I'd be cynical about this, but I tire of it

If I have a flaw - well, one that stands out above the rest, it would be that I am infected, and filled with a cynicism that shames me. I wish I didn’t have it – I wish I could at least control it better – but it’s always about there somewhere.

I have a good friend who hasn’t a cynical bone in his body. He is devoid of cynicism and when we are together it makes me all the more aware of the skepticism, the suspicious and sneering smog that floats around me. I mock his naivety and make knowing smirks when he refuses to see the bad in someone. I mock him but I envy him – I envy him so much.

Let me tell you a little story about something that happened a year or so ago. I was on route to Church one Sunday morning. My dad was driving my grandparents and I, as he did most weeks. And, as most weeks, he was listening to the Priests as he drove. (For those who’ve never heard of them, The Priests are a classical musical group made up of three Catholic priests all from Northern Ireland who have been singing together since they boarded as students at school in Garron Tower off the north coast)
It’s a short journey and quite soon into it the Priests began to sing ‘How Great Thou Art’ That’s when it began.

It started with a quiet humming, then gradually my grand father began to softly sing along; then my father; then my grand mother. As I listened I was surprised to hear four voices – I was singing too; picking out the bass line. There we were, three generations of Campbells belting out ‘How Great Thou Art’ in some form of four part harmony. It was a beautiful moment, a spontaneous moment, a hallmark moment, if you like. And then I ruined it.

As we approached the Church I thought of how people there would react to the spectacle. It was all okay when the only witnesses were the cows in the fields we passed out on the open road – but at the Church there would be actual people – people who knew me. They would stop and stare; they would think we were odd; they would point and laugh and commit the image to memory so they could bring it up in conversation with their family over the Sunday roast. From now on, any time they saw me they’d remember me as one of the motorcar choristers. That could not happen! I stopped abruptly. And immediately I wished I hadn’t. Quite honestly I wished people had seen me – I wished they had known me as one of the Motorcar Campbell Choristers – because I know it would have been with the affection that they always held us; not matter how strange we sometimes were.

I have just arrived home from taking my Dad to a Priests concert at Glenarm Castle (not too far from where they met at Garron Tower) They didn’t sing ‘How Great Thou Art’ but it was a wonderful experience to see them live, and it brought that Sunday Morning drive back to mind.
My grandfather passed away a month ago. There will never be a chance to relive that moment. I have committed it to my memory, not that I bring it up over the Sunday roast – but when I think of it I am reminded of how amazingly fortunate I am with the family in which I was placed. My grandfather was immensely wise, immensely gracious – he quietly lived a life filled with understanding, faith and love. If I learn anything from him it should be that a cynical attitude, while more and more prevalent, is not compulsory. It’s not even the default setting. If I am to make the most of this beautiful creation I need to start trying to see it through untainted eyes, and see the best in everything around me. My good friend and my family seem to have known that secret all along.

Then sings my soul, my Saviour God to Thee,
How great Thou art, how great Thou art.

where'd it all go?

The first proper snow of winter! Hurrah! I’m a big fan of snow. We don’t get enough of it anymore.
I’m sure I remember long periods of time filled with snow related fun when I was a child. Daily snow ball fights, snowmen that seemed to last months, death defying toboggan runs that had been honed to perfection over the course of a week. We built an igloo at primary school once. I remember carving out the blocks of snow, hardening them, stacking them, packing them and polishing them. I don’t remember actually going inside though – it didn’t look very sturdy and I wasn’t that brave.
Now we never seem to get big quantities of snow – and any we do get never seems to hang around long. There is no longer a big thaw in February; instead we get lots of little ones after each fall of snow throughout the winter.
I don’t know whether I can blame it all on global warming but it’s a convenient rationale so I will anyway. Cause and effect. We ignore all caution in some kind of development race – ergo – we lose all that’s good about winter.
But today is looking good. What started as a few stray flakes drifting down has become a steady curtain of white in the time that it has taken me to write this. The world will be white in the morning – it’ll be glorious; it’ll be pure; it’ll be clean; it’ll make my journey to school over the mountain a bit interesting – oh dear.

