Christmas with gun-toting grandma

Christmas was a bit different this year. As previously mentioned, The Daughter was unable to get away from Cornwall this year, and so spent her Christmas with The Boyfriend's family. First thing on Christmas Day, she had to attend chapel, as The Boyfriend's dad is the minister, and they then returned to turkey and copious amounts of wine. We had a slightly tipsy phone call at lunch, during which the phone got passed round the table and we wished her a good day. The Sexist Uncle was also absent, victim of a bad back and knockout painkillers. My Mother had stocked his freezer, cleaned his house and written down the time of his Downton Abbey Christmas special, so he was fine. 

Boxing Day saw the addition of Son Number One's new girlfriend - a huge improvement on her predecessor, having a wonderful sense of humour and generosity of spirit. Being 5' 2" tall, she endures jokes at her expense from my 6' son, mainly about getting child fares on the train and whether she needs a high-chair in restaurants. 

As the wine flowed, so did the family stories. The time when my Father saw a panther whilst inspecting a seed-trial field in Woolpit a couple of years ago. Apparently, it was prowling round a large rabbit warren, and the nearby farmers all knew about it, reacting with a cool, 'Oh, you've seen it, have you?' when quizzed. 

My Mother earned a new respect from her grandsons when she confessed that, aged 10, she'd blasted a hole through the wash-house door whist wielding the shot-gun her brother had been keeping secret. Obviously, it didn't stay secret for long. 

The Husband had a share of stories from his years in the Territorial Army, one of which involved the mysterious disappearance of an officer's snappy little dog during an artillery exercise. And then there was the 'cease fire' order that didn't go quite as planned. It involved a train and a live firing exercise, but that's as much as I'll say...

I'm wondering what will be confessed in years to come - when it's too late to get into trouble with mum. 

Huggy kissmas

School has broken up for the Christmas holidays, today is the Winter Solstice, and I haven't even got the tree or decorations out yet. Thanks to someone passing on the worst cold for years, I missed our staff Christmas do, along with the children's lunch and afternoon of singing in the school hall. Is this why I don't feel the slightest bit 'Christmassy'? Or is it that The Daughter can't get away from work this year, so we'll have our first ever Christmas without her? Or maybe that, even though it's meant to be the season of goodwill, there are still some people around who are determined to be grumpy and bitchy and to bring everyone else down with them. Or maybe I just haven't had enough wine yet. 

The last is easily rectified, thanks to Mrs GSOH, who bought me a gorgeous bottle of red wine 'from her children'. I know The Daughter will be having a wonderful time with her boyfriend's family down in Cornwall. Her presents have been sent, and she's up to date with her studies (or so she says...). I know the Christmas format will change now my children are growing up, and I know they're all happy, so I should stop moping. One of the grumpy people nearly got an earful from Ms Fab yesterday. 'If she moans at me,' Ms Fab informed me, 'I'm going to tell her to piss off.' I looked forward to it all afternoon, but it didn't happen, unfortunately. Lots of us have wanted to tell this person where to go, including The Boss Lady, but nobody has the courage. 

There were some very generous children (or parents, rather) this year. I have to confess now, that I have no willpower when it comes to saving presents for opening on the correct day. As soon as I get home on the last day of term, my sons hang around me like scrounging dogs. 'That one looks chocolate-shaped,' they point out. 'This one sounds like biscuits. That's a candle - open it later.' But the nicest thing I received? It was a hand-drawn card with the message, 'Thank you for always being there for me.' It was from a girl who reached womanhood at the ripe old age of eleven, and has found the resulting mood-swings and all that goes with them, confusing and utterly humiliating. If she found me a useful person to have around, then I'm glad. Sod subordinate clauses and algebra - that's what I want to be there for. 

Actually, the children have been the best thing for my lack of Christmas spirit. They've been very cheerful and have constantly demanded hugs from me and each other. A nice change from last year, when we ended up prising them apart due to violence rather than affection. I also received a lovely letter from a Jehovah's Witness child, who went to careful lengths not to mention Christmas or presents, but who wished me a 'restful holiday, with lots of nice books,' despite the fact that I'd not made her a librarian. As the children left at the end of the school day, The Bookworm wished me a 'stonkingly brilliant and huggy kissmas.' Thanks. Same to you. 

Whatever you celebrate at this time of year, I hope you have a good one. 

Library woes

I risked making myself unpopular yesterday afternoon, and sacked the librarians. Out of the four children who have been wearing 'librarian' badges since September, only one shows any enjoyment of the job. The others have to be constantly reminded to tidy shelves and put books in order, and they do it very halfheartedly (one, I suspect, would rather be playing football at break times, but doesn't want to lose face by saying so). As I'd had a three-o'-clock-in-the-morning-idea about encouraging reading and library-use, I decided to start afresh with some more enthusiastic staff. 

I want to start a library newsletter, to which all juniors can send book reviews and short stories. I want to include author profiles, information about new books in the library and other such things. I used this as an excuse to get new librarians. It wasn't fair, I explained, to dump all this extra work and research and giving-up-break-times on those who had only signed on to tidy book shelves. So I told the class that I was starting again. I'm doing it all properly, with the approval of the class teacher, and am making the children who are interested apply in writing by next Friday. I will then pick four who give me the best reasons and show a spark of enthusiasm for reading. I've had three letters already, written in their free time. 

One writer couldn't be bothered to find out the correct spelling of my name, just writing, 'sorry, I know this is spelt wrong.' So find out how to spell it?? That letter's gone on the rejection pile already. I don't want newsletters that are littered with spelling mistakes simply because someone can't be bothered to be right. Another letter is from one of the former librarians, saying that she knows she wasn't doing a very good job, but promises to do better if I choose her. No, sorry, she's ignored constant nagging from me to tidy shelves, so that's another one binned. Another former librarian just sat there with a wobbly lip while I explained my ideas. They kept shooting tearful glances at Ms Fab, who pointedly ignored them. Did they write me a letter, or come to speak to me? No. I'm expecting a complaint from Mum on Monday. One letter is promising. It's from a girl who's always reading, and has said she thinks working on a newsletter would help improve her writing. Several others are writing their letters at home, although I have pointed out that I want something written by them, not that parents have dictated. 

