Computer shopping and other nightmares

The Husband actually took a day off work today, so we went into town and spent far more money than we'd planned. Son Number Two starts music college in September. Apart from his school uniform, he's a board-shorts and t-shirt person from February to November (jeans with holes in the knees for really cold weather), so desperately needed decent clothes. Although there were sales on, it was the best part of £80 for a bagful of stuff that didn't even include trousers. (We'll have another shopping trip for those, I'm not that much of a bad mother...) 

Then we had the 'I need advice on this' shopping to do. I needed wanted a chalk bag for climbing, so went to the outdoor pursuits place, where I was an awkward newbie asking obvious questions. I was never made to feel stupid, even though I nearly put a harness on backwards and couldn't remember the names of things. After paying for said harness and loads of other stuff (sorry, Dear Husband), I was told where all the best climbing walls in the area were by the two rather nice salesmen, and then made a classy exit by walking into a pillar. They didn't laugh, bless them (well, not till I was out of earshot, anyway). I will definitely shop there again. When the bruises have faded. 

Then we went lap-top shopping, again for Son Number Two. After wandering around and being dragged away from digital cameras by The Husband who was worrying about his credit card bill, we were approached by a twelve year old in a PC World shirt, who asked if we needed any help. 

'We're after a lap-top,' we explained. The twelve year old smirked and asked, 'What spec?' in a way that made it obvious he thought he was talking to idiots. Son Number Two had done his homework and reeled off a list of acronyms, which stopped the sales guy lazily chewing on his pen and made him pay attention. It took fifteen minutes to choose a lap-top, but twenty to persuade the guy that we really, really, didn't want to take out insurance. The Husband did his best glazed expression after having said, several times, that he wasn't buying it. We finally escaped from the hell that was computer sales and had to recover with coffee and large slices of cake in Costa. 

Unusually, it seems, for a female, I don't like shopping. I'm fine going into a shop and buying something I know I want, but I'm not one for spending all day wandering around and looking. Unless it's in a bookshop, and even then I know that I'll end up actually buying something. I don't browse if I don't have the money to buy something. Again, unless it's in a bookshop, and then I'll mentally remove things from the weekly food-shop to compensate for a must-buy. 'Milk?? Pfft, we don't need that! Bread?? I'm sure there's a loaf in the bottom of the freezer somewhere...' 

Reeling

Wasting my afternoon playing games on facebook, I checked some comments from an OU group I'm part of. Their course results had arrived a week early. No harm in checking mine, I thought. 

I got a distinction for Creative Writing!!!

I was amazed. I was hoping for a pass 2 (which I got for Children's Literature and am perfectly happy with), but I had done miles better than I'd hoped with my final examinable piece and so got the distinction. As the Creative Writing meant a lot more to me (just personally, it's not worth as much towards my degree) and I'd put a lot of 'me' into it, I'm over the moon. 

WOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!! 

Okay, I'll go now. Have a great day - I am!

Whether the weather be fine...

I hadn't intended getting up early this morning. The first day of the school holidays, I was going to sleep until lunchtime. The guy over the road, on the other hand, thought it was the perfect morning for sawing through tree-trunks. To avoid the heat of the day, he decided to start early. The Husband then thought he would do a bit of garden clearance, in our garden, for a change. I've probably said before that he's a gardener. By the time he finishes for the day, he doesn't want to cut any more grass, pull up any more weeds etc. That's why our whole garden looks like the 'wildlife corner' you're encouraged to have. We have piles of dead leaves, an over-grown hedge and lots of, erm, wild-flowers. (Remember, 'a weed is just a flower in the wrong place'...) Anyway, at 8.30, The Husband decided to take a pile of rubble to the tip. To do this, he had to use a wheelbarrow to ferry it from the back garden to the van. Rather than walk too far, he hurled great chunks of concrete into the metal wheelbarrow from several feet away. I need to apologise to the neighbours. When he came in and saw me making a very strong coffee, he looked surprised and said, 'You're up early. I thought you were having a lie-in?' 

