Whilst in the midst of the tempest...

My office was as dark as a cave, the light above me blocked by the conditions.  All around us, the wind hurled and threw a thousand upturned litter bins our way.  I garbed myself in a futile attempt to block out the conditions, and headed for the playground.

All doors were open; all barriers removed; my simple task was to usher people in safe and warm, complete in the knowledge that they were not late, but their endeavours to reach us through the storm were welcomed, and we were thankful.

I looked up at the trees, usually proud and straight sentinels above our playground, suddenly struggling in vain to remain upright.  The plants and the bins clung to each other in an attempt to stay safe in a tumultuous ocean of gales.   The moon was a ghostly galleon... no wait, that's the Highwayman. The sky turned a duller and duller black, and the lights within looked like welcoming beacons.    Even the playpod looked as if it were apologetically clinging to its moorings.

And then, the rain began.  Small rivers, at first, the torrent that was to follow sending out its vanguard of smaller arsenals as frontriders.  Then the storm swelled.  Then the rain truly began.  The umbrella in my hand felt as much use as a teapot made of chocolate; to use it would be like using a teaspoon to defend yourself against an angry dragon.

Yet I did not feel despondent or upset.  Soggy, yes, as my trousers turned a deeper shade and my socks retreated to warmer climes.  No, I felt fine actually.  Three things were almost exclusively responsible for my bright humours in dark times.

Firstly, not a single child - or for that matter, adult or preschool age sibling - ignored me as they came running in, wellies permitting.  Every single one said a cheery (albeit breakneck paced) "morning", or a "thank you" or even a "aaarrrggghhh I'm soaked mind!".  One was good enough to point out that my glasses were wet.  Bless them.  I really had not noticed.

The adults were all good-natured and encouraging, despite the fact that they had the return journey to look forward to.   There were plenty of camaraderie-laden "Alright?"s and "How's it going?"s and more than one encouragement for me to join the kids indoors.

A school community sharing an experience of adversity, however it is presented, often shows the strength of said community, and isn't it great?

Secondly, in among the PE kits and book bags there were some of the most bizarre objects.  Yet they went on to demonstrate that, whatever the weather, our children are committed to their new topics and their learning.  Several of the older girls were carrying additions to their amazing displays about their topic of China (Why is it always made in China? for those of you who want the topic question).  Another child was carrying in a pile of their grandad's vinyl, which, as you can imagine, got me very excited.  Why?  For key stage 1's topic on "Why were the 1960s called swinging?".

Then, whilst in the midst of the tempest, one girl tried to show me the homework she had done of her own choice not for the current topic (Where did Stonehenge come from?) but for the topic they will be starting next week (How Many Bristols are there around the World?).

Our children know that, despite the conditions being against us, learning will continue.

The third thing was nothing to do with curriculum or community or even the weather.  It was something so simple it was unbelievable, and deeply touching.  There I stood, drenched, dithering and desperate to return to the sanctuary of my desk and my coffee, when a year 6 boy walked past me, parka hood worn high and face almost invisible.  As he reached me, out shot his hand in front of me.  In that hand: a cream egg.

I cannot tell you how quickly the clouds receded and the sun shone, all metaphorically of course.  As far as I was concerned, I could have been brandishing said teaspoon in front of an utterly irate dragon at that moment and nothing would really have mattered.  The cream egg went on to sit on the corner of my desk, winking at me throughout that morning's governor meetings, and the rain outside the window (which abated, bringing freezing wind in its place) could do nothing to dampen my spirits, or my almost dry trousers.

When all is cold and bleak on the outside, our children and our community make everything on the inside feel that little bit more warm and special.  May 2015 continue in a similar vein of friendship, and not in weather.

And yes, as soon as I could politely herd out the governors, the cream egg went down in one.  Thank you Big Man.

From in front of the radiator, that is all.

Like a hug at a festival; Christmas in all its glory

As we embark upon this 4^th Christmas blog – or blessay as we dubbed it a few years past – you may be interested to know that its inspiration hailed from a very different source to that of its predecessors.  Usually, I start thinking about this piece roughly a week after completing my November blog, and then I scrabble around for fitting topics and subject matter, before trying to crowbar in some contemporary references alongside a few historical festive staples. Not so this year.

