Sunday 28 April 2013

Following 'The F**k it Way'

In a bookshop recently, and in my mood of apathy (for everything bar book-buying), I saw a book entitled F**k it Therapy. As it fitted my feelings perfectly (and was half price), I bought it, read it in a day, and was finally able to get back into a 'wanting to do things' mood. And so, over this weekend, I have written and submitted the plan for my final Children's Literature piece. I have also written 2500 words for Creative Writing, and sent that on its merry way. I'm particularly pleased with the latter as I've finished it nearly two weeks early, which takes the pressure off everything else. I do feel emotionally wrung out though. Our CW assignment had to be written to a professional standard and aimed at a suitable magazine. Although I got my highest mark for fiction, it took ages to write, and I didn't have long (my own fault for taking on two courses at once), so I wrote to an American magazine on speech problems, about how the paedophile bastard struck and left me with a stammer. He's got to be good for something, surely. 

Obviously, saying 'F**k it' to everything only gets you so far. The main thing that banished my negative mood was seeing a kingfisher by the stream at the bottom of my garden, so, in case you're having a bad day, have a kingfisher instead: 



Thursday 25 April 2013

Frustration

Why now, with just three assignments to go until the end of two courses, have I been hit by a great wave of apathy? A quick bit of maths has informed me that, whether I score 35% or 100% for my next piece of creative writing, I'll still only get a pass 2 for the course (provided my final, separately marked piece scores over 70). So I'm tempted to put in the minimum effort and save my best for last. Actually, it wasn't a quick bit of maths - it was lots of pieces of paper and a calculator, and it's interesting that I was willing to put in lots of effort to see how little work I could get away with. I'm also starting to leave everything until the last minute. I'm meant to be e-mailing my children's literature tutor with a plan for my final piece, but I've not even decided which books to use. I have a horrible feeling I'm getting bored with it all. I'm hoping that a few months off and a new topic in September will be enough to engage my interest again. 


Actually, it's not just OU work that's filling me with can't-be-bothered-ness. Trying to catch up with the hours of tv that have been recorded while I've been studying, the Husband kindly asked me to choose what to watch. 'I don't mind,' I answered, which, he tactfully pointed out, was said in a very 'I don't care,' kind of way. But I didn't care. He could have deleted the whole lot, including the gruesome and somewhat disturbing serial-killing thing I've been glued to, and I wouldn't have cared at all. At work, I've been praised for being adaptable and willing to change plans at a moment's notice - it's because I don't care what I'm doing, or where, or why. Don't get me wrong, I want to do a good job, and I'll work hard to do it, but other than that.... 

I want to subtract thirty years from my age, do a great shrug of the shoulders and sigh, 'Whatever...'. But I need to get a grip and stop being stupid and negative. In 35 days, my courses will be finished (35 days!! Oh blimey!) and I'll be able to read anything I want. The sun's out (shush, yes, I know it's meant to rain at the weekend...), I've been told I can help run the school library, the blossom is coming out, and life is good, so I need to stop whinging and get on with things. Okay... sigh... where's that assignment plan?


Wednesday 10 April 2013

I just can't Lego of anything...

I was very good today, and had a sort out of the various bits of junk in the bottom of my wardrobe. Charity bag and bin bag to hand, I hauled out tons of shoes and bags and sorted them into relevant piles. Having done this several times in the past, I was determined to be ruthless. I would not hang on to the hopelessly outdated boots on the off-chance that they would come back into fashion. If something was broken, it went in the bin, rather than me thinking I would mend it 'one day'. Anyway, I ended up with a big bag of rubbish, two charity bags and some 'can't-bring-myself-to-throw-it-away' things which went in the loft (probably to be thrown away sometime in the future).

Our loft is full. One day, we really need to get everything out and give it all a proper sort out. We have boxes that have been moved from the loft in our old house to the loft in this one, and we moved nearly ten years ago, so I'm sure that stuff isn't needed. Most of what is up there belongs to the children. There are boxes of soft toys, which have been looked through several times by the owners, who dragged everything out, exclaimed over fondly-remembered teddies, and then put everything back again. (I do have sympathy here, I must admit. How can I ask the children to throw a once-loved teddy away? It would lie there, looking up at me every time I dropped something in the bin, making me feel so guilty I'd no doubt rescue it.) We've tried selling things in yard-sales, but no-one seems to want that sort of thing. We need to be hard-hearted and take slightly less-loved things to a charity shop. I remember when the children were young and wanted to swap the piles of soft toys on their beds, and give something in the loft a turn. I used to get instructions not to tie the top of the bags too tight, or the toys wouldn't be able to breathe. God help me if the children saw me leaning on the top of a bag to squash everything down. 



Apart from soft toys, we've kept some of the nicer stuff the children had, things I want to hang on to as future grandchild fodder. A whole shelf is taken up by a Playmobile doll's house, with assorted miss-matched furniture. Then there are the Sylvanian Family boxes. We have a canal barge, a cafe, a Gypsy caravan and thousands of tiny little accessories (well, the ones that survived the hoover...). I loved the Sylvanian Family things. In fact, I think I wanted them more than the children did. 

And then there's the Lego and Duplo. Days were spent on ambitious building projects, with frequent whines from the Husband and me of, 'Are you going to clear this up soon?' Of course, the answer was always yes, followed by another few days of building and demolition. My eldest two still argue over who stole the solitary black brick, which was essential as a finishing touch. I have a suspicion, that if I were to get the Lego bricks down from the loft, there would soon be two large teenage boys reliving their building days (and the Husband would no doubt join them when he got home from work. I, on the other hand, would be quite happy setting up the Sylvanian Family department store...)