Ms Fab and I have the idea that, if this library newsletter is a success with the children, we'd like to start a school newspaper. I'm now off to spend a few hours on a prototype newsletter that I can show to the children in a this-is-what-I-mean kind of way. And I suppose I really ought to let the Boss Lady know what I'm up to...

Happy birthday, Dad

My mother phoned yesterday. 'It's your dad,' she said. 'I had to phone you...' I instantly reached for the car keys and hoped I had enough fuel to get to the hospital. 'His remote-control helicopter crashed into the neighbour's garden - he's had to knock on their door to ask for it back,' and she fell about laughing. 

It's his 69th birthday today and he's probably celebrating it by downloading new games onto his computer. I got him an Amazon voucher for his present, as he has a long list of books he wants to add to his Kindle. He's got hundreds of songs on iTunes and downloads them onto his iPod, which he plugs into the adapter he made sure was included in his new car. If we're having computer problems, he's the first person we phone, and he has to rephrase his computer jargon as, often, I have no idea what he's talking about. 

He's really enjoying his retirement, and the only time my mother worries about him is when he takes his credit card to PC World. 

Actually, both of my parents are making me feel old. My mother's thinking of getting a Facebook account and regularly phones to tell me not to call her next week. 'We'll be in Austria... it was a last minute deal. Just in case you try to phone and think we're dead.' Oh... okay... thanks Mum. 

Happy birthday, Dad. You're great the way you are... just don't break anything, okay?

Relief

Earlier this week, I sent an email to the OU, explaining how I really wanted to give up my course. 

A couple of years ago, the OU put up its prices, along with every other university in England. The price of a 60 credit module went up from about £700 to £2500. Those of us who had already started our studies were put on what they're calling 'transitional fees', meaning that we pay the old fees until we finish our degrees or until 2017, whichever is sooner. This is on the condition that we study at least one module a year. (My grand plan of studying until I die and piling up the degrees is sadly no longer feasible.)

My worry at ducking out of my course was that I'd have several months without studying and may lose my transitional funding, in which case my time with the OU would have to come to an end. My email got an automated reply, telling me that I'd hear back within two days 'unless it was a complicated issue'. Three days later and fed up with spending more time awake than asleep at night, I phoned student support. Thankfully, I had a very patient person on the other end of the phone ('I'm here till 5.30, so take your time,' she told me, which made me laugh). Anyway, I'm now off the course, haven't lost my transitional funding, and will hopefully get a bit of a refund. Mission accomplished. 

So I'm going to get the book list for 20th Century Literature and read through it at my leisure. I have to finish Anne of Green Gables first, though. I've been comfort reading. Other people comfort eat, I head for well-thumbed books rather than biscuits. Anne has just broken her slate over Gilbert Blythe's head, so I'll let her finish before I begin Chekhov. 

I can also give proper attention to this weekend, knowing I've no longer got an impossible assignment hanging over me. We're driving to Manchester tomorrow, as Son Number One would like to study military history there. History has interested him for years, thanks to an enthusiastic supply teacher he had when he was about eight. 'A' levels narrowed the interest down to military history, and he found that Manchester uni does a course that includes peacekeeping and terrorism (the study of terrorism, I should say). So, just when I feel like a lie-in, we have to be up at 6.30 tomorrow morning, ready to drive for four hours, attend a presentation, and drive home again. 

Happy days...

Admitting defeat

The words 'I don't get it' usually come from two types of children in the classroom. One of my favourite year 5 girls says it after she's sweated blood over a problem and has rubbed out her work so often she's worn a hole in her page. Another child (and not so much a favourite) says it because she can't be bothered and wants everything done for her. 

I'm hoping I'm more the former, in that I've tried so hard to understand this creativity in language stuff. I remember reading a legal document when my parents wanted me to have power of attorney in case they suddenly went doolally. I read it, but didn't understand every word, putting my trust in the family of solicitors that we've worked with for years. Reading Carter's book gives me the same feeling of confusion and hopelessness, except that I've got to use it to write essays that will give me useful scores. I got an email from my lovely tutor today, giving ideas and tips for the next assignment, and I didn't understand half of that, either. 

What annoys me is that I know it has the potential to be a fascinating subject, but the course uses so many technical terms that it's like reading a car manual. Meanings of normal words are changed, so for example, the word 'literature' doesn't mean 'literature' any more, but something totally different. 

In short, I am feeling like an idiot, and I'm angry with myself for being so thick. I feel like a girl at school the other week, who burst into tears after the teacher asked her a question in maths. 'But I didn't even understand what she was asking me,' she sobbed. 

After having a mini-tantrum (thank goodness The Husband is so understanding), I dried my eyes and sent an email to the OU asking if I can transfer any of my funding to the next presentation of 20th Century Literature. If I'm not able to transfer funding (which means I'll be nearly £700 out of pocket), then that's it - end of studying. I am not going to spend from now until June in a permanent state of stress. 

I hate giving up, but I have to remind myself that I'm doing this because I want to - not because I have to. Unfortunately, the literature course doesn't start until next September, so that'll be a fair time with no studying and that's one of the reasons I'm not sure I'll be able to save any of my money. Anyway, hopefully I'll find out in a day or two. 

In the meantime, I'm going to put my books away, as they're making me feel guilty, and watch some rubbish on tv. 

Plodding on

I've been good, and have spent the evening doing the transcription activity for my next assignment. It would have been incredibly difficult and time-consuming, but a fellow student shared a tip on facebook - she said that if you download something onto Windows media player, you can play it back at half speed. This not only made everything so much easier, it also added to the entertainment factor, in that the speaker sounded like a very drunk Ozzy Osbourne. 

