The Letter

Ted got home from work feeling tired.  As the door opened, he saw the envelope with the hospital’s name on it.  His mouth went dry.  He picked the letter up and went into the kitchen, leaving the rest of the junk mail on the floor.

 

He sat on a chair at the kitchen table and opened the letter with trembling hands.  He gasped involuntarily at the news the letter contained.  He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes – his usual habit when he had had a shock.  He looked at the contents and then threw the packet from him, whilst desperately feeling that he really needed the nicotine hit.  They’d have to go…and quickly.  What impact would it have if was not able to stop smoking?

 

He re-read the letter – part of him hoping he’d read it incorrectly.  No – the words were still the same.  His head started to spin as the implications of the words really started to bite home.  He felt sick to his stomach.

 

He’d have to change his whole lifestyle.  No more booze or takeaway meals.  Months of medical interventions.  Changes to his body that he didn’t want.  How many of his ‘friends’ would stick by him?  Would people point at him in the street and call him a freak due to the physical changes his body would display?  And what about the pain? He’d never really thought about that. He put his head in his hands and almost cried.  Why him?  What had possessed him to do what he had done?  Then, the sensible side of him took him by the shoulders and shook him.

 

“What’s done is done,” his sensible side said to him.  “You just have to square your shoulders and get on with it.”

 

Ted knew his sensible side was right.  But it still didn’t take the sense of panic and fear away from him completely.  All he knew was that what was left of his life would change forever.  And that scared him so much.

 

He decided to take his mind off things by making a meal.  He usually had sausage and chips on Tuesdays.  Thinking as healthily as he could, he decided to make an omelette.  Once he had made it, he found that his appetite had deserted him completely.  But, he knew he had to eat, so he forced down a few mouthfuls.  But that was all.

 

He picked up the letter again and re-read it….the news was still the same.

 

Dear Mr Jarvis,

 

We have the results of your tests.   We are pleased to inform you that you are the first man in the world to be pregnant.

 

Congratulations.

Dr M Wilson.

 

 

Ted held his stomach and wondered how much labour would hurt.

 

 

Welcome to Hell

CYSWIIY? (Can You See What It Is Yet?)

[As this monologue is being delivered, Sonia writes the acronyms on the white board)

I sometimes wonder if I’ve lost the ability to understand the English language. A bit of a blow if I have – seeing that I teach it at A level. Okay, I know language changes – it’s inevitable. It’s the speed at which it’s changing within my role as a lecturer that’s leaving me baffled.

I’ve just come out of a meeting with the SMT (Senior Management Team, apparently). The usual round of “You must all work harder.” Wonder if they sell extra hours on e-bay? I might be able to get through everything with another – say – four hours a day.

Anyway, back to the meeting. There were abbreviations and acronyms being flung about with gay abandon by the new principal and his new team. Not many of them actually made any sense to us plebs at the bottom of the pecking order – sorry, the DT (delivery team). Didn’t realise I’d been made into a midwife! No doubt the pregnant women will be lining the corridors and I’ll have to deliver babies whilst talking about the vagaries of grammar to the AS students. At least I wasn’t the only one who didn’t know what the damn things meant. Anyway, we had a good time making up what we thought they meant, though, when we left the meeting.

QIF (pronounced ‘quiff’) put us all in mind of Teddy Boys. Quite ironic really – Tony who told us all about what the QIFs had been up to in the past few months, is quite bald (sorry – folically challenged). Unfortunately, because we don’t know what QIF actually is, we came up with the following: ‘Quick in Fights’ or ‘Quiche Inside Farms’ or ‘Quite Inferior Fools’ (appropriate given our view of management). Any of them would have done, really.

Then we had ALPS. Thought they were a mountain range myself. Perhaps we’re sending our students for yodelling lessons as part of our EP (Enrichment Programme).

ALIS? In the words of Chubby Brown, who the **** is Alice?

Sorry if I’m teaching my granny to suck eggs, but all of these acronyms are new to us in FE.

CIT? Communists In Transit? Can I teach? Catch Infamous Tourists? Clowns In Toupees?  (Another appropriate one for management, perhaps?

We’ve decided that at the next meeting we’re going to play Acronym Bingo. Sue’s going to put together the cards and we mark off the acronyms or abbreviations that are used at the next meeting. A pound a card – winner takes all. Or, should that be WTA?

We were all reminded by our sympathetic head of HR (surely you all know what that is – no? Human Resources) that if we have student contact above the hours on our timetable that we are entitled to TOIL. (Time off in Lieu), but it must be taken in the following week. Who are they kidding? Our time-tables allow us on average an hour off a day.   We’re on that many committees now that you haven’t got time to blow your nose, let alone have a lie in!

The one we are all familiar with now, is MIS (Management Information Services, just in case you didn’t know). However, the bright sparks down in the Corridor of Power – COP? – haven’t realised that the sign they’ve had put on the office door actually reads MIS Information. How appropriate.

The final point at the meeting was that our departments within the sixth form area of the college were going to be renamed. We needed to pass suggestions on to the HoD (visions of bricklayers bum-cleavage – not a pretty thought) who would, in turn, pass the suggestions on to the HoF (Head of Faculty). An appropriate name would be chosen from those supplied.