I’m sure many of you will know that the song “White Christmas” is from the film Holiday Inn, where Bing Crosby sings it longingly from a sun dripped Californian beach.  Similarly, readers of blessay number 1 (http://badockshead.blogspot.co.uk/2011/12/whilst-heads-of-other-educational-or.html) will recall my pub quiz fact that Noddy Holder wrote Slade’s festive smash on John Lennon’s "Imagine" piano in the middle of a New York heatwave in July.  The inspiration for this blog hit me on a sunny Saturday in June, and I knew it the second it happened.

My family and I are devoted attendees of the 80s Let’s Rock Bristol festival.  I love a festival, especially one where I can take my kids and teach them something important (like the words to all of Go West’s hits).  We had arrived on the Friday, pitched camp and started rocking.  Then on the Saturday, after a bleary eyed start, we dragged our deck chairs and our illicit moonshine and set up our selves for the day as we always do – strategically placed at the start of the second bank so we’re easy for the kids to find and close to the amenities … by which I mean bar. 

The sun shone high in a sky of the deepest blue, and the atmosphere was electric with anticipation.  We were moments away from the arrival of the first act, and we couldn’t slap on the sun cream fast enough.  The place was abuzz with open hearted joy, and I for one couldn’t wait.

The first few acts came and went (Dr and the Medics, Jackie Graham and Sonia, since you asked) and although I sang along word perfect to “You’ll never stop me from loving you” I was gripped by something else happening.  Where we had chosen to make our festival pitch was right next to a thoroughfare that split the festival in two, and stretched from the entry points across the park to the amenities… by which I mean the bar.

This thoroughfare took on an entirely new meaning as people came in: it became a place of hugging.  I sat transfixed watching people running towards each other and hugging.  There seemed to be no rules, no plan, no holding back and no decorum whatsoever.  More than one couple did the whole “try to go to the side and headbutt each other” manoeuvre, but no-one cared.  There was no ill will, no animosity, and not a single person refused said hug. 

There was just joy.  A bloke behind me said “It’s just like Christmas!” and I thought to myself, there’s a blog in that…..

Because, you see, a hug at a festival is a strange but magnificent beast.  It transcends so many things that it is an irresistible force all of its own design.  I watched, open jawed, as I saw young and old, tall and short, goth and go-go (I’ll explain in a second) practically sprint up to one another, and envelope them in an embrace that could, in one or two cases, have broken ribs.

A festival hug transcends age.  It doesn’t matter how old or young you are; you can still participate in any way.

A festival hug transcends time.  Whether you were with that person this morning for breakfast or you haven’t seen them in an age, a hug at a festival confirms and reaffirms that deep felt friendship that has been there all along.

A festival hug transcends culture.  You don’t have to be trendy or cutting edge, and it isn’t just for the nerdy.  It’s about laying your feelings open and unashamedly on the line.

A festival hug, and here’s the real funny one, transcends musical tastes.  The apocryphal tale of the Brighton beach fight between mods and rockers was all well and good, but don’t the authorities normally take the brunt of festival go-ers combined ire?  I saw a bloke who was all of 6 foot 4, without his destroy platform heels, dressed head-to-toe in black leather, complete with make up, hugged by a lady of about 4’11’’ (in both directions) wearing a rara skirt, a glitter wig and a Frankie says t-shirt.  Did he shy away?  No, he reciprocated, and what a sight they made. 

The main thing, however, is what it conveys.  In those many hugs, I saw a thousand messages portrayed loud and clear.  They said things like:

·         I’ve missed you;

·         It’s great to see you;

·         It’s great to share this experience with you;

·         I can’t believe you’re here;

·         I can’t believe I’m here – in these shoes….and this hat….;

·         This place just got even better because you’re here;

·         You mean so much to me.

And it continued.  I saw unashamed tears of happiness, and deeds of kindness that were unembarrassed in their openness and sentiment.  It was as if, for a weekend in summer, the human race remembered that it is wired for good.  It was intrinsic engineering (where have I heard that before?).