So now that's done, I have to read the rest of Carter's book. I love reading and I'll give anything a go (I read Twilight, for goodness sake), but this book is a real struggle. Carter does love words, that's for sure, although several people have pointed out that he's not so keen on commas. One teacher doing the course said she has to go through each chapter adding punctuation before she can read it properly. It's given me a better understanding of some of the struggling readers at school, though. I've read two chapters so far, and I've read some sentences two or three times, but if you were to ask me what I'd just read about, I wouldn't have a clue. Most of my OU courses have made me feel a bit brainless to start with, but I think the feeling will last a tad longer with this one. I also feel a bit peeved as it's not really about language per se, but rather about how it's used creatively. Oh well, I've only got five more assignments and a final essay to go. Sigh...

Another thing that's making the reading of Carter's book so tedious, is that it's made me think of a different book that I now need to read. Sometimes, something will remind me of a book or story, and I have to read it immediately. For example, Son Number Two and I were watching a Bear Grylls thing on people who got stuck in a canyon, and I then had to go and re-read the 127 Hours book (Between a Rock and a Hard Place. Much better than the film, but you knew that.) Carter spends so much time explaining terms he's made up, that it reminds me of the Lemony Snicket books, A Series of Unfortunate Events, in which 'complicated' terms are explained by the author saying, 'A phrase which here means...'. 

The best children's books ever

As much as I like a huge number of children's books, I have to say that A Series of Unfortunate Events has to beat every one of them. I read them all (there are 13) to Son Number Two as they were published several years ago. We would finish one, laughing and sniggering every evening, and then have to wait several months for the next one to come out. They are great books for adults to read to children - they're like Pixar films in that the bits that appeal to the adults go right over the children's heads. They taught my son so many bits of useless information and more about apostrophe-use than any English teacher. If you're a teacher, you have a duty to read them to your class (you can link them in with the Tudors somehow...).

As I know that I have to finish Carter's book, I'm bribing myself with a non-stop read of all 13 books, from The Bad Beginning to The End. I'm still not optimistic, though.

Being creative with chainsaws

I think I'm reading the most boring book on earth. It's the set book for the first half of my OU course on language, and is meant to explain how 'everyday' language-use is creative. My Facebook group for the course is coming up with some very creative uses for the book. I'm not into burning books, but I'll make an exception for this one. 

One student thinks the book is wonderful, though. After comments of disbelief, she told us that it's cured the insomnia she's suffered from for three years. I am finding this part of the course boring. The second half looks at creativity in literature, so I'm hoping that'll be more interesting. I've decided that as long as I pass this course, I don't really mind what score I get - I just want it finished. It's made me realise how much I loved my Children's Literature course, which was hard work but fascinating. My next (and final) course will be, I have decided, 20th Century Literature. I want to end on a high, and that'll give me a BA in Humanities with Literature. It also gives me an excuse to buy lots of books. 'Yes, honestly dear, I need all of these for my course....' Actually, what drew me to that course was the fact that the reading list includes Rebecca, by Daphne du Maurier. That was the first 'grown up' book I read, aged about 9. (I followed it with Stephen King's Carrie, and was more frightened by Mrs Danvers than by buckets of pigs' blood.)

The assignment that I should now be working on involves transcribing a clip from an episode of The Infinite Monkey Cage, which is apparently a science/comedy chat show. What good this will do me in future life, I really don't know. People who have started have said it's taken them over two hours to transcribe five minutes of chat. That means I really should get a move on, especially as we have to add 2000 words on how the transcription shows creative use of language. But it doesn't have to be in until December 5th, so I'll examine the creativity in some books first. People on Facebook can be very creative as well, so I'll peruse that site for a while. Purely for educational purposes, obviously. 

Actually, I wasted too much time on Facebook this morning. Someone had posted this: 

and I spent rather a long time reading all of the comments. 'To Kill a Mockingbird with a Chainsaw' was one of my favourites. A father had just finished reading to his child, so his result was 'The Cat in the Hat Comes Back with a Chainsaw.' I see an 18 certificate movie in that one.... Mine would have been 'Language and Creativity with a Chainsaw', which would make it a far more entertaining book. 

What else? It's Children in Need time again, so I had to ask the class for fundraising suggestions. We always have a non-uniform day, but the question was: what theme were we going with? (Why do I always get asked to do these things while the teacher escapes??) Anyway, we had some inventive suggestions, some of which I liked very much, but were rather impractical. I loved the 'dress as your hobby' idea, and the 'dress as a member of staff' idea, although that may have been too much of an eye-opener. One year 6 suggested an animal theme, but went too far by saying we should then organise a safari on the school field, in which the juniors preyed on the infants. We have predictably gone with a pyjama day, or dressing in 'odd' clothes, which one of the children said I do anyway. Cheers. 

Half term and Halloween

The half term holiday is nearly over and, for a change, I've actually done things other than read and drink too much coffee. 

The Daughter plus Boyfriend drove up from Cornwall on Tuesday and are staying with my parents until Sunday. I feel very guilty that they can't stay with us, but The Daughter's cat allergy won't allow it. I have broached the subject of re-homing the cats, but The Daughter pointed out that she's only up this way a couple of times a year, so sacrificing the cats would not be fair on Sons One and Two. Life with my parents is probably more interesting anyway, as they live in a nearby town rather than being out here in the sticks. So yesterday was spent catching up with The Daughter's life - she's just got a new job to help her get through college. She'll be working on mental health wards in Cornwall as a sort of supply-mental-health-person. There must be an official name for it, but she's basically getting loads of experience towards the job she eventually wants to do, which can only be a plus for getting into university. I am, once again, a very proud mother.

Son Number Two and I have been climbing and spent some time trying the bouldering cave. It's like climbing, only sideways. It's a bit like the games everyone plays when they're a child: the 'Let's-get-round-the-room-without-touching-the-ground' thing. Only I did touch the ground several times. Thank goodness for crash-mats and painkillers...

I sent in my first assignment of the new course, and got it back within 48 hours - a record return from an OU tutor. I scored 70, which is not great, but you've got to start somewhere. As I waffled and argued myself round in circles, it's not too bad I suppose.  