Update: I woke up this morning to find that the snow had all disappeared overnight. Thee wasn’t a single sign that it had ever been there. What did I tell you! Although, on the plus side, it did mean I didn’t have to set off for work half an hour early

things you should know about me

For the most part people who stumble upon this blog don’t really know me that well – so I thought I’d put together a quick cheat sheet of things you really should know.

1. I am not a special needs teacher. At least not at the moment. When I set out to begin this blog a couple of years ago I was working within the special education department of a mainstream state school. When I tried to think of a title it sort of made sense as my job had been gradually taking over my life. Now I’m not working there any more but I am too lazy to change the name of the blog.
What I’ve come to realise is that the title is a little misleading in at least one other way. Basically because I call my blog the Thoughts of a Special Needs Teacher people assume it will be all about special needs education or education in general. It’s not. Education slips in because I’m a teacher (sometimes) and the state of the state of the education system matters to me. It’s on my mind if you like. It’s on my mind therefore I vent.
The current disastrous state of Newcastle United Football Club also occupies a sizeable chunk of my mind so you’ll find they appear on occasion. My family are rarely far from my mind but since my sister started reading this occasionally I have to be careful what I say about them.
No, this blog is mainly just a means of clearing my head. When I was a school kid I used to record the detritus clogging my mental pores in the form of notes and doodles on my file paper. I’d write them down and then I’d crumple the paper up and throw it in the trash – now I publish them on the web.

2. I really am as bumbling as I make myself out to be here. I am in no way adapting real life to make it appear worse than it is as some sort of attempt to appear blind-puppy-style endearing. I do not relate my experiences either to endear nor to elicit pity. I do it because sometimes I can’t believe how incredibly stupid I’ve been and need to tell people about it. The pity thing is an added bonus.
When I appear naïve it is because I was naïve. When I appear clumsy it is because I was clumsy. I am but a camera (Evelyn Waugh would be proud) capturing events as they happened for you’re amusement. A camera in the old sense, before photoshop was invented obviously. Rest assured, if ever I do something suave, sophisticated or generally smooth you will read all about it.

"I'll expect you'll be becoming a schoolmaster, sir. That's what most of the gentlemen does, sir, that gets sent down for indecent behaviour."
Evelyn Waugh - Decline and Fall (1928)

3. I have several guilty secrets. Don’t tell anyone but occasionally I watch rubbish television. In fact sometimes I enjoy it more than the good stuff. Currently I am addicted to the Big Bang Theory. I love everything about it from the Bare Naked Ladies theme to the lame stairwell conversations to the cringe-worthy stereotyping. The girl who plays Penny (Kaley Cuoco I think – I hope that’s spelt right) bears an incredible resemblance to a girl who helps me out sometimes when I’m filming weddings. Similar in appearance and personality. She has the same sunny disposition, the same assumed ditziness, the same patient but frustrated look when dealing with someone who’s overly complicated ramblings and general bumbling make no sense to her whatsoever.
Sometimes when I watch it I find myself diagnosing various syndromes in the characters – I’m not sure that’s healthy. I think it maybe suggests I miss the Learning Support Unit.
Anyway, I’m not going to attempt to argue the merits of the show – it’s frivolous, occasionally sketchily written, stereotype affirming, generalises wildly on a regular basis – and I can’t get enough of it.

4. I hate/detest/abhor/loathe those emails that ask you to take “10 minutes” out of your time to answer “a few” (dozen) questions about yourself. Can someone tell me what the point is? Are you really going to try and persuade me that you can get to know someone better through these things? Really? How does it benefit anyone to know what colour my toothbrush is, or when I last cried, or what music is on my ipod/ cd player / 8 track? It doesn’t I tell you! Well, I suppose they can now choose between buying me a gift of a CD, a toothbrush or some tissues.
Not only are they a waste of time but they revel in that fact. I saw one recently which asked the victim to record the time they started the questionnaire and the time they finished. It then asked them what else they could have spent that time doing. Cruel.
Worse still, they have pervaded the blogosphere. They take the form of an award that you pass on to blogs you admire. Once “tagged” you answer a few questions about yourself in your blog and pass it on, pyramid scheme style, to seven other victims. “Award or virus?” I hear you ask. “Or is he maybe just a little bitter that he’s never been tagged?” No! I’m not! Although you would have imagined that someone out there would have me somewhere in their top seven blogs.
These are not to be confused with the profiles to be found in some blogs. These are a different beast entirely. They tend to be relevant and specific to that blog. They don’t require you to pass anything on to anywhere. They are generally humorous and interesting as opposed to inane and irrelevant.
So, no tagging. Agreed?

