187 It Was Fifty Years Ago Today

Tuesday, April 12th this year was a significant date for me.  It was fifty years ago on April 12th, 1972, that I began teaching at Creighton School, a comprehensive school in Muswell Hill, North London.  For the two and a half years before then, I had taught in a secondary modern school in Lowestoft.  The students in the two schools were quite different.

I like to think that although I may have changed physically only slightly over those fifty years, I am still pretty much the same person that I was then.  Sadly, something happened today that proves I am not.

After a shower this morning, I ironed the collar of the clean shirt I intended to wear - a good thing about winter and early spring is that when wearing a pullover, it is only the collar of a shirt that needs ironing.

Then, I took the three pills I must have every morning and that was followed by a fiddly five minutes, popping pills from their sachets to refill the empty, partitioned pill container with another week’s supply.  Whatever happened to pills in bottles?

I realised that today is Tuesday and that means that the rubbish must be got ready for the refuse collectors tomorrow.  I went back to the bathroom to collect the bag from the small bin there.

The doorbell rang.  I heard Caroline unlock the door and then the voice of a neighbour greeting her.  I couldn’t hear the conversation, but I was aware that Caroline had invited her into the house.

I put the contents of the two-bedroom waste bins as well as the bathroom bag into a larger bag. Then, I set off downstairs carrying all the rubbish and an empty cup with the sound of a conversation becoming clearer with every step. 

I was about to go into the living room to say hello to our neighbour when I realised that I had forgotten something:

I wasn't dressed.  I was stark naked!

The first class I taught at Creighton was a fifth-year (Year 11 in today’s parlance) geography class.  In 1972, children could leave school at the end of the school year after they had become 15.  Consequently, in theory, those who stayed on to the fifth year were keen to study for either a CSE or an ‘O’ level exam.  I quickly discovered that some were less keen than others.

The lesson was going entirely as it should until after about 15 minutes, the classroom door burst open and a really scruffy youth holding a guitar stood in the doorway facing me.  With a theatrical flourish, he struck a loud chord and roared,

“Hi…I’m Steve.”

Things were calm after that but with about 10 minutes of the lesson left, I noticed that a girl sitting at the back of the room was engaged in something that was nothing to do with agriculture in East Anglia.  

She was sitting with her neck resting on the back of her chair, staring at the ceiling.  While sitting like that, she appeared to be gently massaging her scalp.  As I approached, I could see an empty paper packet that had been torn open and traces of white powder on the desk. 

“What are you doing?” I asked.  She ignored me.

“Sit up please and tell me what you’re doing.”

Eventually, and with a huge sigh, she dropped her hands, lifted her head, and scowled at me.

“What d’yer think I’m doing with dry shampoo?  I’m washing me bleedin ’air.”  *

At lunchtime, I went into the staffroom intending to ask someone the whereabouts of the canteen.  Keith, a young science teacher, realising that I was somewhat uncertain, asked if I’d brought any lunch.  I told him I hadn’t.

“Let’s go to the pub?” he suggested.

We walked the short distance to The Alexandra on Fortis Green where I had shepherd’s pie costing 27½p.  It was just a year after decimalisation, and it must have previously been five and six.

A couple of months ago I rang Keith, whom I still see fairly often and asked him if he knew of the significance of April 12th.  Of course, he didn’t.  After I had reminded him, he agreed it was worth a celebration.  Unfortunately, The Alex was knocked down some years ago and so it (and the blue plaque marking its place in the history of Muswell Hill), has gone.

Instead, we went to Searcy’s at the top of the Gherkin building in London.  I had shepherd’s pie again, but it was £30 this time and nothing like as nice as the Alex’s.  Much too salty.

This is Keith and me in a staff photo in September 1972:

And this in 2022:

The bugger’s hardly changed!

*****

* Washing hair during a lesson is pretty bad but something much worse happened in the classroom adjacent to mine two or three years later.  It’s a difficult thing to write about.

