Yes, that really was me ... many, many years ago!

One day I was sitting in a cafe and having a conversation with a young Kyrgyz acquaintance, Aybek, who expressed great sympathy for me.

Sympathy? Why sympathy? Because I was single and have no children.

When I was a schoolteacher, if someone had made a similar comment I would have replied that I had “the best of all possible worlds” — I had 800 children but I was able to say “Goodnight” to them at four o’clock every evening and I didn’t have either the hassles nor the expenses involved with bringing up a family.

On this occasion I couldn’t say that. The attitude of the Kyrgyz is quite different and they don’t understand the modern western approach to the family. The family is a vital part of their society. Everything revolves around the family.

I used to think it was all about perpetuating the family name. I once went to a birthday party for a Babushka — the grandmother of my of my young acquaintances. Around the table sat the whole of the extended family in Bishkek … her sons and daughters, son-in-laws and daughters-in-law, grandchildren … and a host of family friends like myself. The conversation got round to family members who had moved away and were now in Russia, Uzbekistan or some other far flung part of the former Soviet Union. One of her sons pointed out that, although there were many grandchildren, only his children would carry the family name — and as they were both sons, only they would be able to perpetuate the family name for future generations.

But, there is more to it than that. There is a great respect amongst the Kyrgyz for the older generation. The Aksakals – “old men with white beards” – hold a special place in Kyrgyz society. By tradition, the youngest son, always lives in parents home looking after them in their old age – and his reward was to inherit the family yurt (the traditional tented home of the nomadic herdsman).

Aybek’s sympathy arose out of concern for me in my old age. I would have no comfort in my old age – no-one to watch over me and care for me. I could end up in an “old people’s home” – which is not necessarily a very attractive prospect even in the West.

I couldn’t help but remember my parents. My mother was one of eight children, and my father one of six. By the time they died they were the only members of their respective families left in their home town. Everyone else had moved away. To America, to New Zealand, to other parts of the UK, … and I moved to Kyrgyzstan! When my father was finally fell ill and was taken to hospital he said to me: “I’m not afraid of dying — but I would have liked to have gone home one more time.” What would happen to me?

I tried to make a joke – I may not have children, but I have my cats. Aybek wouldn’t accept that. The cats won’t look after you, cook your meals, clean the house …

That’s true, but they do provide me with company and much more besides.

When I first came to Bishkek I lived with friends. Life was quite comfortable, but the time came to move on and I moved into my own flat — nothing luxurious, but comfortable. One of my friends gave me a kitten to keep me company. Sinok — it’s Russian for “son”, or “sonny” — was a little bundle of energy. He quickly settled in and made friends with all the neighbours. Then one day came a shock.

I was in my office and there was a knock at the door. It was a little girl, one of our neighbours. What she said surprises me still today, many years later. “They’ve stolen Sinok.” Pardon? What was that? Apparently, two middle aged ladies had been walking along the street and seen him playing in the yard. They called him, and without any fear he went up to them. They picked him up and began to walk off with him. The girl ran after them … “What are you doing?, where are you taking him?”. They said that they thought he was a stray and when she said “No he’s not”, they pushed her to the ground and got into a taxi. She ran to tell me. Of course, it was too late. Even though we later found the taxi and discovered where he had taken the women it didn’t help. We advertised, and got offered all sorts of replacement kittens – but that didn’t help. I wanted Sinok back. I can’t tell you how depressed I felt. Of course, if it had been a child, then “all hell would have been let loose” — but it was just a kitten. So I had to accept it.

What makes it worse was the stories I was told about cats being stolen and then eaten.

After a couple of weeks, it was clear that Sinok wasn’t coming back and another friend appeared one morning with two kittens – one grey and the other a tabby. “Choose which one you want”, he said. “Why must I choose? Can’t I have both?”. It had occurred to me that they could keep each other company, play with each other, and were less likely to wander or be stolen if there was a pair. And so I acquired Zita and Gita.

At the time we thought they were both girls – but it later turned out that Zita was really a tomcat – and now he is confused because some people call him Zita, but others have taken to calling him Vita, or Victor…

For a long time we lived a nice contented life. They come when I whistle and show me great affection. They don’t argue with each other. They don’t mess up the house. They run after me if I leave for a meeting. Some people say they are more like dogs than cats.

