No Weddings and Thirteen Funerals

I’m writing this on board the plane to Bari – a first for me.  I’m so tired I can’t sleep, stuck in limbo between places, anxious, as ever about what I’ll find when I arrive.  A dread instilled in me by a worrying Mother who was capable of working herself into frenzy if I was even a few minutes late.   Even if I wasn’t late come to think of it.

On Friday and Saturday I attended the last two days of my Humanist funerals course, during which we trainee celebrants each conducted “mock” funerals.  I presided over the burial of fiesty motorcycle riding, drug abusing Kellie in the grounds of the St John’s hotel, Solihull, on Friday afternoon as the sun went down.  Having done four burials on the Friday we sat through nine cremations at the Robin Hood Crematorium on the Saturday.  The day began with a tour of the “backstage” areas, including the ovens and a collection of blackened artificial hips and knee joints, by a lugubrious Brummie with a beergut and a nylon tie.

By cremation number eight most of us were getting hysterical.

Our parting in the fading light of the Crematorium gardens was strangely emotional, given that we had only known one another for five days spread over a couple of months.  Hugs and farewell kisses and injunctions to “keep in touch”.  But then I guess you'd possibly struggle to go to thirteen funerals in a lifetime, let alone do them in two days.

Doctor Botox

“Same day vaccinations” it said on the internet.  The clinic was in a big Victorian terrace on a main road near Leicester city centre.   I had to negotiate an entry phone and was then let into to a very smart suite of offices with soft carpets, swirling feature wallpaper and chandeliers.  The attractive young asian PA told me to fix myself a coffee and the Doctor would see me shortly.  Sure enough I was shown into the surgery a few minutes later, coffee in hand.  Behind an imposing desk lounged a young asian guy with slick black hair, an expensive shirt and a very personable manner.

Talking through the options for vaccination he made me feel relaxed, despite the subject matter.  “Yes, I’d definitely get a rabies vaccination.  Trouble is there is not much of the post infection vaccine available these days and without you are dead, no question.”   Actually we couldn’t do that one as it needs a jab a week for three weeks.  But I settled for two jabs which should protect me from four or five miscellaneous diseases.  We retired to a consulting room where I laid on the couch, listened to soft music and didn’t feel a thing.

I found myself smiling as I paid out £121 for the jabs and received a crisply printed invoice and record card.  The card had my name written in a section called “the nitty gritty”.

“Actually, I spend most of my time giving middle-aged women botox jabs.”  He said as I was getting ready to leave.  “It’s great, I spend all day injecting grateful women and chatting.”

“Well someone’s got to do it.”  I said, as I shook his hand and smiled.

My Brighton Family

This is Denise, my landlady during my four weeks in Brighton doing the “CELTA” English language teaching course.  The three people gathered with me round the dinner table are my fellow students: Ali from Dubai; Enrico from Trento in Northern Italy and; Natalia from Mexico.

It seems strange to think that I knew none of these people four short weeks ago and now I feel like I’m leaving my surrogate family.  Denise is a devout Catholic with a mixed English/French background and political views somewhere to the right of Pope John Paul II.  She also has the proverbial “heart of gold”.  At seventy seven years of age and with a hip operation due in a few days, she looks after four students, including giving us all a hearty breakfast and a solid supper and doing our washing.  On top of this she has that wonderful knack of creating a chaotic, welcoming and homely atmosphere where people feel free to do as they wish.  And all for £115 per week.

 

She insisted on my fixing myself and her a large scotch each before dinner every evening.  Personally I see Tony Blair as a flawed person probably doing his best, rather than as the Anti-Christ.  But this is small thing easy to forgive in one with so generous a spirit.

Good luck Denise, Ali, Enrico and the graceful Natalia, I shall miss you guys!

Helta CELTA

There’s been a long gap in this blog while I went to the UK to study for my Certificate in Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages (CELTA).  Four weeks of twelve-hour days seven days a week. 

Before the course I laughingly thought that I would have a little time and space to write my blog and have the odd day out.  Instead it’s been: get up; go for a run along the Brighton seafront; finish the lesson plan for that day’s teaching; discuss the lesson plan with my tutor and fellow trainees; give the lesson; analyse the lesson; have a sandwich and talk about teaching; go to training sessions on how to teach; go home and work on an assignment about teaching; look at watch; say “good God is that the time?” And; go to bed.

Twelve of us started this intellectual and emotional assault course and eleven of us finished.  Most of the others are twenty somethings looking to travel or just to get a job in this increasingly tough economic climate.  Decent people and good colleagues, although they did at times make me feel very old.  For the first time in my life I started to notice an occasional “doesn’t he do well for his age?” subtext in some of their comments.

Anyway, it’s over now and I feel peculiarly sad.  It has been a very intense experience.  Maybe I’m just tired.