Of course, all of this eventually led at our informal debriefing (i.e. over coffee) to creating our own acronyms and abbreviations. If any of us have the guts, we’re going to try to get these in to the next DM (Departmental Meeting). Our hypothesis is that those from the SMT will just nod wisely when we use them.

The first suggestion – from Jo who teaches psychology – is that we should refer to the meeting as the WHITMA Meeting. (What the Hell Is This Meeting About?) We’ve decided on the following:

FUs (Funding Units) to refer to students. Actually, it’s quite an appropriate one in relation to the students in the disaffected unit. The acronym is also an abbreviation of their favourite phrase. Apparently, it’s often used in the text messages that they send to each other.

Teaching staff should now be referred to as OOPs (Overworked, Oppressed Persons).

Lessons will be known as PIEs (Process (or Product) Information Exchanges.

We will also be having OTOS (One-to-one sessions) with our FUs at various points during the year.

We were desperately trying to get the acronym PHuCKED for our department. We managed Psychology, Humanities, English and Department. We were literally Phucked trying to get the ‘c’ and the ‘k’ in there. Not that we thought that the name would get anywhere, but it raised a laugh or two in the desperate climate that we seem to be in at the moment.

***

[Monologue moves to next week – shown by Sonia having a change of clothing]

Just back from the latest meeting. Completely surprised. Our department is now known as Humanities, English Languages and Law – HELL. Seems that the acronym has been completely overlooked by our leaders.

Just check my email.   What’s this – a missive from HR.

[Reads email aloud].

The Principalship would like to remind all those in HELL that they are entitled to TOIL next week due to staff attending Parents’ Evening for AS Students.

 

Well, what do you know, maybe the SMT do have a sense of humour after all!

Harry and the New World Order

Harry was busy in the greenhouse planting up tomato seeds. An astute peeping tom would have known by the set of his face and the energy he was putting into planting the seeds that he was annoyed. If they’d stayed a little longer, they’ve have noticed that, after about ten minutes, the therapeutic effect of planting started to relax him.

Inside Harry’s head, the angry thoughts were being replaced by bewilderment. “Why can’t I understand what people are talking about any more?” He thought.

It hadn’t always been like this. At one time, Harry had been able to understand exactly what people were talking about. He missed the old terms that people used. His thoughts turned back to his first job at the ‘big house’ as an assistant gardener. The head gardener, Mr Andrews, had spoken of chains and furlongs and acres. They meant something to Harry. Now people spoke of hectares. To Harry this word conjured up visions of plant hunters finding vetch instead of an exotic specimen in some far-flung place.   He could imagine them shouting , “Heck! Tares!” at their find. The image made him chuckle as he planted the last of his tomato seeds.

That evening, Harry turned on the television. Even the news was at it – using words that he didn’t understand. At the end of the local news, the announcer informed him that he could, “Download the news onto his iPod.” Shortly after, Harry dozed off. As he napped he dreamt of shelling peas for Sunday lunch. However, these pea-pods came complete with fluttering eyelashes. The peas inside the pods had whites and irises. The eyes rolled around in disgust as they were lowered into the pan of boiling water. The nightmare made Harry wake with a start.

Casualty was on. It, too, was full of terms that meant nothing to him. “I’ve never had a day’s illness in my life compared to that poor lot,” he thought. However, the mere mention of ‘SHOs’ meant that he didn’t have a clue what was being spoken about. He wondered if SHO meant ‘Small Human Organs’.   It was no good. He couldn’t concentrate on the programme now.

With a sigh, he changed the channel. ITV was showing a police drama. It too, was filled with words and phrases that meant nothing to him. Someone was shouting for someone else to inform SOCO. “Must the name of a senior police officer,” he mused. However, the person who turned up and announced himself as SOCO was nothing more than the man who took fingerprints. Then someone else turned up and announced that they were SOCO. By now, Harry was more confused than ever – perhaps they were brothers, but that seemed a little unusual.

He tried another channel. A wildlife programme with Bill Oddie was on. He settled back and watched it. At least there weren’t any strange words in here. He enjoyed the programme. It was just a shame that so many of the creatures were so rare nowadays.

***

The next few days were spent with Harry having little contact with the outside world. Well, no-one really has time for a widower, do they? He collected his daily paper and bought a leg of lamb from the Bob the butcher.

“Emma and her two boys are coming for the weekend,” he informed Bob as he weighed the leg.

“That’ll make a nice change for you, Harry. They don’t get down that much now, do they? The boys must be quite grown up now. “

“Aye, Tom’s sixteen and Richard’s fourteen.”

“That’ll be £8.79, please.”

“How much?”

“Well, lamb’s nearly £3.50 a kilo.”

“Oh!” Harry replied as he handed over the ten pound note. He wasn’t going to let on to Bob that he didn’t know understand how heavy a kilo was.

On his way home, Harry thought about Emma’s call.

“Sorry, Dad, but John can’t make it. He’s working.”

“It’s not right, love. Work and home life should be separate. It’s wrong the way companies want people’s heart and soul nowadays,” he’d responded.

