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.' 

Clear as mud

I'm three days, and a very long and confusing first chapter, into the linguistics course and have that familiar 'what have I let myself in for?' feeling. Page 51 of my text book, for example, tells me:

In using ideas from cognitive metaphor theory in the

analysis of metaphor in discourse, we face the methodological

problem of labelling conceptual metaphors. Any set of connected

linguistic metaphors can be given a label that looks like a 

conceptual metaphor, merely by encoding it in the form A IS B.

Hmmm. It doesn't help that I think 'metaphor' looks wrong and I keep wanting to put an 'e' on the end. I thought I knew what metaphors were - it seems I only knew a tiny bit about them. Apparently, you can get active and dead ones. Are there any that are halfway between? Zombie metaphors? I'm going to have to give that chapter another reading because I went into a kind of a haze, where I was reading but nothing actually entered the brain. I felt like one of Mr Chaos's favourite students, moaning: 'I don't get it,' except that I'm going to have to try and 'get it' whereas she simply can't be bothered. 

So lets forget intellectual discussion and education, and talk conkers instead. Today is the Autumn Equinox. I love this time of year, but always forget the tears and tantrums over the grand harvest from the school's horse chestnut trees. 

We have two gorgeous trees on the infant playground, from which we easily fill two old steel bins with conkers. Next month, we will use some for the school conker competition (winners get a trophy and a giant chocolate bar), but until then, the infants have a fine time collecting and squabbling over the conkers. They have only just started falling, and the rug-rats don't seem to understand that the longer they stay on the tree, the bigger the conkers will be. They don't want to wait; they want them NOW (add grumpy stamp of foot here). They don't want to share them by putting them in the conker bins, either. They get slipped up sleeves and pilfered from friends' pockets. Now, I can actually understand this. A brand new conker is a rather lovely thing, and I have to admit that, if I see a particularly nice specimen, it goes into my coat pocket. (Thankfully, they don't go mouldy as I sometimes find them the following year, when the winter coats are got out again.)

No doubt, over the weekend, several conkers will have fallen, so the infants will be happily collecting tomorrow. The trees are next to the staff car park, which causes problems with dents in car roofs (I feel very wrong writing that. I learnt it was 'rooves' at school, so 'roofs' gives me the same feeling that 'mouses' would) as the conkers fall with a heck of a thump. I know, because one year, a child and I both got hit on the head by falling conkers. He cried and I nearly did...

It's funny how writing this leads me up all sorts of paths (the time-wasting peril of having the internet to hand). I had to look up the roofs/rooves thing and have found no end of forum arguments on the subject. There are similar ones on lit/lighted and that's one that really bugs me when it's used in novels. She lighted a candle?? It sounds like a child's mistake: I eated my dinner. I do apologise if I'm insulting people here, by the way. And now my spell-check tells me that 'apologise' should be spelt/spelled with a 'z'. I know a lot of it comes from the differences between the English and American spellings, and how we can't seem to agree on anything, but it all makes for fascinating reading that makes the blog take a good couple of hours to write. 

Enjoy what's left of the weekend, no matter how you spell it... 

Disaster on a Biblical scale

I had orders from Ms Fab to blog about today's school assembly. We are a Church of England school and our assemblies, on Monday and Friday mornings, involve Christian lessons and stories. Sometimes we have visitors from various local churches that take our assemblies. Today was the turn of someone who delivers the 'Open the Book' programme. These sessions are meant to (and I'm quoting from the website here) 'use drama, mime, props, costume - even the children and staff themselves - to present Bible stories in ways that are lively, engaging, informative ... and great fun for everyone involved'. The assemblies presented to us are certainly lively and great fun for the staff; it's like watching Monty Python. 

Today, we were learning about the Plagues of Egypt - the death of the first born, in particular. Children had been issued with scripts the day before. God stood in the PE cupboard ready for her (we're a very open-minded school) proclamation. Pharaoh sat rather nervously on a chair at the front and kept checking her (I told you) lines. Tables were swathed in sheets to represent houses and the man presenting the assembly began to pick children to act the part of various families. 'You, you, and you. Not you, sit down...' There was a collective wince from staff as a very young Special Needs child was ordered to return to his place, but thankfully there was no tantrum thrown, and the poor boy was offered a merit as a sop when he returned to class. 