Although they are brother and sister, they are totally different. Gita is a huntress. Many is the time I have had to take a dead or dying bird out of her mouth. “Thank you, but you don’t need to bring your trophies home”, I tell her – both in Russian and English. Sorry, but I can’t say it in Kyrgyz. Zita, on the other hand, although he enjoys playing with string or a ball, is as lazy as anything. He has tried to catch his own prey, but it seems to be so much easier to sit and watch until his sister tires with her new toy, and then sneak up and steal it when she abandons it.

If I have any complaint about them it is that they wake me up at five o’clock in the morning, mewing to be let out.

Then something happened. One of my neighbours brought home a “ginger tom” — Reggie. Now, cat society seems to have it’s own set of rules. Tom cats have a habit of wandering. Reggie does his fair bit of wandering — but never very far. Usually he just comes next door, to visit Zita, Gita and me. The fact that he could be guaranteed an extra meal may have been an incentive … but he soon settled in — and although he never became “a member of the family”, he is more than just a visitor.

OK — so that’s three cats.

Night time, there is often a cat’s chorus in the yard outside my flat. Obviously there are other cats in the neighbourhood. Most of them don’t seem to have homes. They are strays. Most of the time they are ravishingly hungry. Of course, they can cry out very loud. Some days I am suiting in my office and I can hear this mewing. I should know better by now and just ignore it … but something inside me won’t let me. I get up to go and investigate.

And that is how I have managed to acquire five strays. Dealing with the first one, “Gray”, was easy. Tatiana, my accountant, fell in love with him and offered him a home – where he soon settled in with the other five, the two dogs, the rat, the fish and the frogs (yes, the frogs).

Next came “Peter” – a Siamese. He was already fully grown and it seems obvious he had been “thrown out” … taken to a strange part of town and dumped. His tail was broken and at another point it was wounded and needed attention.

When he saw a plate of food he stopped being a cat and became a vacuum cleaner. He wolfed everything down as if there was no tomorrow. It seemed that not only it was a long time since he had last eaten, it was as if he didn’t know when he would eat again.

He didn’t seem to believe his luck and for several weeks wouldn’t leave the office – unless it was to follow me upstairs to my flat – where he liked nothing better than to sleep on my bed – or better still under the sheets. He would sneak under the blanket whilst I was fast asleep and I would wake up with a mouthful of fur as he snuggled up into my neck.

He has grown so big and waddles around that I say he isn’t really a cat, he’s more like a sheep. Tatiana says he is more like a horse.

He gets on fairly well with Gita and Zita. At first they weren’t sure what to make of him. But the jealousy died down and the three of them were almost inseparable. Peter, however, is really a solitary cat. He wants to be the only pet and although he is happy to put up with these two he has no time for the later arrivals.

Next to appear was Alicia. Another Siamese. When she first appeared she was totally wild. She didn’t want to be handled and cowered in front of the others, growling in a threatening manner. She soon settled in, however, and then started growing fat. But it wasn’t that she was eating rather well. It appears that she was expecting kittens.

She grew fatter and fatter, then suddenly one day she appeared and was so small it was hard to image it was the same cat. We spent ages looking for the kittens, and although we could sometimes hear them, we never found them. Then one day, when they already quite big, they appeared on the lawn in front of the building. Two of them – one with pure white fur and the other a tabby with four different colours in her marking. They found the plates of food and settled in. We named then Agatha and Christie.

Christie, the white one, proved to be very popular. Lots of people wanted to adopt her – but Agatha was ignored by everyone. I don’t know why, because she seemed to have the better character and was much more playful and affectionate. Anyway, Christie found a home and Agatha is still with us. She is now, probably, too old to find a new owner … so that makes five cats – six if you count Reggie.

Marquise appeared next – a small black stray with a white streak down his back. Another vacuum cleaner when it comes to food. His problem, however, is that although he likes human company, he is scared of the other cats and sits angrily growling at the others. When he first started visiting, he would announce his arrival with loud meows and would wander from room to room looking for plates of food, only to crouch and growl if one of the others would appear. Now, he has learned to sneak in unannounced in hope of avoiding the others and only makes a noise when he sure the coast is clear.