Of course, now it's nearly lunchtime, and rather hot outside, everyone's gone indoors and it's totally silent. Yes, we still have sunshine. It's been warm for, what, about two weeks now? And we're in Britain. People are starting to complain. Two weeks is an awfully long time to have the same weather. The British Summer is typically, I read somewhere, three days of sun and a thunderstorm. 

The British weather seems to break records every year, although I view these statistics with scepticism. So we had the coldest Easter since 1910? That just means that, in 1910, Easter was colder. No doubt this Summer will be the hottest since last year, but anyone who was around in 1976 will scoff and recall taking buckets to stand-pipes when all the water dried up, and how you couldn't stand still for too long, or your flip-flops stuck to the path. Those were the days...

People moan about how poorly prepared Britain is for hot weather. But we're poorly prepared for any weather apart from rain. So we get a week of snow a year, when everything grinds to a halt and people say, 'Bet the trains don't stop running in Sweden.' No, they don't, because they get snow a lot more than us. We're rubbish in heat-waves because we only get those for a week, too. We have everything. We even famously had a hurricane in 1987 which, compared to those in America, was probably more of a light breeze, but it did knock trees down and throw things around, and we got all excited at the fact we'd had Real Weather. The weather we can cope with is rain. Because we get a lot of it. Last Christmas, I wrote about how The Daughter travelled here from Cornwall narrowly avoiding the floods. While she was here, we worriedly watched the news and saw how the train lines she needed for her journey back were all being washed away. Yet, three days later, they'd all been drained and repaired and life was back to damp normality. 

No doubt our little Summer will come to an end soon, and we can start complaining about the rain again. The farmers will be on the news telling us how prices will have to increase because of the sun/rain, as they do each year, no matter what weather we've just had. 

Hope your weather's doing what you want it to.  

Taking a deep breath

If going climbing (all the two times I've done it) has taught me anything apart from the need to keep my nails short, it's that there are so many things in the past that I've turned down because the idea scared me, or took me out of my comfort zone, that I'm actually wondering how many good things I've missed. How many things have I said no to because it 'wasn't my sort of thing', or made me nervous? 

I've seen the film Yes, Man, and okay, it was kind of daft, but it has a point. I love the title of the book Feel the Fear And Do It Anyway, although I've not actually read it, I'm ashamed to say, and that's something I must remedy over the Summer holidays. (Yes, tomorrow is the last day of term. Excuse me while I just run around celebrating...) Lately, I have tried to attempt things rather than just feebly say, 'Well, I'm not sure...'. 

I took on the running of the school library although I seriously thought I was not worthy. And despite the equivalent of a month spent sitting at the computer, cataloguing books, I'm glad I took it on. I've had children asking for book recommendations, I've shared a great series of books with The Bookworm in year 5 (The Spiderwick Chronicles, in case you're interested, complete with field-guide). I've even been lent books by said Bookworm, and am thoroughly enjoying being immersed in reading material and having book-centred chats with the children. The Boss Lady seems to think I'm doing okay, so I should stop worrying. I'm doing this for the children, so bugger the rest of them who are moaning about messed-up time-tables for library visits. Getting children reading is important to me. Mainly so I can borrow their books. 

I said yes to climbing, and I've raved about it so much that Son Number Two wants to give it a go. But the thing I'm most pleased about diving into was Open University. It was three years ago now, and I was only going to do one interesting-looking course on psychology, but now I'm just two courses away from my degree. Every time I sign up for the next course, I'm scared that I'm going to make a fool of myself, but it always seems to go okay. I'll find out how Children's Literature and Creative Writing went in a couple of weeks, but so far I'm on target for a 2:1, which would make me pretty happy. 

