So Far Away

When I woke up this morning I knew there was something wrong. I actually had a dream last night that it had happened. My instinct was to Skype to reassure myself that it was just overactive imagination caused by the events over the last year. But unfortunately my mum suffered another stroke this morning.

Since we've been here there's been a bit of bad luck for Mum and Dad. Last May was the aneurysm. It was a level 4 which meant it would've killed her had I not been there to find her. There was great deal of frustrating rehabilitation and therapy which followed but we were all so grateful that she was still alive, even if it left her short tempered and unable to speak and walk as well as she had before.

In June this year she suffered a mini stroke. Her progress took a set back; it scared her. And Dad. But she had the lumbar puncture, took the meds and for the last 5 months she's been grand. They've been so excited in their preparations for the trip down south so we could all meet as a family, together for the first time in 2 years.

And now this happens.

It isn't fair but we're luckier than most and it seems to be another mild one. My gran had several small ones before the big one left her unable to speak. But she was in her 80s. The point is my Mum's only 62.

Mum and Dad were planning how to spend their retirement when her brain haemorrhage happened. There was talk of cruises, weeks in Switzerland, staying with us. They were always very active. Now they're rethinking their trip to MK because this last stroke has floored them.

Its half 3 here. B has taken Daisy out so I can think straight and indulge in a bit of self pity for an hour. I'm so very far away from my family, like many, I can't just pop in and help them, Dad especially. Keep him company. When your parents are living nearby and in good health you can take it for granted. He's very much on his own up there without her and it makes me sad, almost like I've deserted them.

Visiting hour starts at 3, UK time, when we'll call and talk to her on the ward and Daisy can help cheer up Nana and Papa. I don't know if their trip will go ahead at Christmas but I do know she's a tough little lady - she'll take her little setback and get on. Until the next one.

Its not who I am, its what I do...

It was when I spotted the lady in the cat jumper that I knew I'd made the wrong choice in career. She was your stereotypical teacher: grey hair pinned up, a-line skirt, fluffy cat jumper, clumsily wiping crumbs from her danish pastry from her heaving bosom. And she smelled of Tabu. Her twenty-something colleague was the antithesis of me. A right keeny, from the same competitive school. Power dressed, hand up at every opportunity, loving the group participation, laughing at every joke; she knew every piece of the National Curriculum inside and out. She was new to the game. Little did she know that the NC changed every few years. And she'd have to start again from scratch. That'd learn her.

I liked these management training courses. Not only were there excellent nibbles and free fizzy water but you could always be sure of a good lunch in a posh hotel. And it was also a way to get out of the classroom. For you see, teaching, became an impossible job.

My position was as senior as you could get without going through the Headship route. Ofsted kissed my arse, grading me excellent on three separate visits. This didn't impress me as I have no respect for Ofsted methodology. And I was a bit of a rebel with a potty mouth. I didn't fit the mould. Luckily for me I worked in a school towards the end where I was amongst like minded people. I loved most of them like family.

As member of the Senior Management Team I'd fill the shoes of the Head and his Assistant in their absence, deal with the naughties. My class would always give a big ''awww'' when I sent a year one baby away with a pouty lip. Hated that bit.

I'd also regularly take the whole of the junior school for assemblies in the hall. I always imagined this to be a bit like stand up as I used to get the biggest buzz from having 400 ch'n guffawing at jokes and the stories I'd tell about my life.

I delivered the Sex Education Programme to parents with gusto before it was taught to the children (I mainly used the shock technique with 'VAGINA' displayed on the screen before they'd sat down haha)

I've seen holiday snaps of many a topless mum who were unaware their weenie had taken them in to show teacher

I've heard many stories of adulterous affairs where 'uncles' would nip out the back door as daddy would walk through the front (no euphemism intended)

and then there was the 4 year old who brought out their (now) dead goldfish from his pocket for Show and Tell.


The days were long, constant, emotionally and mentally draining and often I'd start at 8 and get home at 9, with only toilet breaks when I remembered. You could never go to the loo when you needed to. At weekends you'd be marking and planning, making/finding resources, writing reports or analysing assessment data. There would be discos, weekend pta activities, residential trips to organise and implement, general staff meetings and separate management meetings. I'd have meetings with my department and meetings with individual teachers about their delivery of lessons. But it was often extremely rewarding.

It's worth highlighting that in state schools the NC is so tight that we're told what to teach and how to teach it and when. No room for creative development and woe betide that poor child who struggles to keep up.