Alicia has now produced her second litter. She obviously became pregnant straight after dropping the first litter — and, incidentally, has done so once again after dropping her second – so I am expecting some others kittens in another couple of months time.

It was just like last time. One evening she was as a big cat, but in the morning she appeared just a slip of her former self. Once again we searched in vain for the kittens. This time, however, she only waited a week before she brought them “home”. One Saturday I came into the office and heard some mewing. At first I thought it was Agatha, but when I listened closely I could distinguish two different voices. Then she wandered in with a little ball of fluff in he teeth, glanced up at me and, apart from that, paying me absolutely no attention, marched past and put the new arrival in a corner. “So, there are three kittens this time”, I thought to myself – but later I discovered a fourth – all with totally different markings and characters. This time there were three male kittens and it was easier finding them a home. I am having trouble finding a suitable home for the girl (I haven’t named them yet … it seems to make parting with them that much more difficult), but the tom cats are all suitably placed.

Alicia isn’t quite sure of what to think about the disappearing kittens. She spends time mewing, calling, and when they don’t respond she wanders around the place, searching high and low. She has taken to lying across the doorway as if to inspect each person as they leave to see if they are taking her children away.

So, at one time I was feeding eleven cats – plus the odd one which might treat us like a restaurant and wander in for a snack. I was told that I could “get rid” of them fairly easily – just put them in a sack and drop them in the Be-Che-Ke – the Bolshoi Chui Canal, but I couldn’t do that.

Unfortunately, they didn’t come alone. They brought little friends with them – fleas. One Friday afternoon we had a great time locking them in the bathroom, one by one – kittens and all – and shampooing them with special shampoo, and then fumigating the place. I had to sit for several hours out in the sun while they dried out and the chemicals did their work in the office. There I was sitting on a bench in the yard, with the kittens in a bucket and cats sitting in a circle around me – watching me with betrayed looks on their faces. More than one person walking along the street did a double take when they saw us.

A few days ago another cat appeared, mewing loudly. This one is about two or three months old, an interesting fawn colour, and obviously used to human company. She’s not scared of us humans – but doesn’t know what to make of the other cats. Perhaps she will stay – perhaps not.

So, 2003 has not exactly been the “year of the tourist” as far as we are concerned, and to the Chinese it may be the “year of the Ram” – but for me, I suppose it is turning out to be “the year of the Cats”.

For the record: Gita disappeared one day, never to return, but Zita is still with me, although now we all call him Victor. The others have all been found homes so Victor (Zita) now rules the roost as king of the office. He is very placid and gained quite a fan club. Visitors often ask after him and it sometimes seems that they come to see him, not me, as they make such a fuss over him.

He doesn’t get lonely because a couple of other strays have appeared on the scene … or, at least, appear twice a day, (morning and evening), to be fed. A typical case of “Cupboard Love”.

Church Street, Great Malvern

Malvern, where I grew up, was a small town with a population of about 30,000, (which would be a sizeable city in Kyrgyzstan), but it was originally a number of villages, (Great Malvern, Malvern Link, North Malvern, West Malvern, Little Malvern, Malvern Wells and a number with names that don’t contain the name “Malvern” like Colwall, and Barnards Green), which grew up around the Malvern Hills.

To us, growing up in Malvern, it was a small town.  I am a “Small Town Boy”!  Small enough to go out on a Saturday  morning an guarantee running into friends even if you hadn’t made any specific arrangements to do so.  Everyone seemed to know everyone else.  My father in particular, being a postman, seemed to know everyone – and everyone seemed to know him.  At least, if he didn’t know someone then he could find out about them by asking one of his colleagues.  All my friends, especially girlfriends, went to under a close scrutiny – not all them passing muster and receiving approval.

