It’s been a tricky summer for the House of Simons. Everything that could have gone wrong has done so in spectacular fashion. Parents’ health has rapidly deteriorated. Passports and friendships have expired sooner than I would have liked. Family ventures have taken a turn for the unexpected. And even the basic assumption of safety within my own walls was bulldozed. Honestly, I wake up every morning preparing for battle with a resigned, “What now?”
Having gone a full 42 years without calling 999, in the space of three weeks I called the number twice. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that there won’t be a hat-trick.
As a friend and I left a fancy Soho cafe on the first morning of a much-anticipated little holiday, she gripped my arm and keeled over, eyes bulging with pain and panic. It was a suspected stroke. In this particular relationship, my friend is the leader and I am a very happy follower. She is a formidable woman, equally joyful and fearsome, and would make anyone’s perfect phone-a-friend. But in this emergency, I had to be in charge.
That was the first time I called 999. We were sped to hospital, both of us believing she was about to die. Thankfully, she’s made a full recovery and we are planning another (hopefully less eventful) trip.
The second emergency call did not result in a happy ending. Late one night, I interrupted a serious crime in progress. It took a few seconds to process what I was actually seeing. When I did, the shock knocked the wind out of me, and I tried to control my violent shaking enough to call the police, lock the doors and find a place to hide. It was the stuff of horror films. There has been no resolution. I’m frightened to be on my own after dark, I can’t sleep and, when I do, I have nightmares.
I tell you what, FE pals, I’m chuffed to be back in college. I can’t wait to forget that shit summer and return to my routine. I want some boring days, please, when comparative trivialities that pass for drama in the lives of some teenagers are the focus. I would like a load of bother over late assignments or daft he-saidshe-said arguments that swell to fill a 17-year-old’s entire existence.
When my world’s foundations are shaky, the firm inequality of the teacher-student relationship is a welcome respite. My life outside college is anonymous to my students. When they ask how my break was, I slap on a happy face and say, “Marvellous, thanks. How was yours?” When colleagues lament the end of summer, I shall make the right noises and nod in agreement, but I’ll be lying. I’m pleased to be back at college. I’m in dire need of a holiday from myself.
Sarah Simons works in FE colleges in the East Midlands
@MrsSarahSimons