I've not always succeeded in my 'give it a go' outlook. Sorry, Ms Fab, your birthday spa-day looked great, but I couldn't do it. Give me a slap next year and force me to go. So, what will I do? I will do Na-No-Wri-Mo this year. Fifty-thousand words in a month. I can do that. It'll be a great way to avoid doing linguistics assignments. The blog may be rather sparse in November, though. What else? I will make phone calls. The Husband is a wonderful phone-caller, but I rely on him too much. He'll come in tired from work, and I'll have a list of calls I need him to make. As a recovering stammerer, phones are my nemesis but, bloody hell, I'm nearly 44, I should be making my own phone calls. 

Funnily enough, whilst writing this, I was checking through my blogroll (on the right, my list of the best blogs I've found) and Lessons in French has a post on the same subject. Read it here, it's much better than mine. Not sure if I could bring myself to bungee jump off a bridge, though. 

Must try harder

Ms Fab and I returned to the climbing walls this morning. We thought we better go back as soon as possible, before we forgot how to tie the right knots. Mrs GSOH's husband was ill, so she couldn't come with us this time. Well, that's what she said, anyway. I'm wondering if she just wanted to see if we came back undamaged before committing herself to more climbing with us. Despite us both admitting we couldn't quite remember the order of things when someone wanted to start an abseil, Ms Fab and I pretended we knew what we were doing and had a go anyway. This was partly because we realised there was a camera on the ceiling, which connected to the tv on the reception desk. I had a picture in my head of a crowd of sports instructors gathered around it, shaking their heads and laughing. They would then all nudge each other and point at us as we left the building. I don't think that happened. 

Yeah, we might go outside one day.

If there's a pub nearby...

Actually, the worst bit was as we were paying to go in. We had to pick up our new 'You're-allowed-to-use-the-climbing-wall' cards, and were told we had to have our photos printed on them for security reasons. 'But it's Sunday morning!' Ms Fab protested. Nevertheless, it had to be done. So we now own cards with scary-looking Sunday-morning faces on them. And, no, I'm not going to show you. 

After tying knots that looked relatively similar to the ones we'd been shown, we climbed up and down several routes, then looked around for what to do next. 'Let's try that one,' I can't remember who said it, but they need shooting. It had weird leaning bits and angles. Ms Fab did an amazing Spiderman job on the way up, but came down quicker than she was expecting. Then it was my turn and I got stuck halfway. Ms Fab tried to show me how to do it, but she'd forgotten. I bet the people around that tv were loving it. She did manage to climb it again, but by then my hands were seizing up. We've decided we'll do that route first next time, before we're too worn out. 

Yes, we have every intention of going back, if only to make Mrs GSOH climb the tricky wall. We need to start getting kitted out, though. We found out that slippy hands and climbing do not go together. Slippy hands and crashing to the floor go together, so we're going to get some chalk rather than just stealing bits that other climbers have left behind. We were lucky that we were on our own this morning. I'm sure there will come a time when we're in the presence of burly climbing men, in which case we need to give the impression we know what we're doing. Either that, or we'll just stand there and watch them. I knew there was a good reason for starting all this rubbish. 

Nearly there...

Last night, we had a get-together at the local pub. It was an informal 'thank-goodness-it's-nearly-the-end-of-term' do. We usually have a room and garden of the pub to ourselves, which is good as conversations about children can't be overheard by eavesdropping relatives. As it was a warm evening, we ate outside. Ms Fab spent time hunting fairies with the gorgeous children of one of the teachers, chips were stolen from other people's plates, glasses were smashed and extra puddings ordered. 

I do like listening to other people's conversations, although I don't actually understand them all. A couple of teachers got to talking about eyelash extensions. I didn't know there was such a thing. Apparently, you have to lie down with your eyes shut for three hours (Three hours?! I could have read half a book) while someone glues pretend eyelashes onto your real ones. Why would that be necessary? Does anyone actually look at eyelashes that closely? 