The bell had rung for lunch and as I walked past that room, the teacher saw me and beckoned me in.  He asked me about something or other, but my attention was fixed on a girl who was still there at the back of the room.  She appeared to be fast asleep with her head on the desk.

“She’s been like that for 20 minutes,” he told me.  “It’s been great.  No interruptions.  I suppose I’d better wake her up now.”

He called her name and shook her by the shoulder but there was no response.  Then, we saw several opened packets strewn around the floor under her desk.  

She was unconscious, not asleep.  

The teacher rushed down six flights of stairs to the general office to telephone for an ambulance.

Twenty minutes later, she was driven away to hospital where she was treated and survived.  For years I resisted the temptation to inform the teacher that I had taught some pretty poor lessons too but never one that drove someone to attempt suicide.

We never were told what had driven her to such an awful act and as far as I remember, she never returned to school but three or four years later I was told that she appeared as the centrespread of Mayfair magazine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

21. Island times

With our permanent departure from Prospect Reef and Cayman only four weeks away, it is time for me to reflect on some experiences that I have had here. 

On Friday October 21^st 2005, I retired from teaching.  The last ever class I had, I can’t say “taught”, was 9X Maths and they achieved bugger all in that lesson.

The first ever class that I taught was on Monday September 8^th 1969 - 2C General Science, at Roman Hill Secondary Modern School, Lowestoft in Suffolk.  Then, I taught around 20 lessons a week, 39 weeks a year for 36 years – roughly 30,000.  I know for a fact that three of them were very good.

One week after I retired, on Friday October 28^th 2005, I set foot on Grand Cayman for the first time.  I was met at the bottom of the aircraft steps by a Caymanian with a golf umbrella who escorted me in driving rain across the tarmac to the arrivals hall.  The rain was harder than anything I had ever experienced before.  We had arrived in the tail of Hurricane Wilma.

The eleven-hour flight from Heathrow to Cayman was the most uncomfortable journey I have ever made.  A week earlier, Caroline had received a personal letter signed by the Leader of Government Business, to be presented to the British Airways check-in staff at Heathrow.  It informed them that Ms Dawes was travelling to Cayman to take up a position with the Caymanian government and urged BA to, “show Ms Dawes every consideration.”

We were excited at the prospect of an upgrade at the very least and probably into First Class.  We showed the letter.  The woman read it, tapped away at the computer and gave us our boarding cards.  We had Row 43 A and B which are known by everyone to be two of the four worst, most uncomfortable seats on a 767.  They do not recline.  They are squeezed up against the rear bulkhead at the back of the plane and if they had been one row further back we would have been sitting in the lavatory.  We’d have had more legroom in there and would have been a lot more comfortable.

First impressions of Cayman were that it was very like England but hot.  People all spoke English and they drove on the left.  Everyone we met was very friendly but that was to be expected as we were staying in the Sunshine Suites and most of the other guests were there on holiday. 

We hired a car and on Saturday drove all over the island.  We visited everywhere, including parts that were very nice but we have never been back to since.  I had my first bottle of Stingray lager on Public Beach at ten o’clock on that Saturday morning.  I was feeling guilty at the early hour but justified it with the assistance of the Australian bar staff.  They pointed out to me that it was four o’clock in the UK.  Then, I had my first swim in the Caribbean and was disappointed that the water was not as warm as I had been expecting.

At least I knew that it was the Caribbean.  Four weeks earlier, before I checked in an Atlas, I had thought that the Cayman Islands were in the Indian Ocean, somewhere near the Seychelles.  I have a degree in geography but as I said when I tried to cover my embarrassment to Caroline, “I think in terms of concepts, theories and hypotheses.  I am an academic and not a gazetteer geographer!” (She didn’t believe me either).

We found somewhere to rent.  It was beautiful and by the sea but we assumed that such locations were the norm.  It is an island, after all. 

The first time I realised that Caymanians are quite different from other people was when I was trying to find the Cable and Wireless office.  I had the map and the address but I couldn’t match up the two.   In desperation, I stopped the first pedestrian I saw and asked her for assistance.

“Are you in a car?” she asked.  I told her I was and pointed to it.