Guess what? I did housework, too. Yes, I know it's a shock, but it's that time of year again, so I thought I should make the effort. I think, of all the festivals, I like Samhain the most. It's a shame to see the back of the Summer already, but I do prefer Autumn. It's nice to be able to draw the curtains, shut the world out, and enjoy being together in the evenings. And Autumn television is so much better than the rest of the year, even if it is still slightly rubbishy. (The Paradise did get me reading Zola though, and I'm ashamed that it's taken me so long to read his books.) This evening, no doubt, we will have dozens of local children at the door begging for treats. I just hope my own children haven't eaten them all. I bought sweets early, which was a mistake, as both sons have been eyeing the bags and I caught Son Number One picking out his favourites. He's suggested that we turn the lights out and pretend we're not in, so he can have all the sweets himself. Just to remind you, he'll be twenty next year...

Thankfully, we've not had an anti-Halloween assembly this year. A few years ago, we had a vicar who gave an assembly on how Halloween was a festival during which evil Pagans tried to talk to the dead. I happened to like that particular vicar very much, but his assembly made me boiling mad. At the time, Son Number Two was at our school, and the uneducated comment upset him greatly. I also had to fend off stupid questions from The Son's close friends, who knew my religious beliefs. For those who want to know, it's a festival to celebrate the end of the Summer (hence the housework - you're meant to clear out all the rubbish of the year). Yes, it's associated with death, in that the weather's getting colder and plants are slowing their growth or dying off. Years ago, it was a celebration of the harvest being safely gathered (hence apple-bobbing games and pumpkin and turnip carving), and some animals were slaughtered for food because they couldn't be kept through the Winter. Today, it's used as a time to think about those who have died (not talk to them, for goodness sake...), so we might light candles for remembrance. 

As far as 'Trick or Treating' goes, it's a commercial thing, and not one that I particularly enjoy. My children have never really got involved in it, as I think it's cheeky to hammer on doors asking for sweets, though American friends have told me it's a great family and party time for them. I suppose it's done very halfheartedly here - it's not done with a spirit of fun. Quite often, the four year olds who bang on the door are wearing masks from horrific and disturbing films (which I can only hope they haven't seen) along with their normal clothes. American friends have sent me photos of really inventive, non-scary costumes, often home-made, and the whole thing seems to be far more pleasant than the nightmare we've turned it into. We don't do it as a fancy dress parade. We do it as a big mess. 

Knife-wielding children and other darlings

The dreaded course has come and gone. Predictably, it was nowhere near as bad as I was expecting. We didn't have to do the awful 'lets go round the room and introduce ourselves' bit - we just had weird questions to answer to the others on our table, and that was easy. I found out that Ms Fab's childhood ambition was to be a posh nanny to a rich family. I actually started training to be a posh nanny to rich families when I was 18, but found the other students unbelievably snobby and one-dimensional. They lived for money, thought status was everything, and were generally judgmental and unpleasant people.  I lasted a term and couldn't wait to give my horrible nanny's uniform to a charity shop. 

Anyway - the course. It was run by a mental health doctor and nurse, plus a woman that was some kind of behavioural therapist, so they knew what they were talking about. Ms Fab and I had gone with the intention of learning more about some of our badly behaved/irritating children. Sharing experiences around the table, we soon realised that, actually, we were total wimps who were making something out of less than nothing. One girl had just managed to shut herself into a room before a child attacked her. She'd slammed the door and the child drove his knife straight through it. Makes you look a bit pathetic to say that a student drives you mad by licking pencils.

We found that a teacher on the course had taught one of last year's Horrible Boys. She'd been describing an incident of temper flare-ups and meanness, and Ms Fab and I kept looking at each other and saying how it reminded us of a particular character. 'We used to have that boy,' the teacher told us. 'He was a year four and scared the hell out me. Used to stalk other children. Glad to get rid of him.' 

It was a very interesting course, and we've already signed up for the next one they're doing in March, on children's anxiety. Some courses are such a waste of time, but this one was full of practical ideas and common sense. And the tutors were brilliant. One told us how she'd licked the bottom of her shoe to prove to a student with OCD that the germs wouldn't kill her. She said she'd spent the next week praying not to be ill, as the child would think he'd been right all along.

The other people on the course were okay, although the girl who'd been the target of the knife-wielder was rather irritating. She spent the course applying hand-cream, checking her nails, sending texts and eating. I could easily have taken a knife to her myself. But, no, maybe she was using avoidance techniques. Perhaps she was doing these little rituals to make herself feel safe. She did leave the room once - maybe she was under stress. What were the triggers to her behaviour? Did she need calming down and a nice person to talk to? Maybe she had PTSD due to the knife incident. Maybe she was just being a pain in the backside. 

Broken knees and bickering

Today, the class teacher was on a course, so we had a day in which I, Ms Fab and Mrs GSOH were in charge. I use the phrase 'in charge' very loosely here. We did all the lessons we should have done, but we did them with more chatter and disorganisation than are normally allowed. 

I took the opportunity to take out three of our Moody Girls, and gave them a lecture on how everyone was fed up with the argument they'd all managed to string out since Monday morning. Poisonous glances have been shot across the classroom at regular intervals - if you'd been standing in the way, you'd have had holes burned right through you. Sneery faces, squabbling at break-times and pointed whispering-behind-hands have been the norm this week. One girl had tried to patch things up, but had had her apology thrown back at her because 'it was said in a funny tone of voice'. 

I was using a 'funny tone of voice' myself, when I sent them into the library, as I was speaking with gritted teeth. Two girls were happy to make up, but the third was enjoying her sulk far too much to stop. She folded her arms and gave me a look that told me she'd watched Mean Girls too many times. We'd tried to deal with the situation nicely, earlier in the week, so I just said that I didn't care if they weren't friends and never spoke to each other again, but everyone in the class was sick of their arguing. I then returned the least guilty of the three to the classroom and told the others I was giving them five minutes together to sort it out. There was to be no screaming, and no blood-stains on the carpet, I added, then left them to it. 