You, too, can have eyelashes like these

They then started discussing some fat-melting procedure that involves electric shocks. I have to admit this is all a mystery to me. I have never had a manicure, pedicure, massage or facial. If I can't enhance my appearance within my ten-minute make-up routine, then I'm afraid others will just have to put up with how dreadful I look. My ancient hair-dryer is used by Son Number One's girlfriend more than me, and I don't have the patience for hair-straighteners. I think the main reason I refuse to buy into the pampering (I seriously hate that word...) side of things is that I'm too lazy to keep it all up. And I'd rather spend the money on reading material. I do dye my hair - that's my only indulgence. I've dyed it since I was 17, because that's when I started going grey. Thanks, family genes, you've cost me a fortune. Not that I go to the hairdressers, I buy whatever's on offer and do it myself, usually splattering the floor and walls with dye in the process (sorry, Dear Husband, I know it drives you mad). 

Anyway, back to the pub...

As it got later, the die-hards congregated around one table and continued conversations, as Mrs Secretary and Ms Titian worked their way through their second bottle of wine. I would have been quite happy to prolong the evening until chucking-out time, but everyone decided it was time to go. 'It's very quiet!' Ms Titian informed us as she walked down the middle of the road. Actually, it wasn't, as she talked loudly all the way home. (At this point in the evening, I finally got Mr Chaos's major and minor profiterole joke. He did say it was a slow-burner....) As Ms Titian stopped admiring the stars and caught up, she flung her arm around Mrs Secretary's shoulders. 'I used to be taller than Mrs Secretary,' she told us, and nodded earnestly in case we didn't believe her. As our group got smaller as people reached their homes, she looked around at us all quite seriously and said, 'You know, we're just like a bus.' I bet she had a heck of a headache this morning. 

You're fired. AND you. And DEFINITELY you...

To bring this term to a fairly pleasant end, the year 5s (and remaining year 6s, who are off to different high schools to the majority) have been taking part in a challenge modelled on tv's The Apprentice. Working in groups of five, they have to price, make, and market some school bags. Team leaders have been nominated and it's all being taken very seriously. The children have been told they'll get no advice from staff - it's all up to them - so I've been enjoying myself just watching the teamwork, or lack of it. While the class teacher has been doing assessments, I've wandered around being bossy and pointing out good and bad practice, awarding ticks or crosses as appropriate. The children love it and are very quick to bring my attention to other teams' mistakes: 'Look at their messy table. They should get a cross for that. And that team's arguing. Would you like a chair? Do I get a tick for being thoughtful?'

That's it. You're all fired. 

So far today, Ms Fab has burnt her fingers countless times on the hot-glue gun, we've had tears and tantrums (the children, that is, not us...not yet...), and we've had slide-shows put together which actually bear no relation to the product made but do contain a wide range of amusing sound effects. The children have also learnt to haggle, after making lots of expensive mistakes. 'Will you sell me this (huge swathe of ancient Laura Ashley-style fabric) for a pound?' I was asked. 'Sure,' I replied, and waited until they subtracted it from their accounts before adding, 'you could have had it for 20p, but a pound's good.' 

I like this sort of classroom activity because the children's personalities really show themselves. We have the organiser, who gets voted in as Team Leader, sorts out everyone's jobs well, then sits back and takes it easy as he watches them work. We have the future teacher, who tries to put together a slide-show from someone's notes and wails, 'What does this say? Your writing's awful. And this sentence doesn't even make sense.' We have the drama queen who preens and laughs extra-loudly so everyone looks at her, then sulks when people turn away and work. And we have the walking disaster area who knocks containers of buttons to the floor, mistakes white paint for PVA glue and staples her skirt to a piece of paper.  

I'm pleased we get to keep most of this lot for another school year. It looks like we're in for an entertaining time.