As the year has progressed, I have seen a number of incidents and events, and indeed the individuals they concern, where I have concluded that what the situation really needed was a big festival hug.  Although I am not suggesting for a moment that such an act would rid the world of all its ills, it would certainly go a long way to make people, especially those who are in need, feel a whole lot better.  I think it also serves as an award for those who deserve it, but just don’t, for all sorts of invalid reasons, get the recognition.

I am one of a million Englishmen who have that deep seated hatred of the Aussie cricket team, based – I am convinced – on pure jealousy on our behalf.  My generation have seldom seen such world dominance of any sport, and they managed it for a decade and more.  I am, however, not too proud an Englishman to say that Ricky Pontin will for me, along with Joost Van Der Westhuizen, Jonty Rhodes and Franco Baresi, always be seen as a sporting colossus.

Whatever your sporting allegiance, you cannot be human and have been unmoved by the sad and tragic death of Philip Hughes.  A young man (and I am now of an age that I qualify to say that about others) who died doing something he loved, and in a complete accident.  Amazingly, my wife (never what you would call a sports pundit) made a fair point in the midst of all of this: how sad for the poor bloke who bowled the delivery?  Sean Abbott must have been subjected to a tsunami of unmanageable turmoil over the last few weeks, for doing little more than what his coach told him to.  It has been a number of saving graces that the cricketing world has managed this situation so well, especially its support of Abbott.  A massive festival hug to Sean Abbott please.

In addition to that, you must also raise a pair of clapping hands to the amazing dignity displayed at a funeral which never once asked for pity or sympathy, but instead celebrated the amazing gift that must have been Phil Hughes’ life and work.  I watched with a little awe the bravery of those who had to speak, including his sister.  Massive festival hug to her please.

Similarly, love him or hate him, the remarkable way in which Michael Clarke handled himself, his team and his nation can only be admired.  I once remarked, in a former blog, that the world needed its men to be leaders, but every so often it is even more important for its leaders to be men.  In the dictionary, dignity should have a picture of Michael Clarke next to it.  Huge festival hug to Mr Clarke please, followed by a highly deferential shake of his hand.

Operation Yewtree has loomed like a sad cloud not only over this year, but it feels like a larger number of years than it probably is.  I have taken no pleasure in reading the recounts in the paper, nor in hearing the news; only a reserved satisfaction that justice has, in some small but irretrievably late fashion, been served.  My feelings about this whole affair come into two categories really.

Firstly, I have nothing but the greatest sympathy for the victims of these unspeakably terrible acts, and the deepest admiration for the courage in stepping forward and speaking out.  Too little too late for them?  I rather suspect so, but I think that the passage of years and the public outing of Neanderthal – like attitudes will portray these women and girls in a very different light – an heroic one.  A polite, respectful and deserving hug to each of these people.

But I feel it goes deeper.  I can just about recall the radio on a Saturday morning hosted by certain people, and the TV programmes I came to know as a child.  Yet I was (I know you won’t believe it) too young to have joined in the mass adoration of the 1970s.  Some people may have had one of these people’s posters on their teenage bedroom wall, or maybe even more.  I feel bitterly sorry for people whose teenage years now bear a stain of doubt and betrayal, because I’m sure that’s how they must feel.  A mug bearing a “fix it” label that once graced our office has, quite rightly, disappeared for good.  To these people, a massive festival hug.

Previous blessay riders will know I’m not one to shy away from areas others may deem insensitive, but please consider for a moment the devastating news in Bristol in recent weeks of a mother and child who went missing from a hospital – the very hospital in which both my children entered this world – and were subsequently found dead.  I heard the news of the mother’s body being discovered as I arrived at school one morning; I had to stay in the car for a few more moments that day.  Later came the news we all hoped would not come, but somehow knew to be inevitable.  How many of us, given the chance, would go back and give them the hug they clearly so desperately needed?

But I don’t raise this with the rosey tint of hindsight.  My thoughts and festival hugs go out to the mother who is no longer a grandmother, and the boyfriend who is no longer a father.  I cannot for a second place myself in those shoes, but would do anything I could to erase the pain.

