Mining the past: episode 1

I have been spending a couple of days at GrannyBear's house this week, and among the things I have been doing has been sorting through piles and boxes and heaps of paperwork. Some of this is her paperwork (for example scraps of paper recording the mileage per year of every car she'd owned for the past twenty-something years...) And some of the paperwork is mine, covering everything from my Year 5 history books to my university exams. 

Some of these old records contain modest surprises - my handwriting was very neat when I was ten, and has been going down hill ever since; I remember absolutely nothing of my GCSE maths coursework; my GCSE English teacher had very high expectations of me.

Others contain even more startling surprises. Information that not only don't I remember the content of, but I don't remember receiving. One notable example of this is a letter from my Director of Studies* that I received at the end of my second year at University. 

My second year was not one that ended well. While my first year wasn't great, featuring the death of my father; my second year was more academically disastrous. I arrived at my first exam, prepared for, and expecting, three hours of Quantum Mechanics. It was a Thermodynamics exam. it would be fair to say I didn't write a great deal in that exam. I did, however, shed a lot of tears, and I also chewed my index finger. I chewed it so much I suffered severe nerve damage in the finger. It recovered. Eventually. With five 3-hour exams spread over only three days, I didn't exactly psychologically recover before the remaining exams. The miracle was that I finished the year with a third. And only missed a 2(ii) by a whisker.

Which brings us to the very kind letter my Director of Studies sent me, letting me know my mark breakdown, and also giving me some feedback on my Supervisor's reports. And what gems they contained...

"Some of her supervision work was excellent and witnessed independent thinking as well as sufficient ability. At other times she gave up rather quickly."

"She is bright and able, but seems a little unconfident of her abilities as a physicist. In fact, she's much better than she thinks she is! Hopefully as she continues to work independently at the courses she'll acquire a greater confidence in herself: if she does she could do quite well."

"She continues to try hard and participates fully in supervisions, questioning almost everything. She tries to understand things at a very high level, and by and large succeeds, only occasionally missing the point. She could do very well."

Obviously, it's in my nature to notice the negative more than the positive, but I'm genuinely entertained by the fact that I have sufficient ability, occasionally miss the point, but could do quite well. There's an epitaph...

* Some of the details of this post will make more sense to those who also studied at Cambridge. A Director of Studies is someone who oversees all of your academic progress. A Supervisor is someone who provides small-group tuition. In the physical sciences, this would be with only two students at a time, for an hour, once a week. You would have one Supervisor per specialist subject. To add confusion, we also had a Tutor, who did no teaching, but was responsible for our pastoral care.

Micro-blogging: dealing with idiots

I never, ever, ever learn.

I keep making the same mistake.

I keep attempting to explain a complex problem to someone who is clearly a moron.

I keep including more than one piece of information in an email, and my tame moron appears unable to process more than one piece of information, so they latch on to one thing, and write a knee-jerk reply.

The thing about complex problems is that they require groundwork to be laid in the form of multiple pieces of information. I need to state the three or four pertinent facts and then explain how these combine to form a knotty issue.

But moron insists on reading the first fact, and replying to tell me that this fact is fine.

Please, for the love of all that is good, READ THE WHOLE EMAIL.

Micro-blogging: time-saving or slatternly?

This morning when I got dressed I opted for a three-layer, chiffon, handkerchief-hem skirt. But when I got downstairs I noticed that the chiffon was still rather wrinkled and needed ironing. 

This particular skirt has those teeny, tiny buttons with fabric loop closures that fumble-fingers hate undoing.

So I got the iron and ironing board out, and ironed my skirt while wearing it, rotating it round my waist to be sure of ironing all of it.

I'm not sure if this was a genius move, or teetering on a Joey-from-Friends level of life skills.

Micro-blogging: danger, sadist at work

There are some jobs that are definitely suited to sadists, but one more so than all others...

"What is it?" I hear you cry.

Prison guard?

Royal Marines bootcamp instructor?

CIA torturer?

No, no, it's none of the above. It's a dental hygienist. Someone who appears to take genuine pleasure from sliding a long needle into your gum, and then between tooth and gum, before telling you that your gums are bleeding. Of course they're fucking bleeding you demented psychopath, you've been practising your embroidery skills on them!

I've never had a problem with going to the dentist. I had many, many years of orthodontic treatment, some of it quite painful. I've had 4 adult teeth removed under local anaesthetic (to make room in my mouth for the rest of them). I've had my wisdom teeth removed. I have never hated a dental process as much as I hate visiting the hygienist. Dangerous sadists the lot of them.