So, I guess the stuff in the loft isn't rubbish at all and is probably there to stay for a good few years yet. You know - to hell with it - I'm going to get the Lego out...


Wednesday 3 April 2013

Lost for words

I think I mentioned a few posts ago that I wanted to do an OU course on religion and controversy but was having problems due to one of the assignments being a spoken presentation. I was told that arrangements could be made so the course would be accessible to me. I found out that, for those arrangements to be made, I had to register with the OU as being disabled. I have done so, as I really want to do the course, but I did it with very mixed feelings. I've had a stammer since I was 11 years old (the reasons are another story), but now have it more or less under control so it only tends to show when I'm tired, nervous, or had a few too many. (I'm the only person in the pub that gets quieter as the night goes on...) I don't see it as a disability. Yes, it holds me back - I would love to be able to phone people on the spur of the moment, but phones are a stammerer's worst enemy. Yes, people have judged me on it - lack of words seems to equal lack of brains in some people's opinions.

When I started working at school, I knew I wasn't going to get away with hiding things for long, so made the decision, for the first time, to tell a select few colleagues about the problem (I don't stammer in front of the children for some reason). The result? They didn't care, which was such a relief and surprise that I wondered why I'd tried to hide everything for the previous 20-something years. I think the only staff member that's truly seen me in action is the school secretary, when she took a call for me and passed the phone over. After seeing me standing in tortured silence, she now drops everything to make calls for me, for which I love her dearly. 


I can't stand Dr Seuss, but this 
turned out to be true.


I would like to go to OU tutorials and amaze fellow students with my verbal dexterity, but I went to one and made an idiot of myself, and once was enough. Actually, it wasn't such a bad experience as I met a fellow sufferer. She was a rather scary-looking girl around my daughter's age who was paired up with me for discussions. We had to introduce ourselves to each other. Why do so many courses start that way? I like learning things, but hate going on courses for school because I dread that first 'ice-breaker' from the moment I sign up (which is sometimes weeks in advance). I tend to end up going to courses with fellow teaching assistants, and we've often made great plans on how my colleague will go first, and then kind of introduce me at the same time. Sometimes it works. Other times, they've started at the wrong end of the table and I end up having to go first. I went on a course with the Boss Lady once, (on staff well-being, ironically) at which there were over a hundred people. No problem, I thought. No way are they going to ask all these people to introduce themselves. But they did. Our table was near the back, so I had ages in which to work myself into a cold sweat. I got so anxious, the Boss Lady asked if I was ok. She said later that she thought I was going to pass out. Now that's a good one - I may try that next time. Anyway, back to the OU disaster. My punky partner and I made attempts to introduce ourselves to each other. 'Sorry, I'm rubbish at this,' I said, 'I've got a stammer.' 'Me too,' she answered and so we got on fine, and broke the tutor's rules by writing everything down. Her stammer was caused by MS, which made my problem seem tiny by comparison. We got into trouble through laughing and writing notes to each other and both decided never to go to another tutorial again.

Whilst looking for Creative Writing inspiration, I found this article which explains everything better than I can. It's a few years old and starts by mentioning the film The King's Speech, which I found incredibly hard to watch, and continually cried through, making the Husband and Son Number Two want to move seats in the cinema. 

Anyway, I've written far too much, perhaps bolstered by the bit in the article about how a stammer can make writing such an enjoyable experience. I don't see it as a disability, though. I think in some ways it's been the making of me. 

Monday 1 April 2013

Productive procrastination

Whist trying to ignore the latest Children's Lit assignment, I've actually got things done that needed doing. Usually, assignment avoidance involves made up work: a book that 'has' to be finished, my Sky box only has 20 hours of memory left, so I must watch eight episodes of The Following, plus, while I'm there, a film I've already seen four times but can't bring myself to delete. No, this time I've done real 'needs doing' stuff. 

On Saturday (I think it was Saturday - it's the holidays, so I've lost track of what happened when) we took delivery of a ginormous bookcase. A friend's parents needed shot of it and my Husband managed not to tell me off for saying we'd have it. Ok, so he closed his eyes for a minute and sighed heavily, but he knows he comes a very close second to my books, so he nodded and went to bang his head against a wall somewhere. I have spent a wonderful couple of days organising books. Non fiction is now in the kitchen, on the new shelves. That freed up loads of shelf space in the living room, so books could be stood up straight instead of being piled up. The teetering towers on the floor were put on shelves, and then came the most satisfying bit. Because my books were no longer piled up, I could put them in alphabetical order! I had such a great time being geeky. Nearly 2000 books later, I can sit back and luxuriate in all those stories in all the right places. Ok, so I still have piles of books under the bed and in the loft, but I need a bigger house or less sorry, fewer children before I can deal with those.  


So, the books are sorted. My Creative Writing assignment has been sent (I didn't count that as work, as I enjoyed it), and my next one has sort of been planned. We have to do a piece of writing as if we were going to submit it for publication. I know what I want to write about, I just have to find a magazine that would be likely to publish it. I've found an American one, but need to ok it with my tutor first and she's on holiday, so that's all I can do for now. I've also applied for my next OU course, which starts at the end of September. 

So I may not have written about advances in Children's Literature, but I have been fairly good so far. There are a couple of cupboards that need tidying, but I'm not that desperate for distraction.  I also need to hoover the house, but I think I'd rather do the assignment...