WORLD'S GREATEST

You're not going to believe it. It turns out I'm married to the world's greatest teacher! I know! But the cards came through today, what with it being the last day of term and everything, and there it was in black and white (well, actually lots of coloured letters), declaring that Sammy is in fact, the 'World's Greatest Teacher'.

Now. I know what you're thinking: one swallow doesn't make a summer, but here's the thing: it's not even the first time. This has happened before - there's enough data, and it seems to have been decided by perhaps the most discerning and effortlessly present panel of people, never short of an honest opinion, and constantly on-hand to tell you exactly what they think: 6 year olds and their parents.

I'm not quite sure what we're going to do, to be honest. I mean all the other teachers (and there are a lot) are probably wondering how they missed out - I hope there wont' be any trouble. I wondered whether she should celebrate with the accompanying ferrero rochers and soaps, or perhaps redeem the small fortune of Costa Coffee vouchers that seem to go along with the accolade. To be honest though, I think the best plan of action is something like a six week rest. I have a suspicion though that the first half will be taken up with winding down from being the world's greatest teacher, and the second half will be consumed with preparing for the next academic year, and the inevitable pressure of having to defend the title.

Well. I'm proud of her. Maybe one day I'll even get something like a World's Greatest Husband award to prove it.

BEAR DRAMA

For some reason I ended up watching YouTube videos about bear attacks. There’s a guy cycling in the woods; helmet cam - trees, path, daylight, undergrowth. Next, huffing and growling behind him, a bear.

Expletive. Furious cycling, breathing like a steam train, with an occasional look over his shoulder at the gallumphing bear some 200 yards behind him. We see the path ahead and the trees, and eventually a log across the road. Shoulder cam. Bear pounding. The cyclist stops, abandons his bike and runs for it, eventually hiding behind a tree trunk. We hear the bear clatter into the bicycle.

Is it just me or is that terrifying?

Next, a man films the inside of his tent. He unzips the entrance and the canvas flaps towards us to show a segment of bright trees and forest. And peering in, inquisitively, a bear. Zip. Huddle. Snorting and then the canvas bulges with paws and snout as the bear buffets it from outside.

The algorithm skips to the next one. Steve Backshall, the animal expert and avuncular TV presenter tells us that if you meet a polar bear in the wild, you’re basically dead.

“They’re faster than you,” says he, “They’re stronger than you, and if one of these hunts you and you don’t have bear spray or a decent deterrent… well you’re in big trouble.”

I can’t stand the internet sometimes. I was doing alright until the YouTube algorithm sucked me into bear dramas; what’s with all this unnecessary fear? Why am I dreaming about Paddington and Winnie The Pooh teaming up to chase me through the woods? We don’t even have wild bears in the UK! It’s not likely that a grizzly is going to chase me around Oxford station.

By the way Steve Backshall went on to say that if you’re attacked by a black bear you should fight back, but if it’s a grizzly you should play dead. Yeah. That must take some serious courage - and unless one breaks loose from the nearest wildlife park, then I’m not sure how useful that is here in England. Yet the Internet squirreled me down its fearful rabbit hole, like it always does.

Sometimes I wish someone could just unplug it.

TRAIN TICKET REFUNDS

I had to get a refund for some train tickets today. It’s weird this system - almost as though it’s been deliberately designed to put you off from bothering.

I don’t want to be cynical. I just don’t really understand why it’s so difficult - it’s probably the result of a privatised rail network. Or, at least, a fragmented one. On the one hand, a handy app brings together all the rail franchises and shepherds your money to them; on the other, retrieving that money using the same app is a bit like trying to make water flow uphill. But, I suppose, it’s all we’ve got.

Basically my day in London this week is cancelled, and so - even though I’d used the trainline app, I’ve had to post my printed tickets plus a printed version of my email confirmation… in an envelope… with a stamp… to Edinburgh.

It just all seems a bit old-fashioned. We haven’t fully transitioned away from an old world yet; we have QR codes but we still have ticket inspectors with hole punchers. We have apps but we still have lose-able, rippable, leave-in-an-Italian-restaurantable paper tickets.

By the way, I can highly recommend Enoteca in York. The bolognese with dairy free parmigiano is tasty, especially with a swirling merlot. I digress.

So yay, no London. But also boo… complicated refund. I’m only thankful that it’s not quite as challenging as getting your money back when you’ve already travelled. The disruption last month on my way to St Andrews was technically refundable but at several points online and on calls with LNER, I seriously wondered whether it was really worth the effort.