Driving me up the wall

On a past post, 'Fab Friday', I mentioned how Ms Fab, Mrs GSOH and I were going indoor climbing. Well, we've done it. We listened and learned, and our instructor didn't end up a sobbing heap on the floor. We've climbed up, abseiled down, helped each other to abseil down without letting them plummet to the ground, and went and celebrated with an argument about who was paying for drinks in the bar afterwards. Good times. Ms Fab is going to put some photos on facebook later, as some people didn't actually believe we were going through with it. 'Is it another sky-diving thing?' we've both been asked. Yes, we both want to do a charity sky dive, for Alzheimer's research, and it's been talked about a lot, but that's as far as we've got. WE WILL DO IT. We decided yesterday. Nag me, please. If I'm still going on about it in a year's time, nag me. Make me feel guilty. 

Not me. But you get the idea. Add a bit of 

swearing and an instructor in hysterics and 

you've got it. 

As those photos of yesterday's climb go on facebook, I may stick one on here. Probably not of me, though. Most of the photos show backsides in harnesses. It's not pretty. I may post a photo of Ms Fab's backside as it's far slimmer than mine. I do now have an incentive to stay slim. Or to become slim, even. When belaying (I know the proper word now, as opposed to 'letting someone slide down the wall'...) we discovered we could cope with each other's weight okay. 'Can we still do this for people who are... bigger than us?' Mrs GSOH asked the instructor. 'Yes,' he said, 'but you may need sand-bags to help you hold their weight.' At the bar afterwards, we decided we would never become sand-bag people. Just one extra cake in the staff room could result in the embarrassment of a sand-bag being added to the belay rope, so someone could cope with the added weight. When Ms Fab unwraps another toffee, I shall whisper, 'sand-bag,' to her, and watch her put it back. Either that or she'll deck me. 

On another note, I have a thank you to make. My fellow blogger, at Lessons in French has nominated me for a blogging award. Many thanks, my friend. I'm glad you're enjoying the blog, and comments like yours make the whole thing worthwhile. Pop over and check her blog out. Her writing is great and makes me think (and it takes a lot to make me do that these days). I've never had a blogging award before, and I'll do the acceptance bits in my next post, once I've had a ponder. Thanks again - it's much appreciated. 

Goodbyeeeeeeeee

Well that's Leavers' Day over with. Most of our year 6s are off to the local high school, so leave us early to acclimatise to the scariness of being the youngest at school once again. The two and half horrible boys were waved on their way, but I was surprised and pleased that one of their mothers came in to thank me for everything. I was especially surprised because this mother had come in cool and angry at me one day after her son had lied to her, saying I was picking on him, ignoring his pleas for help, and generally making his school life hell. She told me that her son (let's call him Little B) just wanted to get on with his school work, and was a good boy, and that I should be thoroughly ashamed of myself (all of this in front of her child). Although I was boiling mad inside, I calmly offered to set up a meeting with the head teacher, and said I was quite happy to show Little B's mum our class 'behaviour book' which recorded all of the incidents so far that year. Little B went white at this, as the class teacher had threatened to phone his mother about his appalling behaviour just the day before (which was probably the reason for the how-can-I-get-out-of-this accusation). After hastily back-tracking, Little B complained no more. So I was grateful for this mother's thanks this afternoon. After mouthing, 'I'm sorry,' at me, she left, and is hopefully not going to bother me again for a few years. 

Accusations from children are a worry at school. A colleague was once accused of trying to hit a child that she'd never even worked with, and it was a worrying time for her as the parents threatened to make complaints. We are very lucky that most of our parents are wonderful. Parents of infants are happy for poo incidents to be sorted out, and we've been congratulated many times on the love and care we show the children. We also have a very supportive and caring Boss Lady, who understands that all children need a hug now and then. We once had a training day on behaviour, and we were shown how to give a child a school-approved hug if we really couldn't avoid it. If a child came to us face-on, we had to spin them round so they were standing next to us and then pat them on the shoulder. Boss Lady told me later she thought that was a very cold way to treat children, and was almost pushing them away when they needed us most, and that we were to carry on as usual. 