Furthermore, I have experienced at first hand, twice, the amazing care and dedication of the staff at that hospital, and will not for a second condone the discussions or accusations bouncing around face(idiot)book about “why did no-one stop them”.   I will not sanction for a second the idea that those wonderful professionals, who saw my wife through two difficult births, didn’t do what they could.  To the entire team, who I know will have – by the very nature of their outstanding professionalism – done an enormous amount of soul searching, an enormous group hug.

Indeed, I would also offer a future festival hug.  Not to a future festival go-er (although the two are not mutually exclusive) but to anyone who is, round about now, starting to worry.  Worry about ensuring that in two weeks’ time, or thereabouts, they will have managed to pull off a dinner that meets everyone’s not always realistic expectations, and which keeps the pre-supper / post-monopoly arguments that little more soft around the edges.  Look at it like this: that master of understatement Philip Larkin used the wonderful lines in “The Whitsun Weddings” (another summer reference) about the ladies watching the happy couple leaving on their train and had

Just time enough to settle hats and say

“I nearly died!”

Maybe your own version will read

Just time enough to steady paper crowns and say

“I nearly burst”

Yes, I agree, Larkin says it better.  However, let us not forget the sentiment, for that is what I would wish for yourselves.  As someone who is expected to cook for 11, you have my sympathies, and a big, warm sherry fuelled hug.

If you can bear to stay with me for a moment or two more, would you be so good as to indulge me in a personal moment?  There are some hugs that I want to give out in recognition of a more personal, Badock’s centred 12 months.

Firstly to the Buddies of Badock’s, our new PTA who have come from nowhere to smash it out of the ball park, thank you, and a massive, massive festival hug.  As there are so many of you (and you’re almost exclusively female) you can have Then Jericho, Alexander O’Neal and Nathan from Brother Beyond … except for Chris and Steve; Belinda Carlisle and Kim Wilde perhaps?

Next, to the parents who are helping push Badock’s even further.  Those who ensure their children are “always” children – always there, always in uniform, always with homework and always well supported.  You know who you are.  You are all due a huge hug; have level 42 and Bananarama.

To the children’s centre staff, who have at times this year had to endure the most unpleasant of all working environments – uncertainty.  Your work has been noticed and appreciated, and I know that, even though we’re not out of the woods by a very long stretch, we are on a journey towards great things.  Big, big hugs – for you all; you may have Nick Kershaw.

I have been slapped around the face this year with the realization I've now been at Badock’s almost 7 years.  I have seen a number of staff join, move on and, I’m pleased to say, stay with us for the journey.  Working in such close proximity brings about a certain camaraderie and we take an enormous interest in each other’s lives and welfare, even after they have left.  This year, with current staff and former colleagues, we have had 8 Badock’s babies.  Cause enough for celebration.  However, let’s throw in the fact that some of these babies have been ill, and we have all, as a group, waited on those phone calls and texts that no-one wants to make or receive.  Yet we have done it, and we’ve done it together.  The biggest hug to my school colleagues who never cease to amaze me in everything they do and put up with from me: you can have Boney M, and sing Christmas songs until you know I’m back in the building. 

Almost finally, I should point out that the one thing you never see in a festival hug is forgiveness.  It isn't needed.  Festivals are about spreading the joy and the love.  Therefore, as it’s Christmas, may I offer the biggest, sloppiest kiss of a hug to the people who have been writing derogatory comments about the school and yours truly on face(idiot)book.  You will all be pleased to know that you have not upset me, although I won’t be showing my mum, and can you please spell my name right?  To you, the amenities … by which I do not mean the bar.

Finally, to the wife.  Yes, you can hug Rick Astley.

So, kind people, a big gold star on top of the tree if you’ve made it this far.  As ever, I apologise humbly and profoundly for offence caused; none was ever intended.  I am far more hopeful that I have posed a question or raised an idea or two.  Whatever the festive seasons holds for you, I wish you the merriest of Christmases and the most successful of new years.  To you and yours, may this time be safe, special, and driven by the kind of hugs usually reserved for a balmy June day.

For an eventful 2014, that is all.

Except, may I offer one more hug?  It will not involve wrapping my arms around anyone, nor the offer of a faded popstar, but I would just like to prove that a good turn is never forgotten.