A letter to my MP

I admit that my political posts appear rather less popular than most other things I write about, but I thought I'd share this one anyway. My MP is Conservative. Her voting record suggests she is a staunch follower of the party line, with her only rebellions being on the subject of abortion in Northern Ireland (which she voted not to criminalise) and Assisted Dying (which she voted to permit). The general feeling amongst those I've spoken to is that she was parachuted into our constituency from CCHQ and shows little interest in her constituents. But my sample-set is rather biased.

I've written to her a few times in the past, and always been graced with a cut-and-paste answer that parrots whatever it is the government are claiming. This time, three weeks have passed and she hasn't even favoured me with that paltry offering.  

Dear Ms Local MP,

It has been clear for some time that the Prime Minister is a man with only a passing acquaintanceship with truth, integrity or honour. What is becoming more clear is that he has fostered and led an atmosphere in 10 Downing St in his own image, with a contempt for rules, and for the people of this country.  

The behaviour of those elected to lead this country is a disgrace and an affront to all the people who have suffered and sacrificed so much throughout the pandemic. Every Conservative MP who fails to speak out, and who fails to condemn the actions of Boris Johnson and his office, aligns themselves with this arrogance and contempt. Every day you are silent is another day in which you condone a grotesque parody of leadership.

“Let not any one pacify his conscience by the delusion that he can do no harm if he takes no part, and forms no opinion. Bad men need nothing more to compass their ends, than that good men should look on and do nothing. He is not a good man who, without a protest, allows wrong to be committed in his name, and with the means which he helps to supply, because he will not trouble himself to use his mind on the subject.”

John Stuart Mill, 1867 inaugural address, University of St Andrews.

Of the seven Nolan Principles, perhaps now is the time to remind you specifically of the final two:

Honesty – Holders of public office should be truthful

Leadership – Holders of public office should exhibit these principles in their own behaviour and treat others with respect. They should actively promote and robustly support the principles and challenge poor behaviour wherever it occurs.

Boris Johnson manifestly fails in both these respects. Do not pacify your conscience by thinking that forming no opinion, looking on, and doing nothing you are doing no harm. You are not a good woman if, without protest, you allow wrong to be committed in your name.

Yours sincerely

PhysicsBear, with a collection of impressive sounding letters after her name.

Micro-blogging: a simple observation

Therapist: So people do say good things about you?

Me <small voice>: Yes

Therapist: And do you remember them?

Me: <sounding like Boris Johnson>: ah, um, well, yes, I mean, I do remember but I don't, well, I suppose, I kind of find ways to dismiss them....

Identifying my dysfunctional thinking is going to be a bit like shooting fish in a barrel.

But I liked her, and I think I'll be able to work with her. Though she did warn me that if I revealed anything to her about terrorist activity or laundering drug money, she wouldn't be allowed to respect client confidentiality. So there's that.

Micro-blogging: mental collapse and the art of football management

 As is so often the way in life... I spoke too soon...

Having had a warm and positive start to the footballing new year, things have now spiralled downwards.

I have lost any zen-like equilibrium I once possessed. I have, in fact, more than lost my equilibrium, I have tumbled, swirling and spinning, into the abyss. Any confidence I had that I knew what I was doing is shattered and if I feel anything about football it is that I am a failure. A charlatan who has no place coaching or managing a team. 

For the past ten days, there hasn't been a single day when tears of despair and hopelessness haven't poured unbidden down my face. 

I've thought, several times, about trying to put my feelings into words here, but I can't. I can't bring myself to write them down, to confront them, to open the floodgates to the tears that I may not be able to stop. 

I've thought, several times, about walking away from coaching football, but I can't. I can't bring myself to abandon my boys and give up on something I want to achieve. 

Is it really football, or have I simply burnt out at last?

Maybe it's football. Maybe it's life. Maybe it's me. 

I want to be perfect, and I'm not.

I want to be proud of myself and I'm not.

I want to believe, deep inside myself, that I'm doing a good job, but I don't.

I want to stop constantly needing someone else to reassure me that I am good enough, and I don't know how.

Tomorrow I have an initial consultation with a therapist. There's no magic wand that will change how I feel about myself, but I have to start somewhere.

I feel faintly absurd to be seeking professional counselling to learn to cope with volunteering with an under-10 football team, but in truth, it goes far deeper than that. I suspect that football has simply ripped off the sticking plaster I'd slapped over the open wound of anxiety, depression and low self-esteem that has been festering for many years. 

I might write about some of it here, I might stick to politics and cats. Who knows?