And that will do for now. I think you know all you need to about me. And all without the use of a single questionnaire. Although if it is bothering you – I prefer cold vacations to hot ones, I have two pets, I wanted to be a train driver / pig farmer / psychologist when I was growing up, I’ve never been toilet papering, I have blue eyes, I prefer croutons to bacon bits and my toothbrush is purple.

Father I place into Your hands...

It’s been a pretty horrible few weeks for me. At times I’ve wondered whether it would be easier to give up and let someone else take over.

I remember once when I was a kid I had a Home Economics assignment. I wasn’t as good at cooking back then as I like to believe I am now and I had worried myself into a frenzy over it. I had undertaken to create some kind of apple sponge swiss roll style thingy. I had no idea how I was going to do it, I had no idea what I needed to do it and I had no idea why I was planning to make something like that when I couldn’t stand cooked apple. The one thing I did know was that I had messed up.
So at 4am on the morning of the assessment I finally broke. In less than six hours I was going to be plating up for the teacher. I hadn’t looked up any recipes; I hadn’t even checked whether I had the necessary raw materials.
I got up and made my way down the dark corridor to my parents’ room. I knocked on the door, went in and, with tears running down my face, shook my mother awake.
“I need help.”
I half expected her to be angry that I had left everything to the last minute. I fully expected her to be livid that I was waking her up at a ridiculous time. I would have understood if she told me it was all my own fault and that I had to learn the lesson before washing her hands of it and going back to sleep.
Of course she didn’t. She got out of bed and started pulling things out of cupboards in the kitchen. She showed me how to stew the apples, she gave me a masterclass in weights and measures, and we even had time to do a practice run for the sponge making.
The weight she lifted off my shoulders that morning made the journey to school the most pain free it had ever been. And it is probably that incident I return to when I try to trace my love of cooking odd things. I’m not a parent so I cannot begin to surmise why she did it or what was going through her mind at the time – but it left a lasting impression on me.

So when I was weighing up my problems while standing in the freezing cold rain on a half deserted football terrace watching Coleraine losing one nil to Ballymena United I thought again of going to my mother for help. When Coleraine had their main goal scorer sent off it appeared to symbolise the uphill struggle I seemed to be facing. I wanted to talk to my mother about what I should do about my lack of employment, about the toothache that was keeping me up at night. I wanted to talk to her about the huge gap she had left when she passed away on the previous Monday after fighting illness so bravely for so long. But she is no longer there for me to shake awake.

As I stood in the rain, half watching the match I suddenly realised what she would tell me. In fact it was as clear in my mind as if she were standing in front of me. It was real because it was what she told me time and time again when she was alive. I wouldn’t dare suggest that my problems all drifted away at that moment but I was able to be a bit more objective. And a few minutes later Coleraine equalised. Not that I’m suggesting the events were related but it did bring a smile to my face and I spent the rest of the match jumping up and down and urging my team forward with all my breath. My voice has not recovered yet.

But I bet you want to know about that apple sponge swiss roll thingy. Well I went into the class full of confidence. I threw it together with panache and a smile on my face. The teacher was impressed and I got a decent mark. But it was never going to be as good as the one my mother made six hours earlier.

end of an era

Isn’t it sad when things from your childhood disappear? Behind this fence and these signs there is a nothing. A nothing where there once stood a bland looking warehouse of a building. Where there is now a white painted wooden fence there used to be a huge, yet unimpressive, rectangle of grey only brightened by a massive sign advertising bingo. And I loved it. It was Coleraine Cinema.

Long before the Jet Centre, with its polyscreen convenience, came and went and came back again Coleraine had a large single screen auditorium slap bang in the centre of town. It was dank, it smelled of stale smoke and your feet would stick to the carpet as you walked down the aisle; but the seats were plush, the screen was huge, and I loved it.