Five minutes later, I returned to two girls showing their true ages (ten), in floods of tears and mid-hug. The class can breathe a collective sigh of relief. Until next time. 

We also had a problem with a broken knee. One boy had been helped in at break-time and was sitting outside the office with an ice-pack and a sympathetic friend. 'I think I broke my knee. I can't walk properly,' he told me. He confirmed that he could move his leg '...a little bit. But it really hurts when I do this.' And he then twisted his knee cap in a way that made me wince. After sending his Sympathetic Friend back to class, I told him, 'Sit there until you feel ready to come back in. We're just getting the iPads out.' He was in the classroom before I was. 'I managed to click my knee back into place,' he informed me. 

Jolly good. 

Neil Gaiman on the importance of libraries and reading

A lazy post on my part today, but an important one. Neil Gaiman did a talk for the Reading Agency on how vital it is to read and encourage children to read. 

I'll post some extracts, then include the link to the article. 

'We have an obligation to read aloud to our children. To read them things they enjoy. To read to them stories we are already tired of. To do the voices, to make it interesting, and not to stop reading to them just because they learn to read to themselves. Use reading-aloud time as bonding time, as time when no phones are being checked, when the distractions of the world are put aside.'

'We all – adults and children, writers and readers – have an obligation to daydream. We have an obligation to imagine. It is easy to pretend that nobody can change anything, that we are in a world in which society is huge and the individual is less than nothing: an atom in a wall, a grain of rice in a rice field. But the truth is, individuals change their world over and over, individuals make the future, and they do it by imagining that things can be different.

Look around you: I mean it. Pause, for a moment and look around the room that you are in. I'm going to point out something so obvious that it tends to be forgotten. It's this: that everything you can see, including the walls, was, at some point, imagined. Someone decided it was easier to sit on a chair than on the ground and imagined the chair. Someone had to imagine a way that I could talk to you in London right now without us all getting rained on.This room and the things in it, and all the other things in this building, this city, exist because, over and over and over, people imagined things.'

'Albert Einstein was asked once how we could make our children intelligent. His reply was both simple and wise. "If you want your children to be intelligent," he said, "read them fairy tales. If you want them to be more intelligent, read them more fairy tales." He understood the value of reading, and of imagining. I hope we can give our children a world in which they will read, and be read to, and imagine, and understand.'

There's more here. Please read it. 

Must crack on... when I've done this. And finished my book, and...

Well, I've fallen on my feet as regards tutor allocation this year. I've just received a 17 page email from mine, that points students in the right direction for getting decent marks in their assignments. He seems to have a great sense of humour, which he'll certainly need when he reads my work. He writes wonderfully, which is reassuring for someone teaching a linguistics course. He's also made it clear that he's not impressed by unnecessarily big words: 'don't be tempted to call a spade a horticultural vertical soil penetration device,' we are told. That would be good advice for some of the students on the course facebook page. There are a small amount of them who think they come across as being uber clever by using ten really long words when two short ones would do. What they've actually done is panic some people into thinking the course is too difficult to understand. Three (out of a group of a hundred) have left the course already, and we've not even done the first assignment. 

Because of this highfalutin, pretentious bull, a rival facebook group has been started by students who speak everyday English and spell things wrong on occasions. Needless to say, I joined it. 

My first assignment has to be in by next Thursday. I've done most of the reading, and will hopefully bash everything out at the weekend. I can't do it at the moment, because the Class Bookworm has lent me a wonderful book about a servant girl who can do magic. I was going to save it until after my assignment, but made the mistake of reading the first page to see what it was like. 

It looked like it had the potential to be rather twee, but it's written with great humour and reminded me of Howl's Moving Castle. I do like exchanging books with the children, especially the Bookworm, as she has very good taste in authors. There's a 'reading cafe' thing starting at school soon at which, one teacher told me, stories are to be read and shared and generally celebrated with the children and their parents, in the hope that they'll start reading together. But only teaching staff are allowed to be trained up for it, so I'm in a bit of a sulk about that... 

I am honestly astounded and disgusted that some parents (in fact, most parents, if I go by what the children tell me) do not read to their children. I always, always read to mine (when they were younger. Now the eldest is in her twenties, she'd probably object to being forcibly read to). We started with picture books and moved on to Jane Hissey's Old Bear stories. Favourites included Beatrix Potter, Winnie the Pooh and Wind in the Willows. As they got older, we read Terry Pratchett's children's stories and Lemony Snicket, who taught me more about the correct use of apostrophes than any English teacher. The final read for Son Number Two and I was, I believe, Stephen King's The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon, about a little girl who gets lost in the woods and hallucinates about meeting the God of the Lost, whose face is made of wasps. (He was about twelve at the time, I hasten to add, in case you think I was reading that to a three year old.)

Anyway, I must go and do some OU work. Although, I've just discovered House and have recorded all the repeats on Sky. I've only got fourteen hour-long programmes to watch...

My Little Pony and other mysteries

You meet some strange characters on a Brownie camp. Ms Fab and I ate our Saturday packed lunch outside with the girls, as they were better company than most of the bossy women. Two Brownies (not from our little bunch) came and joined us, and one of them spent a good half hour explaining the plot of every single episode of Charmed. This was, we were informed, a programme about three teenage witches. They were sisters, but didn't know they were sisters, and one died, but didn't come back to life because you only do that if you're into dark magic. We learnt an awful lot from this young Brownie - mostly that she watched far too much television. 

When she had finished talking about Charmed, she started on My Little Pony. When The Daughter was very young, she had a couple of these funny-smelling, pastel-coloured horrors. They had long, nylon manes, which got tangled and caught on buttons, and I think they were some of the first toys she put in our yard sale. It seems these things now have their own television series. Again, we were told about it in great detail. 'Cutie Marks', which are kinds of tattoos on the ponies' bottoms, denote the jobs the animals do. Some make clothes, apparently, which is a bit of a puzzler as they don't have fingers to hold needles and don't actually wear clothes. Never mind. We had to concentrate, in case we got asked questions at the end. They were nice girls, but it was quite a relief when they finished their lunches and ran off to play. 