On the Sunday of the festival, it rained.  A lot.  My wife had “forgotten” to bring my coat from the car when she went to retrieve waterproofs and warm stuff for her and the kids.  So as the rain lashed down in the midst of Matt Bianco, I was left in tshirt, shorts and a hat borrowed to try and keep my shades clear.  The rain came crashing down on us for a good 20 minutes, and I was drenched, but my spirits undeterred.

Halfway through, whilst I was dancing with my son, a gentleman came to me in his coverall poncho.  I was expecting him to make rude comments about my lack of preparation.  Instead, he slapped me on the back and said “fair play to you, son”, then offered me his hip flask.  We then spent the rest of the rainstorm talking and sharing children-at-festival stories.  Never once, upon taking his own hit, did he not offer me the said flask, the contents of which was a hug in itself… and a bit of a smack in the jaw.  Once the sun was in the sky again and we had reached what felt like a natural conclusion, he said “Well, if it hadn’t rained, we’d never have got the chance to talk” another slap on my back “go steady, mind.”

With that, he blended back into the crowd.  It was a hug, of sorts, and I never got the chance to say thank you for the hip flask, or, more importantly, for the enormous hug of friendship that made me warm again on a cold day.  A hug feels like a hug, however it may be given.  Wherever you are sir, thank you.

That, with a wish of a merry Christmas, is all.

"If you see BoB, tell him ... thanks"

You look at a lot of school vision statements (as I do … for a reason I can’t justify beyond good old fashioned nosiness) and you see lots of different words employed.  Generally, you see some bold statements about achievement and outcomes.  Then, you see the noble gases, such as pride, endeavour, diligence.  Some then try and get all new-age and include things like creativity and inquisitiveness.  More often than not, they paint a picture of an individual whom, if embodied of all of those traits, would by either a herculean super being or a cyborg.

Now, I’m not saying that these are inappropriate, or that hundreds of schools – my own included – have got it wrong.  These are all fine and dandy; full of aspiration, and surely exactly where we want our schools and the next generation of global citizens to be heading. What I’m attempting to say, very badly, is that we may be missing one.  Or that our children and communities do it so naturally that it goes without saying.

I’m not sure the latter is entirely true.  At least, not for us, and at least, not yet.

Let me explain further.

Although I have spent lots of assembly time boring our children about aspiration, collaboration, co-operation and other values that decorate our Vision statement and the stage in our assembly hall, generally our children and community manage to surprise us in a hundred different ways.  Despite everything we profess to hold as a value, the one that isn’t there is generosity, yet, just lately, I have seen such an abundance of this in so many ways that I am beginning to think it is a glaring omission.

Just before the break we’re no longer allowed to call half term, our harvest festival stage was once again crammed with the gifts of donations afforded us.  I have very awkward feelings about the celebration itself, but always enjoy watching how dried goods can spontaneously reproduce.  One tin becomes two. Two become four.  Four become six, and a packet of biscuits and a packet of golden rice.  A drip becomes a trickle, which leads to a deluge and eventually a flood.  A flood of overwhelming generosity. That can’t be bad can it?

In my first assembly back after that holiday, I spoke about poppies, and their true meaning.  I spoke about the horrors of that battlefield, and the stories behind the poppy.  By the following Monday, our poppy box was empty, and our money collection tin full.  Our remembrance service was full of green uniforms with a dashing and deferential dab of red.  And didn’t they look wonderful.

In the same week, not a few days later, they arrived in yellow for children in need.  Hulking great year 6 were unafraid of being seen in their onesie in the name of charity.  Then, at the end of that day, in a freezing cold playground, hundreds (at least it seemed that way to me) stayed behind for the cake sale, with a large bulk of the goodies donated by a teacher’s dad. When the cupboard was bare, an almost invisible army silently cleared away in the dipping, freezing sunlight without a sound.

This isn’t just a dip into whimsical prose – this is an important point.  You see, the backdrop to all of this has been the emergence of our amazing friends group: the Buddies of Badocks, who charmingly refer to themselves as BoB.  From small beginnings in the summer, they have gradually grown and grown, up to and including last Friday night’s Caribbean evening, which was packed, and wonderful.  (If you haven’t seen them yet, our twitter feed - @badocksprimary – will tell the story for you).

