I limped into my half
term break with holes in my shoes and stones in my soul, emotionally
and physically exhausted and suffering from people overload. I was
slightly surprised to find I got there at all. I needed to recharge
so I locked my front door and retreated to my garden with books,
buckets of chicken wings and bottles of beer. I hunched in the sun
like a beardless garden gnome, shirtless and a little deranged,
staring at the straw footed scarecrow with it’s stoners smile and
wondered where the bees have gone, and the butterflies too. I thought
the world may end soon and I half hoped I was right. The bees and
butterflies may be scarce but the flies have survived, big, hairy
arsed bastard things that dull buzzed around me in Vulturous circles
and drank the sweat from my face. I listened to Miriam Makeba singing
Pata Pata endlessly on repeat. In the recording it is 1967, her voice
is clear, pure and powerful and she has already been in exile for
seven years.
Post run on a warm
afternoon and I am leaning my head against the splintery fence, in my
left hand is a fruity Swedish Cider thick with sweetness and crushed
ice. Closing my eyes I tilt my face toward the sun and feel the
momentary tickle of a small spider or hairy arsed fly on my stubbly
head. I ignore it and it goes away.
I had the pleasure of
meeting a man called Mattie in the week prior to the break. Guy and I
took our sixth form pupils to the local tennis centre, partly because
the PE focus this term has been striking games and hitting a ball
over a net and partly because we like to get our young people out
into the community and expose them to different people, it’s a way
of gently piercing the bubble that is school and introducing the
reality of the wider world.
Mattie is Mauritian, a
former international tennis player, coach and psychologist. He is
also Autistic. People like this reignite me, acting as a mirror and
reflecting back exactly why I used to love my job and reminding me
that deeply hidden I probably still do. He was interesting, fiercely
intelligent and the corners of his eyes were touched with humour. He
was clearly passionate about working with young people with
disabilities. Mattie had a great story of being 17 and volunteering
at the so called Special Olympics – the forerunner of the
Paralympics. It was his job to place the shot put within reach of a
large Swedish lady competing in a wheelchair but placed them just out
of arms reach. The lady leaned over, overbalanced and fell on top of
Mattie. “She couldn’t move and I couldn’t move and my face was
trapped between these giant Swedish boobs”
I’m glad he made it
out so that I could meet him.
I’ve been running
with my friends and colleagues Annie and Kate a fair amount recently,
making scribbly lined routes through the woods on a Friday after
work. These have become my favourite runs, they are smart, dynamic
women who both run like stink.
I just stink like
someone who runs…
Running during half
term gave us the freedom to run in the morning when we were not
drained by work. We didn’t have to collect children from band
practice or go home to cook. We chose to run the other side of the
road where the trails are stonier and the inclines longer. Late
Spring mornings in England can be beautiful, the sun shines
stratified by the mist like floating gold and the shadows lie long
and angular in dark geometric patterns but on this occasion the sun
is no more than a thought, refusing to untangle itself from the
cloud. The morning to looks and feels Jurassic, the trees seem closer
to the trail edge than normal and loom like ogres and the vegetation
is heavy with moisture. The birds have hidden themselves with the sun
but their song is beautiful and clear. Like all communal runs we
talked as we ran, sometimes deeply and with eloquence, stringing
words and ideas together threaded with birdsong and sometimes with
short profane bursts, less divine and much more human and earthbound.
We had a great run and when we eventually left the trees behind and
ran down to the traffic lights they both bestowed kisses upon my
cheeks. They have no idea how blessed They made me.