I was considered a strict teacher so didn't suffer fools gladly, I couldn't with 30 yr 6 kids all way taller than me. But once they were trained and had cracked my shell, by Christmas I was a soft touch. Some of the jokes those boys told me would have curled your hair. Many have joined my Faceache page. Contact with the kids made it for me. I genuinely loved them. In fact my daughter is named after the loveliest girl I once taught.

The ones who were difficult were always so for a reason. I had many serious conversations with B about the possibility of us adopting a boy who was seriously mistreated. The children were never the problem. It was often the parents. There were many occasions where I was called unforgivable names by parents in my classroom and bitched about, withing earshot, on the playground. ''You're a fucking whore,'' ''..she's a fucking bitch, ''she bollocked my kid. If she bollocks him again I'll fucking punch her lights out.'' ''If she gives my kid one more piece of fucking homework..''




Now, fair enough, that may all be true, but their child was often present. Resulting in initial embarrassment and eventually no respect from them either. These kinds of parents were becoming the norm. I only saw the nice ones at parents evening or when they came in to give me a hug to let me know I was doing a good job.



Homework is still a bone of contention. Let's be clear. TEACHERS DON'T LIKE GIVING HOMEWORK! We have to mark it. It stresses many a child and in addition to what they're doing at school already in the day, they need a break. That said, the govt allocate a 'suggested' time slot for schools to follow when planning h/wk. Basically in state schools they have to give it. But I cancelled all homework except for spellings, tables and reading. If the child had been too lax in class (not struggling but lazy) then they took it home to finish.

Parents came to tell me it was nowhere near enough for their child. Some parents said it was still too much. No win. However I do think a lot of schools give homework unsuitable for the home environment. And newly qualified teachers can get a bit carried away. At primary school level it should be useful, relevant, fun, causing as little stress between family members as possible.

The culture of 'teacher bashing' was getting worse, I was taking things too personally and the move to Switzerland (and pregnancy) came just at the right time. I needed a break.
When I was out I'd deny I was a teacher. Everyone has an opinion on teachers and teaching. Discussions always get heated. Indeed recently on Twitter an offensive person verbally attacked me for justifying my opinions. He had no inside knowledge of how schools operate or my experiences. But naturally, people have a right to bring their own personal experiences to the equation.

If someone knew my 'profession' I'd dish out my standard phrase, ''it's not who I am, it's what I do.'' That way I wouldn't be one of 'them.' I'd be disassociated with the cat jumper wearing freak or the whinger teacher from the news. Once in a pub, I'd convinced someone I was a trainee pilot. But he was from Bletchley so it doesn't really count.

I still find myself riled by people's false perceptions of what happens in schools. Not all schools are good. And, let's be honest, there are a lot (A LOT) of crap teachers out there, but there are also many more bloody good but disheartened ones (many on Twitter) whose hands and creativity are shackled by the horrific National Curriculum (which 3 years ago changed AGAIN).

Now I'm a parent my attitudes haven't changed. Her nursery isn't filled with the most inspirational staff but they love her. As she gets older I'm sure I'll have issues with her teachers, some who I will intensely dislike (catjumpercatjumpercatjumper) but I'll make an appointment and be nice. And then I will say thank you. Happy child = Happy parent.

So if you're pissed off with your child's teacher, don't sit and stew. Make an appointment. If they're a decent person then they'll listen. If you get nowhere, see the Head. Failing that, the Governors. And still no joy? Council offices. Believe it or not, underneath that brash exterior teachers are quite squidgy and if you check under their desk, you just might see that they're paddling against the tide.

What now for me? Teaching and Management is all I know. And I say with some humility its pretty effortless for me. But I really don't want to be a Head Teacher and I feel physically sick at the thought of returning to the chalk face; to sleepless nights and high blood pressure and some odd teachers. Besides, nobody will employ me. Not with my potty mouth ;D

Badi Beautiful!

The hot weather has finally reached us in Canton Zurich - took it's bloody time. It's here and, like the UK, it's stonkingly hot. Most days are now between 28 - 34 degrees. Wonderful.

In this landlocked country it's been a job finding some swimming areas where we could cool down. There are so many beautiful lakes which offer amazing facilities but tbh they are still rivers. Clean fo' sure but there's no avoiding the fact ducks still shit in there. So we investigated The Badi. And we haven't looked back since.

A badi is an outdoor swimming pool.

"So what?," I hear you cry. Why? Simply because they are beautiful. Thompson's Holiday they are not.