After lunch, we helped put tables and chairs away in the hall. That was when we saw a sign that said, 'Chairs are not to be stacked no more than 10 high.' Someone had typed that out, laminated it and stuck it on a cupboard door. And nobody had questioned it, or ripped it into tiny little pieces whilst calling the sign-writer an embarrassing idiot. As we read various notices on pin-boards, Ms Fab and I wished we had brought some red pens with us. We mentally underlined information on the 'forth activity of the day'. We added imaginary commas to a rambling paragraph on the need for everyone to help tidy-up. We managed not to call the woman at the decorating cake's table a moron. And then we realised that we really should have left our school selves at home as we were getting more than a little wound up by it all. 

As I mentioned yesterday, our local Cub Scouts were camping close to us. When I got home, it was mentioned on the local news that Bear Grylls, being Chief Scout, had paid a surprise visit to another camp in the area. I bet our Cubs were totally miffed about that. They didn't mention it to me, though. I must remind them about it tomorrow. They didn't actually say much about their 'proper' camping. Our Brownies were bouncing about and telling everyone about their weekend, but the Cubs stayed pretty quiet. If they hadn't spent all Friday boasting about how much better they were than us, I might have felt sorry for them. But I didn't. 

Not that I would ever admit it to them, but Scouts do seem to have a much more exciting time than Brownies. Take their Chief Scout, for example. I think we have a tiny twig from the Royal family tree for our Chief. I bet she didn't climb Everest or join the SAS. Scouts go canoeing and do archery and interesting things without miles of red tape and risk assessments. Why can't we do that? 

On the other hand, I am glad I didn't spend the weekend under canvas. And khaki shorts are so 1980s, darling. 

Ain't no coffee strong enough...

Well, that's out of the way for another year... Will I have thought of a good enough excuse to get out of next year's Brownie camp by the time another Autumn rolls around? I doubt it. 

Ms Fab and I arrived bright and early at, umm, 9.30. One letter said we had to be there at 8.30, but we 'lost' that one, and kept the one with the later time to hand, in case we were challenged on our timekeeping. Thankfully, we were sent straight back outside to direct cars into a nearby field to park and unload. Little girls were led into the centre by very cheerful-looking parents, lugging enormous suitcases (the girls were only staying for one night, but it was amazing how many teddies, blankets and various bits of useless rubbish they needed. And socks. The amount of socks that were found lying around that 'didn't belong to anyone' was ridiculous). 

We had discovered, on Friday afternoon, that our local Cub Scout pack were also camping at the centre, only they were 'proper' camping, they informed us with scornful sneers. 'You Brownies don't do proper camping, in a tent and everything. We do.' After that gloating statement, I didn't feel too heartless at enjoying the sound of rain pelting down all night. From my cosy sleeping bag, indoors. How I'm looking forward to tomorrow morning, when I can ask them if they slept well. 

There were lots of bossy women about. They didn't ask anyone to do things, they told and ordered. They stomped about, enjoying their power-trips and leaving wakes of sighing people who rolled their eyes and looked at their watches. Ms Fab and I ended up helping with face painting. We were ordered around by a woman with an alarmingly large rear-end, and I told Ms Fab to shoot me if I ever got so big that I, too, had to walk through a door sideways. 

After popcorn and sweets, the girls got a good sugar-rush before bed, and propped themselves up in their sleeping bags to watch a Disney film together. At 11-ish, they quietened down and we headed for bed. At 1 am, they were spoken to, as they were being noisy. At 2.45, they got a stern warning. About 4-ish, someone went through and yelled at them to be quiet or else. At 6.30, one of our girls came through and tearfully asked to go home, as she had a bad cold and wanted her mum. She was hugged and taken back to bed. At 6.45, we gave it up as a bad job and got up. Thankfully, our replacement arrived after breakfast, so we blearily made our way home. 

I have lost count of how many cups of coffee I've had today, but I'm still in a fog. Woe betide any child who crosses me tomorrow. Especially if they're a Cub Scout who had a good time. 

I don't want to Carry on Camping

Ms Fab and I have to help out at a Brownie camp this weekend. Not that I'm feeling jaded or anything, but let me give you the reasons I don't want to go:

• It's getting cold.
• It's meant to rain hard.
• I spend all week in the company of children - I don't need it at a weekend too.
• I don't eat rubbishy food, especially things like burgers and other minced-up stuff that is provided on Brownie weekends.
• It's on a circus theme, and circuses and pantomimes make my skin crawl.

Yes, I am a miserable kill-joy, but have realised I am not hearty enough to be a Brownie leader. This is not me being old and grumpy. I was young and grumpy as well. Team games were never my thing - I would invent injuries to get out of playing hockey at school. It seems as if, to be a Brownie leader, you need to be into playing bingo, singing songs that don't make sense, and having pointless meetings that run an hour late because everyone's discussing their grandchildren.

I am secretly hoping (well, not so secretly now, but still hoping) that I will get the same telling-off I got two years ago at Brownie camp, but was too much of a wuss to do anything about. One of the ladies in charge of the whole thing made everyone pray and sing a Grace before meals. I didn't join in, because it's not my thing, and I think it's wrong that religion (any religion, other than 'Let's all get on with each other,') is brought into something that is basically a youth club for little girls. The Guiding promise is specifically worded around love for 'my god' to encourage multi-faith and multi-cultural membership. Anyway, I got told off for not joining in. It wasn't a good example to the girls, apparently. So, lying and pretending is a better way to go about it...? This year I imagine the same hearty woman will be about, so bring it on I say. 