The Malvern Hills

The most obvious landmark in the town are the Malvern Hills.  They stretch for about 10 miles North to South and rise majestically from the plain of the Severn River to the West, and to the East there are undulating hills as Herefordshire extends towards the Welsh Mountains.  The hills meant that to go anywhere in Malvern meant having to climb, (what seemed to me at the time), steep inclines and it was a real disincentive to ride a bike anywhere – although it is true that “what goes up must come down” and so so strenuous pedaling would be alternated with coasting downhill (at dangerously increasing speeds … I crashed and wrote off two cycles this way!)  To this day I still don’t really understand the motivation of Mountain Bikers who thrill at climbing to the passes of the Tien Shan, Pamir and Karakorum ranges.

When I first met Tony, from New Zealand, he upset me (well, slightly offended me), by saying that England was basically flat.  How could he say that to someone from Malvern, graced as we were with the glorious hills?  Standing on the top of the Worcestershire Beacon in the center of the range, there is no higher spot to the East until you get to the Urals separating Europe from Asia!  Now, having been to New Zealand – and, of course, Kyrgyzstan – I understand.  In England we don’t really have mountains … OK – technically they may be mountains … because they are over a certain height, but I now realize that we are probably “making mountains out of molehills”.

Hey, it is possible to drive a car to the top of Ben Nevis, Britain’s highest peak – there are photographs in the pubs of Fort William, at the foot of the “mountain”, to prove it.  Try that on Peak Pobeda!

(Apparently the actual figure for defining a mountain changes according to the context -I was told  in Geography lessons that it was 1000 feet, or about 300m … in Kyrgyzstan they don’t consider anything to be mountainous unless it is over 1500m, which is about 93% of the country!).

Like most places in Britain, Malvern has a long history.   In fact, the name, itself, probably dates back to ancient times and is derived from a word which meant “Bare-Hill”, (apparently, in Welsh, “Moelfryn” has a similar meaning: “bald hill”).

Malvern Priory

Malvern was the site of a Benedictine monastery, which, after the hills is probably the second best known landmark in the town.  The Priory was established in 1085.  It is said that Saint Wulfstan, who was the Bishop of Worcester at the time, encouraged a hermit named Aldwyn to found a monastery in what was then the wilderness of Malvern Chase.  The Priory was built for thirty monks on land belonging to Westminster Abbey.  The current church, however, is the result of more recent renovations which date from about 1470.  The great square central tower is very similar to that of the nearby Gloucester Cathedral; it was built by the same masons.  The church has a fine collection of stained glass windows which ranges from medieval to modern.  One was a gift from Henry VIII in 1501, and another from the Duke of Gloucester, who later became Richard III.  It was saved from destruction in the “dissolution of the monasteries” under Henry VIII because the locals bought it to serve as their parish church because their existing church was in a bad state of decay.  The bought it for the grand sum of twenty pounds.

(One of the few things I brought with me to Kyrgyzstan as a memento of home was a Victorian Print of the Abbey Gateway)

Malvern is a famous spa, known for its bottled water since 1622 – it is now bottled by Schweppes out of their factory on the Western side of the hills.  There are a number of natural springs and a Victorian rhyme claimed that Malvern water was so pure that it owed its fame to the fact that it contained “nothing at all”.  Believe it or not, even here in Kyrgyzstan – where we lots of Mineral waters of our own – I sometimes find a bottle on a shop shelf or in a bar.

One of the Annual events which take place in the lee of the hills – and something we always used to look forward to – is The Three Counties Show – an agricultural fair.

Malvern is home to several famous public schools, the most notable being Malvern College and Malvern Girls College (now renamed Malvern St. James after its merger with another local school).  Amongst the famous alluminii are: Jeremy Paxman, Denholm Elliott, Barbara Cartland and Aleister Crowley.

Not exactly an industrial town, Malvern is however the home of one of the world’s longest existing private car factories, The Morgan Motor Car which makes traditional sports cars which over the years have become a ‘cult’ vehicle, and are exported all over the world.

During the Second World War, Malvern was the location to which the UK government was to be evacuated, (at least part of it), in case of invasion or emergency. During this time, it also became the home of Telecommunications Research Establishment, (TRE), renowned for its role in the history of radar.  It has been said that World War II was won on the playing fields of Malvern, home of the cavity magnetron – whatever that is. The site of TRE still exists in Malvern, but due to shifts in scientific focus, its name has undergone several changes including RRE (Royal Radar Establishment), RSRE (Royal Signals and Radar Establishment), DRA (Defence Research Agency) and DERA (Defence Evaluation and Research Agency) … but I knew it as, and will always remember it as RRE.  Apparently, although part of it has been privatized, it and is still the major source of employment in the town, and has spawned a number of smaller light engineering companies in the neighbourhood.