In case you need a guide to the best hugs,

this is from walkinginsquares.com 

Unusually, this year, most of the children left in tears. One boy had been trying not to cry from the start of morning register. Out of the classroom for most of the day, I popped my head in to see how everyone was and one girl informed me, through hiccups, that they were out of tissues. I was absolutely fine until it was time to go home, and The Chatterbox grabbed me and wouldn't let go as he sobbed all down my t-shirt. After bawling something incomprehensible into my shoulder, he gave a mighty sniff and disappeared out of the door. He only lives across the road from me - I see him nearly every day. I will actually miss every one of them. The horrible ones may not always be the best company, but they help me to learn things about myself, and hopefully that makes me better at my job. 

I wish them all the best. I hope they leave with fond memories of primary school, their first proper friends and maybe even one or two facts they've learnt.  I also really hope they don't write too many nasty things about me on facebook. 

Cheers!

Here in the UK we're actually having a sunny day, which is a great and unusual event. The Husband is away playing cricket and I'm keeping an eye on the tennis whilst stealing his beer. He's done several people favours over the past week and although he refuses payment, he often gets presents, most of which are of the alcoholic variety. One job he did was drilling up a driveway to access a blocked drain. The ladies who owned the house asked him what he liked as a drink. One guessed, 'Don't tell me... you're a real ale man, aren't you?' The Husband, not wanting to offend, agreed, congratulated her on her knowledge of the male species, and came home to his glass of chilled peach schnapps. The wife, on the other hand, is a real ale lady ('Lady'? Some may argue...) so is gleefully clearing space in the cupboard.  

Another reason to love Southwold

I find it annoying that, when I order a pint of ale in a pub, it always gets passed to The Husband. My Sexist Uncle believes that women should not be allowed to order pints as it's not feminine. I suppose he thinks we should drink sweet white wine, preferably whilst wearing a flowery dress and getting ready to cook the dinner.

I like malt whisky, and was introduced to the more interesting varieties by a Scottish landlady when I was 18. Every night whilst on holiday in the Highlands, my parents and I went to a village pub where I worked my way along a shelf of bottles. A holiday highlight was a visit to the Glenfiddich distillery where I was allowed the tiniest taste of 40 year old malt. I was told never to add ice or any type of mixer, and to always buy the oldest I could afford. It's not my fault I now have a very expensive taste in Scotch. Mine's a Glenmorangie, in case you're buying. 

The ale thing started slightly earlier. I think I was about eight when my Dad and Yorkshire-Grandad were drinking beers in the garden. As they snoozed in the sun, I drained their glasses of Greene King IPA and went indoors reeking of spilt beer and feeling rather sick. All three of us got a telling off from my Nan.

I hope this post doesn't make me out to be a raging alcoholic, but there's nothing like a glass of beer on a Summer's evening. I especially like it when The Husband does jobs for our friends up the road. They belong to The Times wine club, and their gifts really do help me to unwind after a manic Brownie evening. Cheers, all!

Mean boys and bromances

Next week is the last week of primary school for most of our year 6 children. I've said before that I'll miss the girls (a mixture of the angelic, the daft, and the rather odd), but the boys will be helped out of the door. Thinking about this, though, I see I've let the baddies influence my view of all the boys. We actually have three horrors (well, two and half, as one is okay some of the time). We used to have four, but one left because we wouldn't let him do all of the horrible things he really liked doing. 

So, I'm letting two and half boys overshadow the others who are actually Not Too Bad. There is one boy in particular that we will all miss because he talks so much. He's well behaved, polite and funny, but wow, can he talk.... We missed him when the 6s went on their residential trip Up North. We had moments of silence in the classroom; it was quite unnerving. Then we have the boy who can be a beast on the football pitch, but who cries at anything. He cried when someone read out a sad story they'd written. We had an assembly when the Boss Lady tried out a type of 'pictorial prayer' of people hugging and holding hands - it made me tearful, so I turned to check on the children, and this boy was in floods and being patted on the shoulder by the Chatterbox. He cried when a girl left to go to another school a few months ago - and he didn't even like her. 