Next, a toy sheep was held aloft. 'They killed this,' the children were told, and several infants looked horrified, 'and they painted the blood over the doors.' Red ribbons were sellotaped onto the 'houses' of the favoured family. The lucky ones were ordered into their 'house' where they had to feast on the remains of the fluffy sheep. Staff were trying to avoid eye-contact with each other. There were about twenty children at the front of the hall, milling about, standing in the wrong places and giggling. Laughter came to an abrupt halt when an angel with a wooden sword appeared and pretended to murder children. The year sixes, seated by me, gave each other sideways glances and looked rather shocked. 'You need to lie down,' five year olds were ordered, 'you're dead, aren't you?' The 'families' were told off for not being upset enough: 'What do you do when someone's dead? You cry, so we need you all to cry.' 

Pharaoh was quite new to our school and was probably wondering what sort of a mad-house she'd ended up in. Ms Fab was crying with laughter and the Boss Lady was probably thinking of things to say in answer to impending parental complaints. 

Not all of our visitors have such an affect on the children. One American lady, who took our year 6 RE sessions a couple of years ago, was brilliant. I can't remember what the sessions were called, and I'm hoping someone will remind me, but she taught the Old Testament through actions and drama. The children learnt the names of all of the Books through hand gestures and they absolutely loved it (as did I). It was fun (the children all threw toy frogs at Pharaoh, in her version) and the children remembered it all months later and kept asking if she could come back. 

Until then, we have to make do with chaos and disaster. I think one year 6 girl summed up today's shenanigans perfectly: 'That assembly. It was a bit "Oh, crikey!" wasn't it?' It certainly was.

Cornwall

As we drove through the rain to the climbing wall this morning, I found the map of Cornwall that I'd shoved in the pocket of the passenger door. When we have our lottery win, I'm definitely moving down there (whether the rest of the family want to join me is up to them...). We were lucky enough to have a week of sunshine there at the end of August, but even in the rain (which we had last year) it's such an amazing place. I love the sea, and whilst the coast around our region is nice in places, it has nothing on the dramatic cliffs and caves and roaring waves of Cornwall. 

The Bedruthan Steps,

 on the north coast of Cornwall

When I was young, we didn't have any holidays abroad. Instead, we thoroughly explored Britain. The Bedruthan Steps was my favourite place. The beach can only be accessed at low tide, and there are caves to explore, arches through the cliffs to clamber through to reach further beaches, and rock pools to wade in. There is also the danger of being cut-off as the tide returns. Last year, there was a rain-storm when we visited. It was low tide, but the rain poured down the cliffs and we had to walk faster and faster to get back to the 50-something steep steps up the cliff. Thankfully, the sun shone on this year's visit. I think it's hugely satisfying when your children love the same things you do, and I had no complaints when the Bedruthan Steps was first choice for Son Number One's visits. 

Son Number Two wanted to go to St Michael's Mount, a visit that was again spoilt last year (we'd just walked the length of the causeway to the island when everything was closed because of storms).

The harbour at St Michael's Mount

When the tide is out, the island can be reached via a cobbled causeway, but we were too early for that, so caught one of the little ferry boats that continually potter back and forth. After a wander around the castle and a stop for an ice cream, we were able to walk back. We discovered that people actually live on this tiny island, but I imagine I'd need a pretty hefty lottery win to join them. 

Next on the list was a visit that none of us were quite sure about (and by 'us', I should have said I mean me, The Husband, Son Number One plus Girlfriend, Son Number Two, and The Daughter who actually lives in Cornwall but joined us for most days). Someone had picked up a leaflet for Adrenaline Quarry. The place boasted the longest zip wire in England, plus various other heart-stoppers. So, who was going to give it a go? The boys were up for it; The Daughter wasn't sure, and The Husband and I wanted to see people survive it first. 

Son Number One and The Girlfriend

We all ended up having a go. It took us the length of the lake in the photo and was great fun, but only lasted 45 seconds (Son Number Two timed it. He's like that. He'd have thought nothing of working out the average speed we traveled at, had we wished to know).

One of my favourite visits was to The Lost Gardens of Heligan, which was originally for the benefit of The Husband, who's a gardener. I hadn't seen the tv series about the Victorian garden's restoration, but my dad often raved about it, so we thought it was worth a visit on our last day. It was gorgeous. And I found a sculpture that I'd seen loads of times on the internet, but not actually realised where it was from. 

