been a week of serious laziness. I worked Monday, the usual half-day Tuesday and that afternoon flew to Inverness. I cannot comment on the beauties or otherwise of Inverness as it was dark when I arrived and was raining so hard throughout my stay that I formed no opinion of it. It does have a lovely river running through it, though. I stayed in a B&B run by a very camp elderly Hebridean (quite a bizarre combination) and attended a course at a posh hotel the next day. The course turned out to be completely inappropriate for me, as they informed me when I arrived (a bit late for that) but I dutifully took notes and enjoyed a fantastic lunch (which more than made up for the curling sandwiches offered by OIC on my two previous lots of in-service training.) I just had time to hit the shops, stock up on Marks and Sparks knickers and a fresh supply of thick tights and bought a £320 suit in Debenhams sale for 80 quid. Result!

On Thursday, I was meant to be in Hoy, but my new boss, the performing arts co-ordinator - had forgotten to make the necessary arrangements. I offered to go anyway, but he said that the weather was too risky and I might not get back (a night on Hoy - horrors!) so we went together to a primary school to discuss the drama I'll do there, as I will be covering his work every Thursday. I got paid a day's wage for this brief jaunt. Afterwards, I drove him to Stromness to pick up his car from the mechanic: now, that was hairy. There was a hailstorm on the way, with jagged hailstones like shards of glass, and a wind so strong I was quite concerned the car might be blown off the road and I'd be viewing Harray Loch from under the surface.

The promised worse weather never arrived, but Saturday morning it snowed a bit, then it snowed a lot. Very pretty. Emma and her mates went tobogganing. They didn't want to fork out for sledges, so she nicked some aerobic steps from the gym at Kirkwall Grammar School. She later went out to watch England lose the rugby (by that I mean they lost, not that she hoped they would, quite the reverse) which was great as (a) she shouts at the telly and (b) it meant I could watch 3 hours of David Attenborough's The Blue Planet uninterrupted. One of the things I failed to do failed to do when young enough, along with dyeing my hair green, was drop acid (other than in the more conventional sense of ruining my science overall) but an hour of the strange luminous creatures in the deep ocean made me feel as if I'd the experience without any unpleasant side-effects.

Photos are of our front garden, the Earl's Palace in Kirkwall, St Magnus Cathedral and A Cat ( for cat-lovers out there - you know who you are.)

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.