April 2008
‘At least I get to walk voluntarily through the doors before
I’m pushed,’ I think, as the college doors close behind me for the final time.
In this troubled world of further education there are few
college managers whose face persistently fits the frequently changing senior
management regimes long enough for their careers to reach a natural end. Most clash with an incoming Principal at some
point, whereupon they find themselves instantly banished, obliged to remain on
garden leave until the college administration removes all trace of them ever
having existed. These hapless managers, bewildered
and abandoned, with little to do but prune their hedges and tend the roses, wander
round their gardens wondering what on earth they did wrong.
My twenty-three years here have not been entirely free of
friction – often infuriating decisions and misguided strategies have led to
supremely challenging periods where the compulsion to storm out of the building
in a huff, slamming the door behind me, has almost triumphed over the need to
earn a few quid. On numerous occasions I’ve locked myself in
the loo and contemplated principle over pay.
But in the main, this has been a happy place for me. I have been lucky enough to work with some inspirational
and talented individuals and teams, united in their commitment to enhance their
students’ success. I will miss them. I have also worked with one or two
not-so-talented individuals who I will not miss at all.
I returned to work about four weeks after Nigel was
diagnosed with MND. In many ways work
proved a welcome distraction, particularly the all-consuming preparation for a
forthcoming Ofsted Inspection, but in my heart I knew that my occupation could
no longer remain a priority.
After fulfilling many different roles, I leave as a Quality
Manager. Not the sexiest of jobs. A significant chunk of my time is spent re-inventing
the wheel. I churn out procedures to
replace very similar procedures with a slightly different title, in the hope that
these new ones will do a much better job. These are then imposed on the long-suffering
staff for implementation. Following a
brief period of bedding in, they are obliged to tolerate me further as, like
the zealous Gestapo, I crawl all over them conducting compliance audits.
Hardly surprising that teachers dive beneath their desks or flee
behind filing cabinets when they hear my stilettoes tip tapping along the
corridor.
Rather like those Inspectors, who swept through the college like
a horde of invading warriors and, within three days, had mercilessly destroyed us
all as they delivered us a devastatingly poor result. Perhaps I might have been well advised to
loosen up a tad on those procedures? Not
the best way to end a career.
Ah well, what was it Kipling said?
“If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same.”[1]
But I can take solace from the odd snippet of success I’ve scraped
together along the way too. And of
course, my now tarnished CV need make no attempt to impress any future
employer.
The circumstances of my departure from the college could not
be more unexpected or unwelcome. MND is
not quite what I had imagined would prompt retirement. Still, how many people get to retire at
forty-nine? And how much more difficult
would it be if I had no choice but to continue to work? No, we are undeniably fortunate.
So, as one door closes …
It is time to move on.
Time for Nigel and I to be together, to make the most of the time we
have left.
Nigel’s modest bucket list is now complete. His shiny, golden coloured S-type Jaguar,
complete with cream leather seats and walnut dash, purrs patiently outside the
house awaiting its master’s pleasure.
Its master’s pleasure is to luxuriate in a leisurely drive
to southern Spain, where we will rent a rather lavish house for the next eight
months. Not for Nigel the stress of dashing
to every point on the planet in pursuit of the places he hasn’t yet seen. No, he wants to savour the Spanish culture and
wallow for a while in the Andalucía way.
Life is too short to rush it.
We plan to explore this vibrant land in our golden
carriage. We may even have a go at
learning the language.
Felices Fiestas!
November 2008
The lock slots smoothly into place as Nigel turns the key in
the front door for the final time.
‘Time to go,’ he says.
The Jag, engine already running, glistens in the glowering
heat whilst the gentle hum of the air conditioner cools the interior. It waits at the end of the path, impatient to
be off.
We don’t want to leave.
Nestled within a good three-wood’s reach of two golf courses
and an easy bike ride to shops, bars, restaurants and the beach, this house
could not have been more perfectly positioned.
Slowly, reluctantly, Nigel steers the car away from the
aptly named ‘El Paraiso’ community and up to the top of the hill where only
last week I tumbled off my bike as we staggered home from one of our adventures. Too much gin in the sangria I suspect.
‘Are you insane?’ I had said, when, shopping in the mammoth
El Cortes Ingles, Nigel held aloft two pushbikes, one in each hand, his face, beaming
like a kid on Christmas morning.
‘What d’ya reckon?
Shall we get ‘em?’
‘They’re only seventy-five euros apiece,’ he went on. ‘Bargain!’
‘Top quality then,’ I groaned, feeling saddle sore
already. I haven’t ridden a bike in
years.
In fact, they proved to be one of Nigel’s most inspired
purchases. Once you’ve mastered the juggling
act of lugging the damn thing up the steel steps and over the footbridge that
crosses the notorious Autovia del Mediterraneo, you discover a world that you
would simply never happen upon by car and to which you would never venture on
foot.
We peeked through hedges into the private and exquisite
gardens of the luxury villas that line the beach; we poked our way nosily
around alternate communities to compare them with ours; we skirted golf courses
with the intention of returning with clubs in order to challenge that which
looks easy from a bike and we pedalled precariously into beach bar after beach
bar.
We devoured sardines cooked atop charcoal, washed down with
plenty of sangria. Well, they’re
salty. Long, leisurely lunches
listening to the smooth and calming rhythms of chill-out music progressed
through to dinner and beyond.
We cycled to our favourite beach bar after Spanish class, and
Nigel, at times struggling to be understood in English, would perform his newly
acquired language skills for Raoul, our immensely patient waiter. Shame we didn’t become as accomplished in
this exciting tongue as I had dreamed.
Our teacher, whilst enthusiastic and competent, could have benefited
from some good old lesson planning and reinforcement exercises. But Julie, you are not a Quality Manager in a
college anymore, so lighten up.
Some days we ventured out at dawn, an advance party on a
mission to seek out new and stimulating spots for when family and friends came
to visit. Our unselfish efforts were, naturally,
designed purely to ensure their stay went without a hitch and not at all an
opportunity for us to impress by showing off our incredible and extensive
knowledge of the area.
Whether by car, cycling or on foot, we have traversed every
part of this sun-soaked province, and in so doing, we have developed a deep and
enduring affection for this Spanish gem.
Of the palaces of Granada, the battlements of Cadiz, the patios of
Cordoba and the bodegas of Jerez, along with all the sparkling cities and ancient
white pueblos in between, we will never tire.
We have frolicked fervently at festivals and become feverish
fans of the fiery flamenco. We have wept
to the haunting wail of the Spanish guitar and snoozed lazily through siestas
after sipping sangria. We have tasted
the most tantalising tapas and pounced ravenously on perfect paella.
However, despite spending eight months in this wonderful
place I am happy to say we haven’t attended a single bullfight. I have also, shame on me as they literally
grow on trees here, failed to develop a taste for olives, but I have got the
brownest, most deeply tanned legs ever.
This has been one of the happiest periods we have ever spent
together. Even our old antagonist, the
presence of death, given to hijacking our holidays, has mostly remained hidden,
emerging only occasionally from the bottom of a bottle of gin.
But we have to leave.
The doors are closing on this
episode of our lives.
A new door is opening –
MND is marching through it, and we must prepare.