The Husband has told me we've not won the Euro Millions, so must make do with living where we are, but I do feel rather jealous of all The Daughter's photos on Facebook, where she's just driven off to those beautiful beaches with her friends. And the Cornish cider... Hmmm, I forgot to write about the visit to the cider farm: one for next time, I think...

Good intentions

The Husband, Son Number Two and I were going climbing this morning (Son Number One's in Birmingham, waving goodbye to The Girlfriend who's off to university), when we realised it's the day they do the induction course at the sports centre. Because there were nine people learning, there wouldn't be room for us to use the walls as well, so we'll go next week instead. It's good to be able to do things together at weekends now, as the cricket season has finally finished. This means family members are able to meet up during daylight hours, and the car isn't being constantly used to ferry cricketers to far-flung villages that no-one has previously heard of. The down-side is that Son Number Two and I (the non-cricketers) can no longer watch rubbishy films and eat toast all weekend. 

Thankfully, The Husband and Son Number Two have taken to climbing, as it's the only form of exercise I enjoy. I tried running, but it's so boring. I won't run through the village as I know too many people, and I don't want to be an object of amusement for the local school children. The forest is beautiful, but the nearby car-parks are used by people up to Suspicious Activities, so I may need to be able to run a lot faster than I can at the moment. Cycling is okay, but it's dark when I get home from work for half the year and I don't want to be mown down by crazed drivers anxious to get to their Suspicious Activities. The climbing wall is out of the rain, open until 10pm and just up the corridor from the bar, so it's ideal. 

I'll make sure I stick to climbing regularly, too. I put on half a stone on holiday because the Cornish cider was so nice, and that will have to go. I refuse to buy bigger clothes. While queuing for the book signing at Ely, Ms Fab and I whiled away some time by deciding how we were not going to grow old(er) gracefully. We would not, we decided, ever wear Hush Puppy, velcro-fastening sandals. If high heels became too uncomfortable, we would turn to Doctor Martens or New Rocks. (The Husband has actually taken a deep breath and is letting me order a pair of black Doc Martens with red roses embroidered up the sides. He said he didn't think they were 'particularly appropriate' for me, which just made me want them all the more. I also have a pair of Harley Davidson biker boots on the Amazon wish list, just waiting until the 'What would you like for Christmas?' question.)

Jeans with elasticated waists would be out for the aging Ms Fab and me. In fact, we would not wear anything that was advertised in colour supplements. We would not deal with expanding waistlines by buying bigger clothes, but would lose the weight in the old fashioned way of eating less and exercising more. None of these 24 hour fasting diets which Ms Titian occasionally uses, in which she eats very little one day thinking it excuses two cakes and a plate of chips the next. I decided I would model the seventy-year-old me on author Jacqueline Wilson. Heavy silver rings, crushed velvet and, hopefully, bucketfuls of money from all my best-sellers. 

Jacqueline Wilson

This is all obviously assuming that we will not be crippled by arthritis and unable to do up laces or fasten buttons, in which case Ms Fab will have to start her dream job of fashion design and sort out something decent for aging rebels. 

This reminds me of something that was said by the course leader the other day. It was something along the lines of how women felt under pressure to look good. How we felt we had to make ourselves look attractive because that was the pressure society had put upon us. As if we wouldn't wear make-up or nice clothes if that wasn't the standard that was pushed upon us by bitchy women and sexist men, or some such bullsh*t. I like nice clothes. I don't like fashionable clothes, because they then go out of fashion. I like the dregs of the sale rails - all those things that no-one else wants. I'm glad it's getting Autumn-y because I like thick tights, long skirts and boots. But I wear them because I, personally, don't want to wear joggers and trainers. I don't choose my clothes for other people, in the same way that I don't wear make-up or jewellery for other people's approval. I think most of us stop doing that in early adulthood, when we grow out of the: 'Oh, is that what's in fashion this year? I must buy it, even if it's hideous,' stage. 