This is a different but by no means less important demonstration of generosity.  This is being generous with time, with effort, with skills, with resources, and, very often, with patience.   With this kind of generosity, it’s often others who reap the rewards.  But then, that’s the nature of giving, isn’t it?

As well as simply wanting to share the kindness of this community – and that’s more than enough of a topic for one of my erambles – I wanted to just draw a simple connection.  I’ve been telling the leaders and the governors that, despite some tough tasks at the start of this year, and a lot of deep reflection about outcomes at the end of the last, we have a number of signs that things are going well, and that some of our initiatives are starting to embed.

Things like the number of volunteers is on the up; breakfast club is packed; we have an ever increasing pool of people to call upon when we need them; I can’t recall a time when we’ve had so many clubs; the book swap for adults now looks like an outpost of Waterstones.  And BoB is going from strength to strength.  Add to that all the things listed above and you have to make a simple observation – people must really like being in our school. 

I think generosity is a bit like bacteria – stick with me people: it will only grow and thrive if the environment and the things going on around it are right.  Clearly they are.

So when we revisit our values some time in 2015, perhaps we need to think not only to what we aspire, but to what we have built, embedded, and what we hold dear.  After all, all these generous people can’t be wrong, can they?

Until the big Christmas blog in a few weeks, that is all.

PS To make it quite plain, thank you everyone involved in BoB, who have brought another dimension to our school.  Your generosity is a lesson for us all.

Wot I dun: album of the day revisited

You are all familiar with my love of music. My collection - both real and ethereal - falls broadly into three groups. One: rock and pop and singer / songwriter, preferably on vinyl. Two, electonica. Three, stuff that doesn't fit nicely into these boxes, e.g., Kate Bush or Prince - because they are genre defying -or stuff that is generally rubbish, e.g., iron maiden / the cheeky girls (although, even I would be tempted to listen to any collaboration between those two...) 

This blog focuses almost exclusively in category two, and let me explain why. Since discovering Metronomy, I have rediscovered my passion for this wonderful, beeps-and-noises style of music.  It began when I was a kid obsessed with rock and punk such as the Police a Bad Manners, suddenly discovering this new and unusual form of sounds upon nicking uncle Gary's copies of The Buggles and OMD, New Order and stolen snippets of Kraftwerk*** through my lifelong love of the Pet Shop Boys, through "growing up" and listening to Autecere and Aphex Twin, seeing it go mainstream with Electronic and the Chemical Brothers; know we have gone full circle with MGMT, Empire of the Sun and, of course, Metronomy. 

As far as I am concerned, Metronomy are a breed apart. Their albums are story telling at its finest, carried by innovative and unusual instruments with names that belong in sci-Fi comics. I first discovered the English Riviera album, went onto Love Letters, the album of 2014 for me, and - and this is where this blog started - went back to find Nights Out. 

So, with a week of Lanzarotean sun beds on the horizon, I loaded the iPod with new electronic albums, and got down to some serious studying. 

Gulp - Season Son 

 Erm...yes... I first heard "I want to dance" on 6 music and loved it, so it was a prime candidate. However, on the first listen, the second listen and even the third, all I could hear was the OST of a Quentin Tarrentino spaghetti western. There were two or three individual moments that I really liked. However, other than that... I was left feeling like I'd done a good thing; ticked something of my list. But will I listen again? Probably not if I'm honest. 

They are fully within their rights to argue that they don't fit into this box, and they'd be quite right, but that's what it said on the tin. This album, for me, goes rather disappointingly into the less pleasant end of category 3, somewhere between Nirvana and S club 7. 

 
Caribou - Our Love 

 Now, this I liked. A lot. I liked it because it had a number of really amazing melodies. However, more than that, it contained a number of electronica devices and cliches which improved the whole piece, such as a change of tempo in "Can't do without you" and the use of silence in several tracks (few other genres have learned this lesson) often best executed by Scandinavian house djs or, dare I say it, early Pet Shop Boys. 

 Overall, I just enjoyed a strong collection of songs which I would love to hear live. Also, the complete piece is so good that I would struggle to choose one highlight for a playlist - this is, simply put, a good late night chill out with a glass of wine album. 

 
Phoenix - Bankrupt! 