Amongst the other various claims to fame that the town owns:

• According to legend, the British chieftain Caractacus took his last stand against the Romans on what is now called the Herefordshire Beacon in the Malvern Hills but, although there are fortifications on the hill from the period, this has been disputed in more recent times.
• The beginning of the medieval poem “Piers Plowman”, by Langland, (one of the earliest pieces of English literature), is set on the Malvern hillside.
• Cardinal Wolsey, (Henry VIII’s Chancellor) had his first posting in the lee of the hills.
• Charles Darwin’s daughter Anne is buried in the graveyard of Malvern Priory.
• Peter Mark Roget (creator of Roget’s Thesaurus) is buried in the graveyard of St James, West Malvern.
• British composer Edward Elgar taught in Great Malvern and much of his work was influenced by the Malvern Hills. Elgar is buried at St. Wulstan’s, Little Malvern.
• C. S. Lewis, was a pupil at Malvern College. It is said that he and J. R. R. Tolkien used to walk on the Malvern Hills.  There is a story that once, when walking home one winter evening after having had a drink in one of the local pubs, it started to snow. They saw a lamp post shining out through the snow and Lewis turned to his friends and said “that would make a very nice opening line to a book”. It may not have been the opening line, but he did use the image in his book “The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe”, as the characters enter the realm of Narnia.
• It is sometimes claimed that Haile Selassie, the Emperor of Ethiopia, spent some of his exile here, in the Abbey Hotel – but if he did, I didn’t know anything about it.

So this is the environment I grew up in during the 1950′s and 60′s: a small urban English town, steeped, (albeit lightly) in culture, history and tradition … not exactly rural and not really a city … but having a sense of its own importance, status and it’s place in the world.

Photos from Wikipedia:

Let’s start with the simple and the obvious … my name is Ian Claytor. I am British and was born on 8th March, 1953, in Malvern, Worcestershire.

Ian is a Scottish name, (it’s the Scottish equivalent of John, or “God’s Gift”), although there is nothing Scottish about the family. There aren’t that many Claytors around … and it seems that the Malvern branch of the family originally came from Nottinghamshire. There’s a family legend that tells that we are descended originally from a family called Clayton, who were local squires and landowners, but there was a scandal involving a gypsy girl and a curse placed on the “seventh son of the seventh son” … they seem to have gone in for big families in those days … and in an attempt to overcome the curse one of my ancestors changed his name by replacing the final letter, an “n”, with an an “r”. (An attempt to create an “alpha effect” with an “omega change”, as Arthur C. Clarke put it in one of his short stories.) I am not sure I believe the account, but it makes for a good story.

Actually, Ian is what it says on my Birth Certificate and in my passport – so it is my official name – but according to Canon Law, (Church Law, that is), it’s not my name at all. When I was born my mother had Tuberculosis – it cost her a lung and my father once told me that they “pulled the curtains”, (meaning that they thought that she was about to die), not just once but twice during this period. Anyway, when I finally made my appearance, they were so concerned that I might not survive that the doctor christened me then and there. Apparently he named me Royston and, as I said, according to Canon Law, once you are christened, then you have been given a name and that is your name. Full Stop! So, how come I am now Ian Claytor and not Royston Claytor. My mother explained it me like this: my older brother, Tony, had trouble saying my name – even in the short version, Roy. Apparently, he kept calling me “Boy”. “No son of mine is going to go through life being called “Boy”", she decided, and so when it came time to officially register the birth with the authorities, she changed it to Ian.

She thought she had solved the problem because no-one could shorten the name … but she was thwarted by Richard, my best friend at primary school, who would insist on calling me “Ee”. I think that, at times, she felt that she could have throttled him.

In answer to one of the questions that I am most often asked here, I have to report that I am single and have never been married and so, no, I am not divorced and no, I have no children – although I do have a number of cats. You can read more about them here.

As I said, I have an older brother, Tony, who is married to Christine and they have two teenage sons, Dominic and Lawrie and live in Hertfordshire.