Anyway, this is turning into another whinge, which was not my intention. I was going to leave you with that poem by Jenny Joseph, but it's kind of become a cliche, and it doesn't really apply to me because I already wear purple... So I found this, instead, which is kind of what Ms Fab and I were talking about:

Play nicely, children

Yesterday's staff training was, as I said last time, on bullying. It particularly focused on the way that 'gay' has become a word, especially when used by some school aged children, that means something that's no good. We had a bit of a problem with this last year, as it was frequently used by the Horrible Boys - as in 'He likes maths, he's so gay,' etc. We were told that homosexuality isn't a choice, that words used in this way make people feel bad and all the things that we already knew, but had to go on a course to be officially told. How much money do these pointless, obvious courses cost the tax-payer? Do the course providers really think we don't already reprimand children who call each other gay, retards, f*cktards and all the other delightful phrases they come out with? Do we seriously have to go on courses to learn that picking on black people, disabled people, homosexuals and other individuals is wrong? How the heck do they think we live? Isn't it making a gigantic issue of picking little bits out of 'Be nice to everyone'? 

It's good to be a hippy

I sometimes feel these course providers look down on people like me: I'm a white, straight, happily married mother of three well-adjusted children. They seem to think that I can't possibly empathise with people in other situations unless I'm taught how. But am I actually in denial? Am I sure I'm not being beaten-up by my husband, or being intimidated by sexist male colleagues (you can try, matey, but you won't get any more wall displays done...)? Perhaps I should introduce my children to drugs and get The Daughter to pay her college fees through prostitution. 

Although...
When we got back from the course, one teacher told me how she disagreed with a lot of what we'd been told. 'Of course they have a choice,' she said, of gay people, 'it's just fashionable nowadays.' I must tell Ms Fab. She's very into fashion, but she's not tried that one (well, not that she's told me, anyway...). Apparently, this teacher knew someone who was gay, a paedophile, a Mormon, and he had ginger hair. So that proves it, then, obviously. I was just waiting for her to say, 'They only do it for attention, you know.' (The course did provoke a lot of discussion amongst the staff, I suppose. Ms Fab and I focused on how some transvestites choose the most appalling shoes. Lola, in the film Kinky Boots had the right idea...) 

The aforementioned teacher is not the most open-minded person in our school. I feel she should come with a disclaimer: 'The views expressed here do not necessarily represent those of the management (or anyone with a shred of decency).' I was told by a colleague that when this teacher started at our school, she didn't know whether to like me or not. On the plus side, I was well-spoken and liked books, but I was a Pagan with tattoos and 'too many earrings'. 

Oh the dilemma! The anguish of having to judge people rather than simply getting to know them. 

Full circle

Starting to write about another staff training day, I realised that I began the blog a year ago. 92 posts and a couple of thousand views later (thank you for reading, by the way - I do appreciate the visits by humans a lot more than the somewhat suspect sites that drop in occasionally), I've found this has been a bit more than just writing practice for the OU course I was doing. It's been nice to become part of the blogging community that's around. Reading other blogs has shown me what's going on in all sorts of places - it's interesting to find out about other people's everyday lives, and I hope that reading about mine hasn't been too boring. 

So, back to today and preparing for the new school year. Thankfully we're not expecting any nightmare children in the class this year (hmmm, no, that's not actually true, I've just remembered one I'd been trying to forget). Last year's horrors will, I think, be in for a bit of a shock at high school on Thursday. We did try to turn them into decent people, but they weren't having it, so bring on the detentions and raging high school teachers. 

A lot of this morning was spent discussing how the words on our school 'vision' needed changing. (The school vision is basically a poster which advertises the fact that our school is a nice place to be and that we don't beat up children.) So we tried out lots of phrases and words which were just different ways of saying what was already there. One teacher made the bizarre suggestion that all the words should start with 'c', because we are a church school and 'Christian' starts with a 'c'. For some reason, this suggestion was taken seriously by some. 'Caring..., creative..., ummm...,' okay, that idea was ditched. After the best part of an hour, it was decided that we'd actually leave the vision just as it was. So we stopped for coffee before moving on to the second item on the agenda. I have to admit that I took very little part in the discussion. I just looked at the clock and thought how I could have spent an extra hour in bed. 

Tomorrow is another staff training day. This time we have to go to another school and be taught how to discipline children who pick on others who are gay or disabled. I have a hunch we might already know how to do that, but the boxes must be ticked. These training sessions alongside other primary school staff make us behave just like children. We refuse to mix with staff from other schools, pretend that we're listening and watch the clock till it's break time. When we leave, we moan about the training and say what a waste of time it all was. 

I had actually intended writing about our holiday in Cornwall today, but the words had a mind of their own and took me in a different direction, so I'll try and do that next time. Because we did have a good time, and I didn't chicken out of doing the longest zip-wire in England.