“It’s not like that now, Dad. Everyone’s worried about their jobs. We’re lucky that I’m working.”

Harry knew that it wouldn’t be long before the ‘boys’ wouldn’t want to be dragged down to visit an aging old man that they barely knew. He went to the greenhouse and wondered how work had taken over people’s lives as he watered his tomato seeds.

***

Emma, Tom and Richard arrived. Emma looked tired. Tom and Richard were at that gangly stage teenage boys seemed to reach. To Harry their hair was too long and their jeans too slack. At sixteen Tom was studying for his A levels and Richard was constantly tired.

“Stick in, son, you’ve got chances that me and your grandma never had. Education’s a wonderful thing,” he told Tom.

“Yeah.   Sure,” Tom replied with the indifference of a teenager who doesn’t realise the chances that he actually has.

Harry turned his attention to his youngest grandson. “And what are you doing with yourself?”

“Nothing much. Mainly playing with my Wii. Thanks for the Christmas money, though,” Richard answered brightly.

Harry went red and walked into the kitchen. Emma followed him.

“What’s up, Dad? I know that the boys should have written you a thank you letter for the money for Christmas…”

“It’s not that, love. I know that I didn’t have much of a hand in bringing you up. And I know that modern ideas of how to be a parent have moved on, but surely you need to draw the line somewhere.”

“I’m sorry, Dad. I’ll get Richard to say thank you for the money you sent, too.”

“I’m not talking about the money, love. There’s more important things than that. I mean, Richard’s nearly fifteen. Surely it’s not normal.”

“What’s not normal?

“Well…you know…I mean…surely he’s potty trained by now. I’m sure he was the last time he visited.”

Emma suddenly stopped looking puzzled and broke into hysterical laughter.

“What? What’s so funny?” Harry asked, reddening from embarrassment now.

“Wii isn’t…wee. Wii’s the name of a computer game thing that all the kids are after now. He’s not playing with his wee, he’s playing with his Wii,” Emma explained as tears of laughter rolled down her cheeks.

Harry still felt embarrassed. It was another example of how he didn’t understand what people were talking about any more. In an attempt to deflect the laughter, he asked about her.

“I’m fine,” she replied. The laughter replaced by a fleeting worried glance.

“Is there anything else, love?”

“Well, to be honest, there’s talk of redundancies at John’s works. We haven’t told Richard or Tom yet. We don’t want them to know until the last minute. You won’t say anything to them, will you?”

“Of course not, love. They don’t use that word now, though, do they? It’s downsizing now, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It’s meant to sound less threatening to the workforce,” Emma explained.

“ I was made redundant twice. It’s not pleasant, but you get through it. The way that me and your Mum used to look at it was that we had a long way to fall before we landed in the gutter.”

“I know. It’s still scarey though.”

“Come on, we’ll go and water the plants in the garden. It’ll make you feel better.

The weekend passed without any further complications. At least Tom and Richard didn’t speak in the way that left Harry baffled when he passed others their age in the street. Sometimes he felt that teenagers were speaking a completely different language to English.

***

The trusses on Harry’s tomatoes were doing well. They’d be ready just in time for the village show.   The phone was ringing as Harry entered the kitchen after tending to them.

“Hi, Dad, just to let you know, John hasn’t been downsized. His SMT called everyone together who was keeping their jobs at lunchtime today. He’ll get an official letter in the next day or two.”

“Oh, love, that’ll be a weight off your mind.

“It is. Anyway I just thought that I’d tell you the good news. We thought that we’d kept it from the boys. Turns out that they’d been wondering if we were going to get divorced. They’d picked up on the tension that’s been in the atmosphere at home over the last few months. At least everything’s sorted out now.”

Harry didn’t like to say that he didn’t know what an SMT was. To him, it could have meant anything from ‘Supermarket Traders’ to ‘Silly Mouse Traitors’. At least whatever it was, it meant that Emma and the boys were safe from having to ‘downsize’ to a smaller house.

On TV that night, Harry heard about mosquitoes being used to deter teenagers from congregating outside of shops. Initially, Harry thought the news reporter was referring to the aeroplanes that he was used to from WWII. He soon learned that it was a small box which emitted a high-pitched sound that only those between certain ages could hear.

***

The day of the local flower, fruit and veg show arrived. The village hall was packed for the announcement of the winner of the overall competition.

“It was a difficult decision to make,” the Vicar announced, “but the overall prize goes to Harry Hunter.”

Beaming Harry went to the front to collect his £25 prize and the silver cup. He’d take the flowers he’d entered in the competition to the cemetery and show Connie the cup and tell her all about his achievement before he went home.

The Vicar was telling Harry in hushed tones why he had won the prize. “To be honest, harry, it was your downsized cherry tomatoes that did it. They were the smallest, but sweetest ones that we’ve ever had entered in the show.”

Harry burst out laughing. The Vicar looked puzzled.

“Sorry, Vicar,” Harry said, and then leaned forward and whispered his reason for laughing.

At the village dance, the Vicar took great delight in telling everyone what had made Harry laugh so much.

“He simply whispered to me: ‘I always thought that ‘downsizing’ was a silly word’.”