The water is crystal clear and a perfect temperature. There are several pools for different needs: kiddie, lane and paddling pool. We were in the huge shallow pool and ranged from 40cm to 120cm in depth. And it has a slide! Perfect.

There are others, of course. The one by lake Zurich is another favourite (below),

with lake swimming (25 degrees water temp at the mo) and an almighty backdrop view of The Alps.

So this week, Big B has some time off and whilst I'm sunning myself, ice cold beer from bar in hand, Daddy and Daisy are having quality time at the Badi.

And I made a mental note of my happy place.

Infections and Plooks (scot inf = spots)

Reason number 2 of 'Benefits of Living here' is the unbelievable service in Health Care.



Here's how the system works (cos I didn't have a scooby...)

• You pick an insurance company (you might be there a while, there're quite a few)




• Decide on your package -how much excess you'll pay, do you want inclusion of free ambulances? And lots of other variables




• They send you a wee card to confirm you're covered which you show EVERYWHERE when you need medical treatment and/or prescriptions




• Pick a Pediatrician (if you have kids)




• Pick a GP (if you are likely to have general illnesses)




• Pick a Gynae (if you have a vagina)

You get the idea, aces in their places, you go see specialists when you're ill, not just your GP. And that's why it works. You don't overburden the GP and as a result they have more time and patience with er the patients. You can decide if you just want standard care (supposedly like NHS when there are no queues or waiting lists) half private or full on private. Our family cover costs us much less than our combined NI contributions in the UK.


Anyhoo, a story:


On Easter Monday Daisy had blood in her urine. As the docs were shut (and the kid was walking like John Wayne) we nipped her to the Kids A&E at the local hospital. We took our own sample, dropped it off and as they were busier than normal took our number, telling us they'd ring when it had been tested. On their actual instructions, we went off to 'relax for an hour or two.'


55 mins later, the lady did actually call (no will they/won't they UK expectations, this is Switz ffs) and within 20 mins we were in and out with a collection of medication large enough to replenish Boots.


They also told us to make an appointment with Daisy's doc for a follow up in a week's time and that someone would call in 2 days to tell us whether we were given the right antibiotics for the bacteria (stick with it)


Here's the thing:


2 Days later the Head Doctor from kids A&E left a message in both languages on our answer machine to apologise for not being there on the day and 'HOW IS DAISY?' (Eh? EH??) And could we call back. Three times that man called to talk to us to keep track on how the antibiotics were kicking in. Unbelievable. We cancelled the follow up as we felt it was a drain on resources. Ooh they didn't like that.
(Side note: I always think of @LuceKD when I'm in our local hosp. and how awful she's been treated. I was told by a nurse that hospital staff here love their job as they feel respected and are paid accordingly)


This week, Daisy has chicken pox, everyone gets them and at first I was very excited, get 'em early n'all that (these itchy plooks are little fuckers, actually). I asked Mr B to pick up the equivalent of calamine lotion from surgery with prescription (costs a fortune otherwise) and we already had some anti itch drops so bish bash bosh, no need for docs. Oh so you THINK so? Receptionist insisted we came in to confirm they were the pox as 'that's what we're here for, sir'. So we sat in quarantine at the docs for an hour to be told 'yes, you're right, it is chicken pox'. I hate wasting their time.




Chicken Pox has turned our angelic daughter into a little shit, but it translates as 'little wild bubbles.' And I like that.

Gruezi Mitenand

2007 was a year which changed our lives. When Mr B got himself an amazing job nr Zurich we had many plans. We'd rent out our house in Milton Keynes (we like to call it Buckinghamshire) and I'd be able to finally give up work for a while.

I didn't particularly fancy Switzerland to be honest, my German was always at the ''My name is Betty and I am 14 years old'' kind of level, not too useful as you approach 40, but the idea was I'd have loads of freedom to fanny around Europe and nip back to the UK when I got homesick. Then I found out I was pregnant. And that fucked those plans.

We emigrated, rented our home, I gave up my job and gave birth. All in the space of 3 months. And I was stuck in the new apartment, largely unable to speak the lingo, with a newborn who looked not unlike Gollum and a pair of huge, leaky, stabby tits for company. It wasn't the move I'd imagined.

We've come a long way in two and a half years. We're still here, I have made some lovely friends and can argue the toss in German now. The folks are as mad as their cheese (which is why I've chosen to blog - you've GOT to hear this stuff) but there are a core who are delightful. Best bit? We're getting to travel and see the beauty of the place. It's truly gorgeous, in a WOWZA way. Here's a view from our kitchen window...

This will do for now.