For the first two and half years of my life when my mother was ill with TB, I had been passed from relative to relative eventually ending up in a children’s home in Stourbridge in North Worcestershire. One of earliest memories is of playing on the swings at the home. Another is of sitting in the backseat of the car my parents had borrowed when they came to fetch me and, looking out of the back window seeing a big bright “Midland Red” bus turn the corner behind us.

Malvern, where I grew and went to school, was a small town of about 30,000 but it was originally a number of villages, (Great Malvern, Malvern Link, North Malvern, West Malvern, Little Malvern, Malvern Wells and a number with names that don’t contain the name Malvern), which grew up around the Malvern Hills.

My father was a postman for all his life, except for the war years when he served as a tank driver, driving a Churchill tank in North Africa and up through Italy. He was also a Trade Union official, serving for many years as the local branch secretary of the Union of Post Office Workers), an example I was to follow later on in life. My mother was a housewife for most of her life, but did spend some time working a shorthand typist and secretary. She was very fond of handicrafts and I think she would have found the traditional crafts of the Kyrgyz very interesting and would have enjoyed making Shyrdaks, Ala Kiyiz, Kurak and Saima embroidery.

I wasn’t a particularly good student at school. In fact I still have my school report where one of my teachers commented: “Ian works well when he can’t avoid it” … and I still wonder why he couldn’t have stuck with the traditionally tried and tested: “Could do better”, but it was at least original and showed that I wasn’t just “one of the crowd”. My schooldays, of course, did much to shape my future career, but there’s more about that here. Anyway, I must have done reasonably well because I ended up with three A-Levels and a place at Teacher Training college and the backdoor into Oxford University and an Oxford degree, and there’s more about that here.

Oxford was an adventure. Up until then I hadn’t traveled much and my horizons were very much limited to Malvern where I had grown up. I had been to the seaside at Weston-Super-Mare, (or Weston-Super-Mud as we called it because when the tide went out, the sea retreated so far that there seemed to be nothing but miles and miles of wet sand), and to Cornwall with the family of my best friend … they later moved there and he still lives there and now runs a number of hotels in the area – so we’re colleagues. Oxford, however, was different … it wasn’t a holiday, just a week or two … I was on my own, and I made the most of it.

I made some good friends in college, and we kept in touch for a while after we finished our course. When it came time for everyone to leave and go make their own way in the world, one of my friends, took my address but said: “I don’t promise to keep in touch … maybe I will, but think how many friends you had at school that you’ve lost touch with – and that was only three or four years ago … people move on, and I don’t like making promises I don’t know if I can keep.” It’s sad, but she was right – and I have always remembered that … especially the bit promises – after all, an Englishman’s word is supposed to be his bond!

After college it was a question of finding a job … and I got thrown in at the deep end. I became the Teacher in Charge of Religious Education in a large school in Thame in rural Oxfordshire. OK … “teacher in charge” … the only teacher of Religious Education, as it happened. Being the only one, however, I couldn’t take every class and there were a couple of people to help me … but basically I was left on my own devices.

It was in Thame that I started to follow my father’s footsteps and joined a union. It wasn’t exactly what you would think of as a Trade Union … or at least what I thought of at that time as a Trade Union. Teaching isn’t exactly a “blue collar”, working class, profession, and the union that I chose was not militant by any means. Some people referred to us conservative, or even “right wing”, but that wasn’t really true. We preferred to call ourselves the “moderate” teachers’ union. Normally, I “don’t do things by halves” and guided by the principles that although “membership has its privileges” it also has its responsibilities, so I found myself taking an active role in Association affairs. After the move to London, this grew year by year and before I know it I was branch secretary, and in the course of the next seventeen years I also took on the roles (at different times) of Branch Treasurer and Chairman as well as a conference delegate and Branch representative, negotiating with employers, local authorities and, on one occasion, a Minister of the Crown. As it happens, this experience taught me an awful lot and helped me a great deal when I came to Kyrgyzstan and I found myself attending meetings (and sometimes arguing) with government officials, Ministers and even Prime Ministers and Presidents and two British princes of the realm. (Yes, two … strange isn’t it, I traveled half way around the world to meet two members of my own Royal Family!)

