Heatwave

Here in the south of England, we’re in the midst of a heatwave. For weeks now, the sun has favoured us with its constant presence. The air trembles and the pavements steam with the heat of it. That curious, thick summer dust of spent pollen is sprinkled across every surface. The strong sunlight both brightens and bleaches. Life has spilled inside out - pavements are thick with throngs of people drinking, talking, laughing late into the evening - as if we are in a proper European capital, rather than our now even more isolated island outpost. And I am on my summer holidays. Perfect timing.

I have felt in somewhat of a heatwave of my own these past few months. The summer term is long, intense and often stressful. The atmospheric pressure remains high day after day, week after week, as the students grow more and more anxious in the run up to exams. Tempers fray. Tears are shed. Tiredness makes us all terse with one another.

Endless cups of coffee are drunk to fuel late-night marking sessions. The days and weeks pass in a Groundhog day blur. I stagger through to every weekend, a rock to rest on briefly amidst the waves. There are holidays, there are adventures, there is plenty of fun and laughter both in and outside the classroom to enjoy - but even when I am not at school my mind is never far from my classroom, my students, all the things I need to do, all the things I should have done. It is only when we break up for the summer that I can separate myself for long enough to return to a sense of self that is not wrapped up in my identity as a teacher. That is, until I bump into a student - there is no word more horrifying to hear in the midst of the summer holiday, when loafing around your local highstreet in hot pants, than - ‘Miss!’

All this to say - being a teacher is not always compatible with being a writer, or indeed, a person who creates anything that requires thought and imagination and headspace. I often read or see or think about something and then think ‘oh, I must write about that-’ and then the next tranche of essays lands on my desk and my mind shifts in another direction.

However, over the past couple of months, after some soul-searching, some reconnecting with people, some very good advice from numerous encouraging friends and some saying ‘yes’ to opportunities I would normally say ‘no’ to in term time, I have begun to resurrect my writing identity, and have been dipping my toe back into the theatre world. I had a play on a few weeks ago - it was well received, and there has been discussion of taking it further. I did a wonderful workshop with the theatre company Wise Children, that reminded me of the joy of creative collaboration and gave me plenty of fresh ideas. A friend and I have decided to start our own theatre company and make our own work - our first play will be on in London in September, as part of a fringe festival. I have booked myself onto a writing retreat with the Arvon Foundation in a few weeks’ time, gifting myself time and space to write a new play. I feel energised again, creatively, and I am determined that the ‘teacher’ part of my identity is not going to subsume everything else from henceforward.

Once I shifted back into creative mode, I have been alive and attentive to so much more going on around me, seeing inspiration and interest everywhere. I feel that I am oscillating like the air around me in the heat of the July sun, every molecule of my being waking itself up to new opportunities and new connections.

There is much I want to write about, and I will be making up for lost time as my long summer unfurls and I can share some of the things I have been reading, doing and thinking about during these months I have written nothing. In the meantime, I will leave you with two recommendations - read Dark Like Under by Alice Chadwick - it’s a first novel, and it’s not perfect - it gets off to a very slow start - but the writing is beautiful and the ending worth the wait. And if you are frazzled and hot and just want to read something cosy, heartwarming and utterly lovely - then read Small Bomb at Dimperley by Lissa Evans, which I devoured in one sun-soaked sitting on my balcony. Bliss!