Ms Fab is in a similar mind. We don't mind the Wednesday evenings - that's an hour and a half of arty-crafty stuff and enjoying each other's company. The Brownie camp involves splitting up 'our' girls from each other (so they get to know girls they'll never see again), which often results in tears, major wobbles and pleas to go home. They are then made to take part in boring and pointless activities run by scary women. We have outdoor things to do, which involve a ten minute health and safety talk first, but never things that involve risk or excitement. No wonder so many girls go and join the Scouts instead. 

Ms Fab and I have to stay the night, which involves sleeping in a hall with all these hearty females who are alarmingly uninhibited. I am expert at getting changed inside a sleeping bag, and have no wish to have bits of overweight ladies flashed at me. Our shift ends on Sunday morning, when our two colleagues take over from us. 

They better get there early, is all I can say. 

Letting the side down

Going to pick up Son Number Two and his student buddy after their day at music college, I got stuck in a long queue at traffic lights. As the cars coming the other way ground to a halt behind someone that wanted to turn right, I stopped singing along to my CD in case I looked stupid (it was Gracelands - one I used to sigh and complain all the way through when my parents played it.) As I sat there and hoped I wouldn't be late picking the boys up, I happened to glance at the driver in the car next to me. Hmmm, I thought. Forty-something, I estimated, and wearing a nice suit and loosened tie, tapping his steering wheel in time to music that was probably far cooler than Paul Simon. To my embarrassment, he clocked me looking at him and gave me a rather naughty wink and a grin. The poor chap obviously had bad eye-sight and I just hoped he wouldn't crash his car on his way home, but thankfully the traffic lights changed and I was able to drive on before he saw me blush deeply. 

Now, I know I've let the sisterhood down by not being offended and disgusted by such behaviour (and, no, I didn't start it by ogling male drivers, I just glanced, thank you). Actually, I find it rather sad that builders are not allowed to wolf-whistle any more - as teenagers, my friends and I felt disappointed if we didn't get whistled at. Whilst researching this (read: wasting time on the internet when I should be studying) I found this article which, although a few years old, makes for interesting reading. And read the comments on it: hmm, yes, those diet coke ads... double standards indeed. Is anyone asking these poor men how they feel at being portrayed as sexist stereotypes? 

Imagine the complaints if this ad featured a woman 

being stared at by five men...

Comments on other forums (it's either blogging or making tea - I'm making this last as long as possible. Don't stereotype me into the kitchen!) say that some women feel intimidated or in fear of being attacked if men smile or whistle at them. 'Oh, blimey,' is all I can politely say. When I was young, I was attacked and can assure these women that being winked at is in no way comparable.

So should we all behave, and pretend that we don't innocently appreciate attractive people of the opposite sex (or even of the same sex, if that's your thing)? Are Ms Fab and I bad people when we stop talking just to watch the nice postman with the orange mohican cycle past? I promise we're not planning to attack him. Well, I'm not - I can't vouch for Ms Fab. 

I can't even do that 'hailing a taxi' whistle, although some of the year 6 boys tried to teach me a couple of years ago. It wasn't pleasant, but it passed a maths lesson...

It's never too early for a mid-life crisis

Is a mid-life crisis because we're afraid of getting older? Or is it that we can finally do what we want, without getting told off by The Parents? Actually, I'm not entirely sure, because Ms Fab has been a Bad Girl and is afraid of telling her mum. Whisper this next bit: Ms Fab got a tattoo. Shhhhh...

It's actually rather lovely. She has a thing about feathers, you see (no, not like that). They appear when she's feeling a bit down, or sometimes they just appear. Not the little fluffy bits that blow about, but proper flight feathers. She says it's been happening for years. When she said she'd been thinking about getting a tattoo, I recommended a guy I've seen a couple of times in a nearby village. The look of him would have scared my grandmother, but he's lovely and a wonderful artist. Anyway, the deed is done and she's looking upon it as her mid-life crisis moment. 

I had my first tattoo after spending a month in hospital a few years ago. Like Ms Fab, I'd been thinking about having one for ages, but was afraid of the judgments people might make. After having been told that I was extremely lucky to be alive, I thought 'Sod it,' and have since lived life as I wanted to, and not as others might have wanted me to. 

Even so, I can remember a family dinner at which the Sexist Uncle saw one of my tattoos and said that he hoped it was 'one of those transfer things'. I was, I think, about forty, but still felt as if I was in for a telling-off. He's now got used to them, and my ear-piercings, but think he may faint when he sees the Dr Martens that I've at last worn-in. I've had a few compliments on them, but he remembers DMs as something worn by skinheads in the 1970s (mine have roses embroidered up the sides, but I'm almost tempted to get some old-style cherry-reds just to wind him up).

The Husband has recently passed his fiftieth birthday, and there's no sign of a mid-life crisis yet (or, at least, not that I've found out about...). He's already found out that woman are rather expensive to keep, so I don't think I'll be exchanged for a younger model. He's not into prestige cars, but used to like motorbikes, so I'm waiting for the day that the Harley Davidson appears on the drive. 

My mid-life crisis car would be a VW camper, complete with rainbow stickers and surfing lessons in Cornwall. Of course, if Jake Gyllenhaal wanted to come along for the ride, I wouldn't complain...

Ugh...

I understand the sighs and groans from the year 5 and 6 children when they're given more homework. I can empathise with those who have great difficulty thinking up a believable excuse for not handing it in on time. I felt for the boy who slumped on his desk at 9.15 this morning and moaned, 'Why do we do so much work?!' 

Yes, the new Open University course has officially started, and I have to remind myself why I'm doing it all in the first place. Actually, I've mostly convinced myself that my two worst high-school teachers were wrong, and that I'm not totally stupid. I've 100% made up my mind that I'm not going into teaching (I'm having far too much of an easy life being a teaching assistant, and I don't like paperwork or being cornered by parents). So, really, the money's being spent on staving off Alzheimer's and avoiding rubbish on tv. Plus, I just have this course then one other and I get a day off work, a do at Ely Cathedral, and my mum can have a good cry when I go to collect my honours degree. And so on I slog. 