 Again, I was introduced to this group via 6music. Early one morning, I put it on and was very very pleasantly blown away. This was an easy listen, and a highly enjoyable one, although it could also be one of those genre defying ones - some songs were pure electronica, but at some moments I heard the Strokes and the Guillemots. 

 As with Caribou, this is an accomplished piece overall, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. Bearing in mind I was until recently bemoaning the death of the album, I've found two corkers. 

 I suppose the difference is that this is group who know their my instruments and their roles, and put them together extremely well. Furthermore, they are not too afraid to say "that doesn't need any bass lads, you crack on with your moog and I'll sit this one out". 

 It's just good: simple as. Furthermore, although I discovered it in the sunshine, I think it will add to a playlist containing groups like the go betweens and the Cocteau twins, to whom I always seek recourse when the nights draw in; like the novels of John Irving or the poetry of Robert frost, it will bring warmth and comfort when needed on a cold November night. 

 
East India youth - Total Strife Forever 

 There are three things you need to be wary of when composing this kind of music, I feel. One: pretentiousness - there is a place for that; it's called the early 80s. Second: repetition. Third: power cuts. Bob Dylan and Woody Guthrie never really worried about the juice running dry. 

 Sadly this album is all repetition and, towards the end, a little pretentiousness. Peter Gabriel used the same name for an album 4 times - that's cool; the same name for 4 tracks on the same album smacks of art school over seriousness. Or just bloody laziness, if I'm honest. 

 This was long, and dull, to put not too fine a point on it. It's a shame, because having been teased by "Dripping down" I was really up for this. I had to listen to it in two sittings - never a good sign. 

At the risk of sounding like a teacher, they need to do their homework. You can do length without the pitfalls mentioned above. Check out all nearly ten minutes of "It's alright" by the PSBs on Introspective - I spent many a teenage afternoon doing just that, repeatedly. Or try "I trawl the megahertz" by Paddy Mcaloon - not the whole album, but the 22 minute title track. No repetition there, just very very good music. 

 This however is not. Sorry fellas. 

 
Glass animals - ZABA

Wow.  

 Not wow as in rollercoasters or puppies for Christmas. More wow as in did I really just enjoy that? Did I really get the chance to experience that? Having finished it I had to immediately listen again. This is epic, really good stuff. 

 I also have that feeling I often get about wishing I was more intelligent, wishing I could get it more. Like you feel when you first listen to the XX. Intrigued at first and then fully blown blown away, this is great musicianship. Again, they know when to use instruments, when not to, and when to just shut up for a second or two.  

 You see, one of the reasons I love this genre so much is, in the words of Shrek, layers. Listen carefully enough, there's more than one thing occurring, and electronica does it best. On my second listen I sought out these layers, and got lost trying to keep up. It's not often to say an album is beguiling, but this one is. The last track, entitled "jdnt" - no pretentiousness there, it's clearly thought out and means something to someone - works on so many layers it's practically an audio trifle. 

It's the first time this holiday / homework project I've had a must listen to that track again several times moment.

Song writing and music making of this kind comes along all too seldom, but, I suppose, we enjoy it all the more when it does. This is going straight into the must be listened to again, a lot category.  Corridors of Badock's Wood, prepare yourself. 

 Just wow. How do they do so much in four and a half minutes? That, mate, is electronica.

 

Metronomy - Nights Out 

 This is where it all began this time around.  I was already a devotee of the later two albums (see above) and therefore in the rare position to go back and discover old stuff.  This was a joy.  As it is a different band composition, and an earlier work, its a different sound, and more raw and gritty sound than its successors.  

However, this does not detract; nor does it sound like a pale imitation - this is very much one chapter in what I hope will be a long and successful history of this band.

From the opening sounds to the final, hypnotic track, I just enjoyed this album for what it is - great story telling, great music and excellent musicianship.  Joe Mount, the songwriter, does something incredibly simple, but does it incredibly well: he / they create riffs and patterns that don't merely get repeated, but built upon, again and again - more of that layering.  Also, sometimes it's just a good old fashioned verse-chorus-verse-chorus song, but again, that build a story from start to climactic finish.