“If you don’t know the area, it’s too difficult to explain,” she said.  “I’ll show you.

She walked over to my car and got into the passenger seat.

“Left at the end of the road.”

Three minutes later she showed me where to park and pointed out the building.

“Thanks very much,” I said.  “Where are you going?  Can I give you a lift?”

“No,” she said, laughing.  “Then you’d be lost again and you’d have to ask someone else.  You will be doing this all day.”   Whereupon, she got out, gave me a cheery wave and walked off. 

This open and genuine friendliness takes a bit of getting used to.  The first time I ever travelled by bus, I was all on my own and a man and a woman got on.  They greeted me with beaming smiles, sat next to me and chatted to me for the next ten minutes as if we had known each other for years.  

I have to spend a lot of time in hospital waiting rooms for various reasons.  Now, when I enter, I do as everyone else does and say, “Good morning” to those already there and they all say. “Good morning” back to me.  Caroline and I have vowed to continue this practice when we return to England.  Passengers on the tube aren’t going to know what hits them.

I’m going to ramble off on something now.  Bear with what follows please as I believe that it has huge sociological significance.

Whether I say, “Good morning,” to everyone in the waiting room depends entirely on which waiting room it is.  If it is at the dentist, I do; at the Licensing Office I don’t; at the GP, I only address the front row of the four rows; in a bar I greet no one but if the bar is in a hotel, I say, “hello,” to anyone who catches my eye.

Why?  Here are my ideas: The dentist’s room sits about 15 and all the chairs are against the walls and so there is a communal space in the middle which the newly arrived patient has to enter.  The GP waiting room sits 20 but in four rows of five chairs.  The Licensing Office is very large and impersonal.  As for the bars, I have no idea.

Something fairly similar used to take place in London but in a completely different setting.  For quite a long time it was my custom to walk to the newsagent every morning between six and six thirty to buy a newspaper.  At that time of day, everyone I passed on the pavement would smile and say something.  After about seven thirty, all that stopped.  We would approach each other, put our heads down to avoid eye contact and walk on.  5:00 a.m. until 7:30 a.m. is a magical time.  I bet good things tend to happen then.  

End of diversion.  Children here are different from children in London.  If I were walking through Muswell Hill on a Saturday morning and saw students I taught, they would either cross the road to avoid having to acknowledge me or else they would just ignore me as they went past.   In Cayman it couldn’t be more different.  If I see a child from the class I help, they will run up to me in the street or in the supermarket and give me a huge, enthusiastic hug.

A couple of years ago, I was pushing a trolley along a supermarket aisle on a wet, windy Wednesday afternoon.  The store was virtually empty.  Coming towards me was an unaccompanied, large man who was also pushing a trolley.  He was studying the shelves and he wasn’t looking where he was going.  We narrowly avoided a collision and laughed about it.  He asked me how I was and after I’d told him that I was fine, I asked how he was.

“Oh, busy, you know,” he said.  “Never enough time.”

We exchanged a few more words and went our separate ways.  I am hopeless with names but usually good with faces.  I knew that I knew him from somewhere and he obviously knew me as he recognised that I was a resident and not a tourist but I couldn’t place him.  I was watching the news that evening when it suddenly dawned on me who he was: the Prime Minister.

There are things here that drive me mad too, however.  Yesterday I needed the phone number of a store in George Town.  It is Caymanian owned and run.  I looked them up on Google, clicked ‘Contact Us” and looked for the number. PO Box, physical address and email address but no phone number.

I was seven or eight feet from Yellow Pages but as I have a painful knee (yes I have and it really hurts to get out of my chair) I picked up my cell phone and dialed Directory Assistance.  I waited.  Eventually Cara answered.  I told her the name of the store and the address. 

“I’ll put you on hold.” She said.  For the next five minutes I was forced to listen to the dreary sounds made by a depressed saxophonist until, beep beep beep, I was cut off.  I phoned again.

“This is Jessica.  How can I help?”

“Do you have Cara there?” I asked.  “She was trying to help me but we got cut off.”