Then we have the bromances. This year's crop of year 6 boys are not ashamed to show the lurve. The Chatterbox is involved in at least two bromances and has to be told to let go of people and get on with his work. They hang round each other's shoulders and have group hugs. It's actually rather nice.

Of course, the two and a half horrible boys have to get involved, and have sneered comments like, 'Are you gay or something?' before sniggering and high-fiving each other. The Chatterbox did sort that one out though, by replying, 'No, I've just got friends. Trying being nice to people and you might get some yourself.' Love him. 

Killer kats

I like cats. Not enough to be a crazy cat lady, but I just like one or two that wander around and make me feel needed by shouting at me when it's dinner time. What I don't like, though, is the pile of dead wildlife that turns up on the door step. I know they're meant to be presents from the cats: 'Hi, I like you, have a mangled rodent.' But today, Merlin left a tiny, beautiful little shrew for me to find. And it wasn't dead. Perhaps he thought he was being nice to me: 'I'll leave her a half-dead animal that she can enjoy killing.' My grandmother would be horrified, but I like mice and rats and associated mammals, so seeing this squirming little animal made me want to kill the cat.  

I know Mother Nature is supposedly red in tooth and claw, but sometimes She pushes my patience. Scooping this fragment of life into an old Chinese takeaway tub, I tried to pluck up the courage to kill it quickly, but failed. Instead, I watched helplessly as it twisted and gasped before it finally curled up into a little ball and died. As an adoring fan of Terry Pratchett, I then imagined the Death of Rats turning up, complete with robe and scythe, to send the little soul on its way. The murderous cat, being let outside again, sniffed around the patio as if to say, 'I'm sure I left a shrew around here somewhere....'

I remember when The Daughter was ill, several years ago, she was lying on our sofa-bed with a raging temperature. Our cat, Parker (short for Nosy Parker) thought she needed looking after and kindly killed a rat for her, laying it gently next to her pillow. So kind. (Ironically, as I'm writing this, Son Number Two has come to inform me that Merlin has a dead rat hanging from his jaws.) Bloody animals, they're worse than infants. My friend's cat once brought in a live squirrel, depositing it in her dining room, where it raced up the bookshelves and disappeared into a big vase. 

I would actually like a dog. Well, I like the idea of having a dog, which is very different. We were loaned a friend's labradoodle while they were on holiday, a couple of years ago. It was called Dory, after the Finding Nemo character, and it was most apt, as I've never met a dafter dog. Its joy in life was chasing tennis balls and walking for miles and miles (and miles...) through the forest. When it saw me, it went completely goofy and would leap around and act like an idiot. As a dog, it was a bit of an embarrassment. Its tongue would hang out of the side of its mouth, and I wanted to tell it to pull itself together and have a bit of pride. If we met other dog-walkers in the forest, I would quickly explain that this was not actually our dog, it belonged to a friend, to save people thinking that we would own such a lunatic.

Merlin has become an expert mole killer, which delights The Husband (he's a gardener, though you wouldn't know it from the state of our garden), but disgusts me. I do, however, like the opportunity to examine such wildlife at close-quarters. Although dead moles make me sad, I now know how amazing their fur is, in that it grows straight up, making it easier for the little animals to move which ever way they want to in their tunnels. Shrews have the tiniest little teeth you can imagine, and their noses are so long. Rats are not just grey - they are an amazing speckling of black and white, although their tails are a bit creepy. Mice have beautifully shaped faces, which make me wish I could draw. 

I completely understand a current year 6 girl who takes home decomposing hedgehogs and dead birds so she can cut them up and work out how they function. She comes to school and tells me how big a pigeon's brain is, and I share her fascination, while others pretend to be sick. 