The Headteacher in Thame had a basic rule of thumb … the first year a teacher worked in the school, especially if they were a probationary teacher like me, (that is they were newly qualified and new to teaching), then they were basically “taking” from the school – gaining experience and additional “on the job training”. Everything is a new experience. During the Second year its a case of “fifty-fifty” … they are still learning, but they are also putting into practice that they learned in the first year. By the time they get to the third year, they are “giving back” to the school. Now, it seemed to me, (and still does), that that’s a bit crude, but there is a lot of truth in it and it makes a lot sense in a school situation where there is a clear annual cycle. Anyway, I did my three years and and then started looking around for the next step in my career.

I applied for a job in London … returning to my “first love”, Mathematics. In fact, I didn’t get it … at the interview we were told that someone else had been appointed, but “it was a close decision and thanks for applying”. So, I got quite a surprise a few days later when I got a phone call saying that the successful applicant had to withdraw and asking if I was still interested in the job. Yes, I was, and so I made another of the big decisions in my life and moved to London.

Having been, nominally at least, my own boss as “Teacher in charge of Religious Education”, I now joined the rank and file as ordinary classroom teacher. I had fewer groups to get to know and was teaching a subject which, even if it wasn’t popular with everyone, was thought to be useful and not just a “necessary chore”, a statutory obligation. I got on well with the classes – although, yes, there were “ups and downs”. I was there for seventeen years. That’s a long time, but although it was seventeen years in one school, I actually had several different jobs during that time. After a few years as a classroom Maths teacher, I took on classes in Statistics and then Computing, IT and vocational courses as well as taking on various administrative roles within the school. There’s more about that here.

I also took on a role as an examiner, (in both Maths and Computing). My first experience of working in the examination system was as a student when I got a holiday job as a “checker” for one of the exam boards. It surprised me how many so-called “intelligent” people couldn’t add up the marks they had awarded a candidate – and as a result this was something I paid great attention to when I eventually became an examiner. Later as a with the Certificate of Secondary Education (CSE), which was the equivalent of a school leaving certificate, and the system involved using class teachers as markers and examiners. When my career moved into computing I applied for several jobs as a assistant examiner in Computing, (without any expectation of success – hey, my degree was in Theology, not computing or any other related subject), and to my surprise and amazement I was accepted – for all of them! Every year, from May until August, I spent many long hours marking scripts and coursework projects, and attending meetings. It was a hard job, carrying great responsibility but it was a great experience which helped me immensely in many different ways. I would strongly recommend it to any teacher as being both rewarding and worthwhile. (There’s more about my experiences here.)

As I said before, I didn’t travel very much when I was young. Now, during those seventeen years I really got the travel bug. I traveled to various places around Britain, visited France two or three times every year and also lots of other places in Europe, (Albania, Austria, Belgium, Czechoslovakia, Germany, Greece, Holland, Ireland, Italy, Monaco, Norway, Portugal, Spain, Sweden, Turkey, Yugoslavia, …). I went to the States four times, New Zealand, French Polynesia, Pakistan, Thailand, China (Hong Kong) and several of the Caribbean islands. I even visited Russia, Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan … but little did I know at the time that I would end up living here! I regret that I never made it to Africa or South America (… ever since I studied South America as part A-Level Geography, I have wanted to go to Brazil – especially the Amazon). I always enjoyed visiting new places, seeing the sights and being able to point to something and say to myself, “I remember learning about that in Geography, or History, or … whatever, and now I am seeing it in real life”; meeting new people; trying new food; learning about different cultures. One thing I didn’t really like was sitting on a beach, sunbathing. I was prepared to do it occasionally if my friends on holiday wanted to do so, provided we split the holiday and did some “”exploring” as well. I felt that it was wasting too much valuable time. As the Beatles put it: “Life is very short and there’s no time for …”, well they said (sang) “fussing and fighting, my friend”, but as far as I was concerned it should have been “sitting around idle”. I suppose it was the “Protestant work ethic” which had been instilled in me by this time.