Linguistics this year, and I've finally got past the horribly boring chapter on metaphors (and it really tried my patience. Just about everything we say, according to someone I can't remember the name of, is a metaphor. The one that's causing arguments on the OU forum is 'on Tuesday'. This is a metaphor, we have read, because you can't actually be on Tuesday. But some are saying lots of things about the use of prepositions that I don't understand and have kind of lost interest in because it's all a bit 'aren't I clever?').

I am now onto bits about how spoken narratives work, and how we change our style of speech to fit in with other people, which is far more interesting. The assignments are not too bad. I'm not looking forward to transcribing loads of speech, but I like the look of this one: '"One must be an inventor to read well... There is then creative reading as well as creative writing." Discuss this in the light of your study.' Unfortunately I have to wait until May for that one.

As light relief from this self-imposed torture, Ms Fab, Mrs GSOH and I have started what is turning into a habit, and that's going out for dinner a lot. We have found each other rather good company and share a love of gossiping whilst eating until we can barely walk. We are, we have found, nicer people for being occasionally reprehensible. 

It's funny how you can make almost instant friends with some people. I had spoken about two sentences to Ms Fab ('Hi! Son Number Two was wondering if your Son Number One would like to go to the football this Saturday?') and my friend-seeking radar said, 'She's my sort of person.' And she was. I can't remember the details of my introduction to Mrs GSOH, but I liked the way she marched down the corridor and smiled at me whilst threatening, between gritted teeth, to murder last year's Horrible Boys. At the same time, there are people I've worked with for over ten years that I wouldn't put in the 'friends' category. 

Well, I've wasted enough time on here tonight. I am actually two chapters ahead on my course reading, so am allowing myself to go and read a proper book. And when I say 'proper book', I mean this:

It's his new children's book and is huge fun. I'm going to sneak it into school and read it to the class when no-one's looking. 

The problem with sticky hands

Today was Harvest Festival - one of my favourite times of year. My religious beliefs have a vague connection with those of the school I work for, and I feel I can join in Autumn assemblies without that feeling of being a total hypocrite. 

Our school celebrates Harvest at the local village church. We usually walk there, one class at a time, but this year there was a shortage of people to accompany the infants. Because they are less civilised than the rest of us, they need a lot of supervision to stop nose-picking, screaming and general misbehaviour in church. One teacher suggested the oldest class partnering up with the youngest. Because this teacher then had planning time at home, she scarpered and left us to the consequences. 

I explained to the year 5 and 6 children that they would need to be responsible for an infant each. Most thought it a great idea. 'They're so sweet,' and 'Infants are adorable,' were the two most popular misconceptions. Those with younger siblings were more realistic. 'What if they need the toilet?' and 'They always have sticky hands,' were problems raised. 'Yes, why do they always have sticky hands?' someone asked. Having worked in the reception class for two years (a long time ago, and never to be repeated), I knew there were many reasons for infants having sticky hands, very few of which I was prepared to repeat. 'If you can't deal with it,' I told them, 'I can always ask if Mr Chaos's class can take on this really important responsibility.' It worked, as it always does, and they repressed their shudders, sat up straighter, and tried to look like they could be trusted with anything. 

It was a success. The infants were overawed by the scary big people, and the big 'uns shouldered their responsibilities; noisy children were hushed (the older ones and the younger) and the church service went without a hitch. Having more infants than older children, I had to take on a rug-rat myself. A confident little American girl, she told me how she didn't live on the nearby air base ('like some kids do') and invited me to her birthday party. When asked her age, she told me she'd be five, then asked how old I was. When I told her, she paused and said, 'That's quite a big number, isn't it?' then hastily added, 'But that's okay, because you're a grown-up.' She was quite entertaining and full of questions: 'Where's all the big music coming from? Why is there food on the floor? Who's that guy hanging on the wall? Is it nearly home-time?'

The older children enjoyed the experience, and asked if they could repeat it next time we went to church (the Boss Lady said they could). Even the reluctant ones had liked having the responsibility, although one child asked if he could have a quieter infant next time because he couldn't think of answers to all their questions. 

Nobody complained about sticky hands, although having seen what my little partner was doing to while away the time in church, I was anxious to wash mine. 

Now look what you made me do

I have signed up for a day's course at the end of October, and I'm dreading it already. It's Ms Fab's fault. 

There was a bit of paper in the staff room, advertising a course: understanding and supporting children and young people with conduct and behavioual difficulties. Looks good, I thought. It carried on from one I did last year on children's emotional health, so I thought I might ask the Boss Lady if I could go, but then I read on a bit: 'We want people to be as involved as possible,' it said. 'We will include group exercises... and games...' I put it down rather quickly and left the room at some speed. 

A few minutes later, I met Ms Fab and moaned about the inclusion of jollity in courses. I am very much in the Eeyore camp here: 'We can't all, and some of us don't. That's all there is to it.' However, Ms Fab is into Fun and Joining In and thinks I'm a bit of a wuss when it comes to all that. 

I did really want to do the course, especially as there is one particular child I work with this year who I'm about to string up from the ceiling. And that would get me sacked. Which I'm beginning to care less about as the weeks go on. (But games?! I had to play Fizz, Buzz at a maths course once and I got in a right mess because everyone else was quicker at their times tables than me.) Ms Fab wanted to do the course, and wanted me to stop being such a wimp and go with her. So I said yes, and she raced into the Boss Lady's office and it was all official before I had a chance to say, 'Actually...'

Mrs Secretary said I'll be fine, and I can be an idiot for the day because I won't know anyone and will never see them again. But we go on these courses and mutter to each other about other people, 'I know her from somewhere... was it that stupid maths thing that was such a waste of time?' I'm bound to bump into someone later who remembers me as that idiot from the behaviour course.

Thinking about it, though, that won't happen. I'm going with Ms Fab. The lady from Up North who likes to ask, 'Why?' and argue with people. They won't remember me. They'll be muttering, 'I know her. From the behaviour course. You know. Pink sparkly shoes. Northerner. Beat the tutor to a pulp.'