I must have looked a fool bobbing up and down repeatedly in the aisle of the plane to "On dancefloors" but, to be honest, I didn't care.  Like so much of what I love about this style of music, at first it sounded bleak, almost quiet, but went on to build a strong and dynamic story, which, by the end, has you utterly engrossed.

Where it all started again. And, where I know, it will continue.

A good holiday thanks.  Nothing spectacular, but enormously enjoyable in many ways, and memorable for reconnecting me to a massive part of my musically-formative years.  It also gave me the chance (via the generosity of a very dear friend) to purchase some very new albums and just sit back and enjoy them.  For my October half term homework, that is all.  Thank you...

Lanza Playlist

On Dancefloors - Metronomy

Chloroform - Phoenix

Second chance - Caribou

Gooey - Glass Animals

Need Now Future - Metronomy

SOS in Bel Air - Phoenix

Pools - Glass Animals

Can't do without you - Caribou

I want to dance - Gulp

Jdnt - Glass Animals

*** for those of you uninitiated, listening to Kraftwerk as a kid in the early 80s always felt a bit like eavesdropping on a conversation between adults at a party - you knew deep down you shouldn't do it, but there was no way you were going to stop, and you did not want to be rumbled.  It always gave me the feeling that it was something you never really wanted your mum to know about...

Oi! Give it back! The terms of Nanny McPhee

My thoughts on September are well noted.  It often seems the longest month of the year.  We went through several Mondays this term that still seemed to be in September.  Each Monday briefing and assembly, I felt we could tick off another "M" box on the calendar, only to find that there were 3 or 4 more following in quick succession.

However, as we stand here on the brink of the end of term, I find myself desperate to claw it all back.  I feel we could do with another week or two.  We're just getting started on so many new and exciting things that, to stop us now would be to stop our race when we'd only made it around the first bend.

Take our new curriculum.  I saw our teachers' amazing ideas in their planning at the start of term, and, little by little, these ideas started to come to life.  Learning walls, here, displays there, books started to spring into colourful life and our environment went from cool to.... wow.  In the words of CP3O - "Oh My!"

I started to hear conversations between learners about googlemaps and how to use it to solve their current problem.  I started to see the most amazing art work appear from almost nowhere, and children selecting writing for a tool to help them learn.  I have seen the very youngest children designing and building the most complicated structures and towers.

At the start of last week, I was looking for a classroom to host our governors meeting.  I was spoilt for choice.  I stood in several rooms and looked around and thought: "How lucky".  How lucky am I to have such a creative team?  How lucky are we to have such creative practitioners, and such enthusiastic children?  All of those amazing ideas I had seen several (it seems like years) weeks ago suddenly on full display, making utterly clear our children's mastery of their learning, and the joy of our curriculum.

Added to this, how will we go a week without "the zone"?  For the uninitiated, the zone is an open space where we allow children to work and learn independently.  Where we say to children "Off you go ... and by the way, it's all yours".  Children teaching one another, children working independently, children working collaboratively, or even children simply thinking.  When was the last time we gave children space and time to think and breathe?  Today, actually.

Then there's the playpod.  This green beast descended into our playground and our collective consciences several weeks ago, but has only just opened. Through absolutely no-one's fault, our time has been curtailed primarily due to awful autumnal weather, and we haven't yet quite got the hand of it.  Quite.

However, we've had one hell of a go.  In just this week and a half, our playground has been adorned by swings, dens, jack-in-the-boxes, and, my personal favourite, mission control for a space station.  Look a little closer, what else have we seen?  We've seen collaboration, kindness, determination, sharing.  We've seen joy.

There's more.  Our friends association, the all new Buddies of Badock's, have run two brilliant events for our children, as well as uniform sales and such.  We have had not one but 2 hundred percent attendance weeks - we normally only get three in a year!

It's all gone a bit Nanny McPhee: when you've had enough of term 1, and it doesn't seem to be going anywhere, it will linger like the smell of year 6's feet.  When we're loving it, when we have a harvest festival packed hall, when we finally have the playpod we've been waiting for for ages and our curriculum is up and running, term 1 waves farewell with a tearful adieu.

We could whinge and whine, wring our hands with unmitigated woe.  Or, we could look forward to term 2.

Term 2 coming soon everyone! And well done on a great term 1.

That is all.