In fact, I like being busy and I kept (keep) myself busy in many ways. I also have an obsessive personality and tend “not to do things by halves”

As well as teaching, examining and my work with the union, another way was my involvement in Rugby. Although I have tried my hand at many sports I have never been a great sportsman. In my schooldays, however, I played Rugby for the school team and the local club. I was never very good at it … I joke that my position was seventeenth man (for those that don’t know – a rugby team consists of fifteen players!). Even when I stopped playing as the result of an injury, I continued to coach one of the school teams and to referee some matches … although I can’t say that I really enjoyed either.

Another thing I undertook was “in-service” training. I am a great believer that education is a lifelong activity. We are always meeting new experiences, and the world is constantly changing with new facts being discovered and new technologies being developed and so we need to prepare ourselves for the challenges of tomorrow … and not rely on what we learned in the dim and distant past. When I went on my first “First Aid” course, for example, we were taught that the way to deal with a nose bleed was to pinch the bridge of the nose and put the patients head back with the nose in the air, but a couple of years later at the refresher course we were told to pinch the bridge of the nose and bend the patient forward with the nose down. As it was explained to us, if the head is back then there is a chance for the blood to flow through the nasal cavity into the mouth and then into the throat … causing all sorts of complications. It wasn’t, however, just a case of keeping up-to-date. I’m a bit like a sponge in learning new things. I loved playing Trivial Pursuits! I once included an obscure fact in a history essay at school and the teacher circled it in red and added a comment “Where did this come from?” I took great pleasure in telling him it was a book that he had told us we all ought to buy. I had done so, and showed him the reference. There was nothing he could say in reply apart from: “You remember the strangest things!” As a result I also took a number of courses which had nothing to do with work and my favourite was “Looking at Paintings” from the Open University. I don’t know if they still offer it … but it was very enlightening in many different respects. Attending courses is something I miss here … but the internet is a great tool and I feel very fortunate in being able to research almost any topic.

The next big decision in my life involved the move to Kyrgyzstan. In fact it wasn’t one decision, it was a series of at least three during the course of just over a year: to come here; to stay and what to do once I had decided to stay.

Tony, a friend whom I had known since my days in Oxford, worked as a lawyer for a large international firm based in London. His first visit to Kyrgyzstan was in the early 1990′s as part of his work – and he fell in love with the country and the people. On his suggestion I came here on holiday in 1994 and although I liked the place I never really thought that much more about it until he told me that he had landed a job here, wanted to open his law firm and needed help to set up the office. Would I come and help him? Yes, OK. I originally came for one year, but things never quite go according to plan and as the year was coming to an end there was still lots to do, so I stayed on to finish the job. I could have gone back home. I had a job waiting for me and staying here meant saying goodbye to that and a career that I had been developing for twenty years. To be honest, however, I was ready for a change and I looked forward to meeting the challenges of starting something new.

Once I decided to stay, and the office was up and running it was a case of “what do I do now?”. We looked at several options and eventually decided that the most perspicacious was Tourism … and so, together with another friend from the UK, we started the Celestial Mountains Tour Company, and two hotels. We would have liked to open more, but, (as I keep saying), things don’t always go according to plan.

As before, I keep myself busy. There’s never a dull moment. If ever I seem to stop and be idle, it’s not because I have nothing to do … it’s because I have so much to do that I don’t know where to start. I am involved in a number of projects here in Kyrgyzstan. I am an active member of the International Business Council (IBC) and the Kyrgyz Association of Tour Operators (KATO) – in fact I am the president of the Association, which always raises an eyebrow – an Englishman as the President of a Kyrgyz Association … but then some people say (jokingly) that, after fourteen years here, I am almost half Kyrgyz anyway. (I have actually taken out official “Residence” status but, no, I am not looking to take out Kyrgyz citizenship – to do that I would have to give up my British passport, and I am not keen to do that.) Some people even say I am more enthusiastic about all things Kyrgyz than most of the locals. I have even been thanked by locals for telling them things about Kyrgyzstan that they didn’t know … or for showing them a part of Kyrgyzstan that they haven’t seen before.

So, that’s my story … or, at least, part of my story. There’s obviously a lot of details missing but it should help to give you a feel of who I am, where I am coming from and why I say some of the things I do in these postcards.

Thanks for reading this far …