It was where I had my first movie experience. If I remember correctly the first film I ever saw was Herbie Goes Bananas back in 1980. A terrible film to break my movie virginhood but I went through the entire experience unblinkingly and with my mouth open – I was hooked.

The cinema in Coleraine closed down years and years ago. They put up a bigger complex on the edge of the town with more screens, and better sound, cleaner floors, and minimal personality. The old building became a bingo hall and then briefly an amusement arcade. But in recent years it has lain empty, dormant, awaiting the end. I didn’t mourn at the time – if we wanted the traditional picture house experience we could always go to the Portrush Playhouse. But yesterday, when I looked above that white fence and saw the nothing I felt sad, maybe even heartbroken.

I’ve been so wrapped up in other things that I didn’t notice the fence and the signs go up around the building. Nor did I see the machinery move in. Maybe I wouldn’t have felt such loss if I watched the building gradually go. Or maybe not – maybe it would have been worse to watch the once proud edifice brought slowly to its knees. I don’t know, but I do know that, however pretty the apartments they will inevitably put up in its place, they can never replace the memories and the love I have for the old cinema.

unfamiliar

It’s an odd thing, familiarity. You never know where you are with it.

This morning I took a walk around a town I’ve lived beside for thirty odd years. I go through Coleraine at least seven or eight times every week. I would know my way around it blindfolded. I know all the shortcuts, all the best parking spots… my car can practically operate in auto pilot I know the place so well. Well, I know the place so well from behind a steering wheel. Other than the town centre, the parks, the area round the football ground and the university my experience of Coleraine is based on what I see while driving about. Today I took to my feet.

I was forced to. Much as I would love to say I just decided to take a long walk I cannot. I had to leave my, recently crashed into, car at the fire station to get some bodywork done (Who’d have thought that firemen moonlight as bodyshop workers? – that’s two months of a dreamboat calendar accounted for right there) Anyway, I was sans wheels in Coleraine with nothing to do while two men repaired my car between callouts – and so I walked.

And walked. I don’t think I’d ever been in Coleraine so early in the morning before. I’d certainly never walked through Coleraine so early in the morning. Snow had fallen overnight and the place looked so clean and unspoiled. It was almost beautiful. And time after time as I walked I saw new things – things I never knew existed. I used to be incredibly disparaging of a friend of mine who, although having lived there almost his entire life, didn’t really know his way around the town. Yet here I was – lost. For three hours I walked through areas I’d never been through, along alleyways I never knew existed, up stairs which ended I had no idea where. As I climbed (very gingerly) a steep hill and spotted an amazing old house, long abandoned and hidden from view of the road by new developments I had a startling feeling – a good startle.

I’ve never been married but I imagine it must be like that when you’ve lived with someone for years, you’re shared your life, your loves, your pains and your joys. You know each other so well that you barely need to utter a sentence to understand one another completely. Then one day you’re looking at your wife and she does something you’ve never seen her do before – It must be wonderful, after all that time together, to be reminded that there are still things to learn about each other and new experiences to be had. It has to be healthy for a relationship… unless of course the something new you see her doing is having an affair with your friend… that wouldn’t be healthy.

Of course it wasn’t all a morning of joy unbounded. I saw an old newsagent where I used to buy comics had been turned into a chip shop. I saw run down residential areas that seemed uncared for. But when I was standing on top of that hill, after seeing that house, I turned around and looked down across the horizontal profile of the town. Looking at those familiar buildings from a new perspective made it seem like an amazing place to be right now.

Always Fresh

People often ask me what I miss most about Canada. It’s one of those questions you ask in the midst of inane small talk – and one that is very difficult to answer. The obvious response would be the people – some of the friendliest, most caring, genuinely interesting people I know live above the 49th parallel. Another possible response might be the weather – it isn’t always raining and I, for one, love snow. I could say I miss the physical size of the place – the fact that it goes on and on beyond what the limits of my imagination would allow me to perceive. One thing I never thought I’d miss was the coffee. I used to hate that weak, cream laden tasteless muck they served in vast quantities.