Perhaps it’s all still evolving into the digital age. Maybe the barriers and the handheld devices will all someday be upgraded to remove the need for paper tickets all together. Perhaps undoing a transaction online will just be really easy? Or perhaps until it is we need to embrace the past with our paper tickets, take them into the station and ask the attendant behind the screen (don’t know why but I’m picturing Bernard Cribbins) to simply give us our money back while the 4:15 from London Paddington squeaks to a halt in a cloud of shiny steam.

Well. At least I got to use a postage stamp I suppose. Who knows when I’ll need one of those things again.

QUIET FERRYMEN OF THE OLD CITY

I took a cab in London today. Well, the tubes were all messed up and I didn’t fancy walking an hour and a half. London buses frighten me, and honestly, you’d have to pay me to get on a Boris Bike.

Sidebar: Are they still called ‘Boris Bikes’? I mean, that man’s had at least two jobs since being Mayor of London, and it was a while ago, wasn’t it? Has the name stuck? Does it matter as long as you know what I’m talking about? Questions for another day.

“Where you goin?” said the cabbie, whistling through his teeth. I told him, then climbed in the back, reflexively saying “Cheers mate” as I clicked the door shut.

“We’ll have to go vía Oxford Street,” he said chirpily, “Then er, maybe we can work it out together.”

That’s a bit cheeky, I thought. A bit like the waiter inviting you to pop out to the kitchen and help the chef flip your steak. What a treat.

Anyway, his cheeky, chirpy London ways got me wondering. Where do cabbies live? There’s no way they all live in London any more; I mean, as much as I’d like to think that they get home to Whitechapel or Hackney, pop a flat cap on a hook and whistle happily while the trouble and strife boils a kettle on the tinpot stove, I doubt that’s been the reality since about 1955.

So where do these quiet ferrymen of the old city go at night? Is it posh flats now? Or grotty ones in the grimy suburbs? Do they take their cabs home with them to leafy streets in Surrey and Kent only to stream into the Big Smoke in the mornings, like conquering heroes in the chariot races who chuckle at the congestion charge and thank their lucky stars?

“Down here I think, mate,” he said, swinging the cab around some roadworks. The long, busy street of high rise buildings stretched familiarly before me through the windscreen, as ever, untouched by sun, and burbling with cyclists, car horns, and hurried commuters.

This is all the world for this guy, I thought. This gigantic, ridiculous city. He seemed happy enough. He gave me advice about putting my phone away so it wouldn’t get stolen by passing thieves on scooters (“It’s rife mate”) and wished me a good day as though I were a gentleman in a top hat, and he were perched on the bench of his hansom cab, ready to click a nag into motion. I thanked him. Still no idea where they all live though.

HALF-TIME TEAM TALK

There have been a few times now when someone’s referenced the ‘second half of 2025’. I guess six months in, six still to go; fair enough. Plus today, it turns out, is Day 182, which with 183 still to go, means it kind of is the turning point.

Funny. I used to think the first week of the school holidays was halfway - one season ends, the weather goes sultry instead of green, and lazily the focus shifts. Then the wasps buzz around your picnic, and the golden sun hints at Autumn by painting the trees gold, just before it sets. That to me is the fulcrum.

“Only 18 Sundays to Christmas!” declared Sammy excitedly. I couldn’t help think that that actually sounds like quite a lot of Sundays, but I didn’t say anything - she’ll only get more joyful as that number goes down after all.

So, second half of the year then. Is this the point where we all go in for a team talk and a tray of oranges? I’d like that actually - someone patting me on the back and giving me a bit of a pep talk. Not sure I’d like the hairdryer, but at least even that would count as motivational. But just a break from the game, perhaps?

Turns out we have to wait a few weeks for our summer hols, inextricably linked as they are to the school calendar. I think we’re going back to the spa too, which as you know, feels a bit like time has been suspended and we can switch off for a few hours. I’m already kind of exhausted.

I think I’d like the team talk to be calm, clear, honest, inspiring. I want to feel as though I’ve worked hard, even if I’ve made a bunch of mistakes. But then also I want to be pushed forwards to get out there and do my best in the second half - not just for me, but for the team, the manager, and the fans…

Got carried away there. Not sure I have fans, but I do have people who like me, and I’d like to do my best for them - you know to look them in the eye at Christmas and say I did my best out there, in the Autumn.

But that’s six months away. For now, it’s probably time to get on with it. Though, I wouldn’t say no to that tray of oranges.