She's either going to be a great surgeon, or a mass murderer. Watch this space....

Ninjas and other playground hazards

One of the joys of working with children is hearing all the daft things they say. On break duty today, a infant joined me in a wander around the playground and told me she had a Ninja. Infant conversations often veer into the surreal, so I gave the standard answer of, 'Oh?' 'I got it this morning,' she continued, which shed no light on the matter at all. When I asked where it was, she pointed to her knee, 'Mrs Secretary put a plaster on it for me.' An injury. A Ninja-rie. Yes, okay, I could see how she got there. 

When I told Ms Fab to beware of Ninjas on the playground, she told me how another infant had come into the staff room after bumping his head at break. He'd asked if he could have an iPad for it. Realising what he meant, a member of staff got him an ice pack. Wish I'd been in there as I'd have got him what he asked for. 

It's not just the infants who get things wrong. One of the year 6 girls was chatting to me about spoonerisms, and was trying to think of an example. 'You know,' she said, 'it's like when someone tries to say par cark and accidentally says car park instead.' 

What's worrying are those moments in class when I'm corrected by giggling children and have to ask, 'Why - what did I say?' Perhaps I get so boring that even I stop listening. 

On teeth and toilets

There was a time when teaching assistants had more time out of the classroom to get jobs done. We'd spend a morning cutting things out, laminating, taking down displays and gossiping in the corridor. Now we're lucky to grab a spare 5 minutes to bung some photocopying through (and it's always when you've only got 5 minutes that the copier decides to jam up). Now you're more likely to see a teacher hurtling down the corridor to do their own photocopying, hoping to get back to class before the trouble-makers realise they're gone. 

When I started as a TA in 2002 (wow, that seems a long time ago), our main jobs were washing up after painting activities, hearing readers and scraping glue off tables. Now we supervise groups of strugglers, plan intervention work and take lessons (for the same amount of money, I'd like to point out, but we won't go there...). Don't get me wrong, I love what I do - and I'm glad I took the qualifications that allowed me to have that extra responsibility - but what I'd give for an afternoon just 'doing jobs' - all the bits of maintenance that get piled up for 'when I've got time' and are still there months later. Taking on the running of the library has turned into a 'when I've got time' thing, which is a huge shame, because I have loads of ideas, but don't have time to put any of them into practice. 

I did manage to snatch some corridor time the other week, and it was nice to stand there, cutting and laminating, while the teaching and learning went on around me. I just had occasional interruptions from children on their way to the school office, or fetching things from the stock cupboard. I liked that they felt they could stop and chat to me (although their teachers may have had something to say about that). I got shown teeth that had just fallen out, complete with gory bits (I don't mind gory bits, but I really do mind wobbly teeth. If a proud child stands in front of me with gaping maw and tooth hanging by a thread, I feel rather queasy and have to quickly invent a distraction). 

Other children peered at what I was doing and asked the inevitable: 'Whatcha doin'?' To which the answer is not allowed to be, 'What the heck does it look like?' Then there are the children who have just been to the toilet and want to report a poo incident. We seem to have an alarming amount of children this year who use reams of toilet roll, but have never learnt to flush a toilet. This means that by mid-afternoon, conditions are unpleasant to say the least. I am ashamed to admit that, like most members of staff, I refer informants of poo incidents to Mrs Secretary. Then I run away. I have done a fair share of toilet mopping. The ex-head and I spent several pleasant afternoons mopping out the boys' toilets before the floods reached the corridor, so I will help out if asked. It's just unfortunate that I'm often very, very busy just then. 

Of course, that's another reason I prefer working with the older children, but when I mentioned that to the TA in the reception class, she said she'd rather deal with toilet problems than hormone-related ones, and I can see her point. This year we got off lightly, but I predict next year we will be awash with tears, tantrums and huffs. 

Oh for the days when we could just go and wash paintbrushes...