I’ve just spent a few days travelling round the West Coast of Ireland with a good friend. We saw many sights, walked many walks, ate many meals and talked many talks. There are numerous tales to tell from such a short time but that can wait for another time. What occupies my mind right now is the fact that, as we were setting off to drive home, we passed a filling station – and in this filling station was something I haven’t seen since I left Canada some six years ago – A Tim Hortons Coffee Counter.

I used to work night shift in a Tim Hortons Coffee Shop on the corner of Northfield and Weber in a little place called Waterloo, Ontario. Not the most prestigious job I’ve ever had, nor the best paid – yet it was one of my favourites. The characters you meet in an all-night coffee shop are incredible. It is a unique experience. I loved it so much I still have the hideous uniform I had to wear. I’m not sure why I kept it – I’ll never fit in it again; I’m not sure I ever fitted in it back then. I also have an unopened tin of the coffee grains and a mug I never use. I am a hoarder – I admit that. Despite this I have an annual clearout where nothing is safe from my wrath – nothing except that coffee tin, that mug and that uniform.

It’s odd what forms your affectionate memories. I wish for me it were more earth shattering events. There are some major ones in there as well – I’m not that dull. But right up there are my memories of dipping donuts in chocolate, baking the bagels and serving large double doubles to the night shift crew from the nearby factories at 3am. The thing that I remember most, though, is the smell. The unique smell of Tim Hortons coffee that drove me sick at the time, but now I remember it as fondly as I remember the big yellow duck on wheels I used to run around with when I was a toddler. So when I walked into that filling station and my nose filled with that familiar odour… well, it’s a moment I’m not sure I can describe.

the townland of the cow

I love Ballymoney. It is sort of my closest town – well, joint closest along with Coleraine and Portrush. It is as typical North Antrim as you can get. It is as different from the big towns as you can get. I had forgotten just how good it is to sit in this colourful leafy North Antrim settlement on a sunny day and consider the meaning of life. I went to school in Ballymoney, back then I hated it and took every opportunity possible to jump over the wall and drive somewhere else. Perhaps that explains my A-level results (cross blog pollination – nice!)

But I am older now, the sleepiness of the place appeals to me – I smile at the leisurely pace even the bees go about their work. When I smile the people dandering along the road beside me smile. We smile at each other. I wonder how long it will last.

Ballymoney town centre is a single street of family owned independent shops that have been there forever. The fashion shops have the same window displays they had when I was driving past them to avoid a double period of English Literature. The word fashion seems to be lost on them. You can literally count the number of chain stores on one hand; and even they tend not to be the big name ones. There are no Marks and Spencer, no WH Smith (not even an Eason’s), no McDonalds, KFC or Starbucks. It’s the kind of place that, were it even to have a chain store Burger joint, would have a Wimpy. We have all we need in our Cassell’s and our Walker’s and our Wilson McMichael’s and our McLaughlin’s and our Tweed’s and our Gault’s and our Young's Newsagent and our Ann’s hot bread shop and, of course, our Brown Jug. And I wonder how long it will last.

Ballymoney is a small town that thrives on its smalltowndom. It’s not quite somewhere everybody knows your name, and they’re always glad you came; but its near enough. I can’t imagine how big-town Ballymoney would work. It’s not likely to have a gay pride march any time soon and I’m not sure our local hood’s/neds/chavs are capable of turning to organised crime. The fact is that Ballymoney doesn’t need to be a big town; if you want a chain store Coleraine is less than 10 miles away, if you want a theme park Portrush is a short bus ride away, if you want a university education without leaving home you have UUC, if you want a stroll by the ocean you can’t get much better than Portstewart, if you want sectarian interface problems Dunloy is a few short miles away. Ballymoney is the small town that doesn’t need to grow up. Yet I wonder how long it will last.

People move there to escape bigtowndom and with every person that moves there Ballymoney gets bigger, gets one consumer closer to being able to support a Starbucks. It will happen; the single modern coffee shop in the town is constantly full (hence the fact that I am outside.) It can’t last much longer.

That, however, is exactly what I said last year, and the year before that, and the years when I was at school and thought of it as a positive thing. It hasn’t happened yet and so I’ll smile at the passers-by for a little while longer.