“I’ll get her for you,” said Jessica. “I’ll put you on hold.” For the next five minutes I was forced to listen to the dreary sounds made by a depressed saxophonist until, beep beep beep, I was cut off.  I phoned again.

No one answered but for the next five minutes I was forced to listen to the dreary sounds made by a depressed saxophonist until, beep beep beep, I was cut off.  I phoned again.

“This is Michelle.  How can I help?”

“May I speak to your supervisor please?”

“I’ll get her for you,” said Michelle. “I’ll just put you on hold.”

“NO DON’T!” I screamed.  Too late. For the next five minutes I was forced to listen to the dreary sounds made by a depressed saxophonist until, beep beep beep, I was cut off.  I phoned again.

“This is Sue.  How can I help?”

“Sue, whatever I say and whatever you think is the right thing to do, DON’T PUT ME ON HOLD. Just look around please and find your supervisor.  Please tell her that I MUST speak to her.  DON’T PUT ME ON HOLD.”  I waited for three minutes.  No saxophone.  Bliss.

I had spent $2.50 and wasted twenty-five minutes of my life and was no further forward that when I decided that it would be too painful to get out of my chair.

“This is Ann.  How can I help?”

“Are you in charge?

“Not really, no I’m not.  Would you like to speak to the person who is?

“No, I wouldn’t.”  I told her of all the problems I’d had and finished, almost as an afterthought, by asking for the phone number.

It took her less than ten seconds for her to find it.

That kind of thing happens often in Cayman.  I never try to phone any business or government office after four o’clock nor at any time on a Friday afternoon either.  No one ever answers the phone.

As I said earlier, we drive on the left.  I should qualify that.  Most of us do.  Some Americans don’t.  The quality of driving here is appalling.  People, as a matter of course, cruise in the outside lane forcing you to undertake on the inside which is dangerous.  Indicators are rarely used.  

At roundabouts, giving way to vehicles approaching from your right is often ignored.  There is no law against using a cell phone while driving and so many people do.  Lots of cars are still driving without lights ten minutes after sunset when, to all intents and purposes, it is fully dark.

I hate ‘high-fiving’ and there is a lot of that here.  A simple’ “Well done,” is no longer enough.  In the last few years I was playing cricket in England, ‘high-fiving’ was a habit that crept in among the young bowlers.  An eighteen year old would take a wicket and then be greeted by all the young members of the side who would go high-fiving him for all they were worth.  A couple of other old-fart colleagues and I would stand, growl and stare disapprovingly.  We never joined in.

I have only once done a high five and it was ten days after we got to Cayman.  Caroline and I had found somewhere to rent and I informed the American in charge of Sunshine Suites.

“Good jaaaahwb,” he exclaimed and went as if to punch me.  I cowered but realised that he was expecting that we touch palms.  To my continuing embarrassment we did.

Cayman, in common with all other islands in the Caribbean, ignores Greenwich Mean Time.  At best, GMT is a basis for negotiation.  We work to "Island Time".  The other day the host of a radio phone-in programme announced, “It’s 8:22 and time for the eight o’clock news.”  A 90-minute session in the waiting room to see the doctor is not uncommon.

I mentioned two weeks ago that Cayman is the “churchiest place in the world”.  Today I have had more evidence of this and how different people are here from those in England.

I am ‘friends’ with 48 people on Facebook.  One of them (I’ll call her Keisha) is an unmarried 23-year-old Caymanian working in the Education department in Cayman.  Another (I’ll call her Jenny) is an unmarried 19-year-old British student reading English at Nottingham University in England. 

The other day, within 30 minutes of each other, they each posted messages that are consecutive and adjacent on my Facebook wall.

At 9:00 (Cayman time) Keisha wrote:

“The Lord your God is with you, He is mighty to save.  He will take great delight in you, he will quiet you with his love, He will rejoice over you with singing. (Zephaniah 3:17)”

At 9:30 (Cayman time) Jenny wrote:

“Gossip Girl …… Oh my fuck!”

See what I mean?