Season's Eatings

I'm not very good at organising things for Christmas. We have a cupboard that must be opened with caution, in case there's an avalanche of chocolate boxes and snacky stuff. All that food that I thought I needed to get in for Christmas tea, but everyone was so full after lunch they said, 'Phew, couldn't eat another thing, thank you.' There are now regular calls from someone opening the fridge: 'This should have been eaten three days ago; is it still okay?' If it smells all right, then go for it, I say. But, that cheese looks a bit dodgy and our rabbits are getting so fat on expensive vegetables. I know there are awful statistics on how much gets thrown out per family, and we rarely waste food, so I feel dreadfully guilty at binning anything. 

For the second year running, we went out for our family Christmas dinner. With The Daughter and her boyfriend safely back in Cornwall, my parents came with us to a nearby restaurant, where we had a wonderful lunch and left the washing-up and a large tip to other people. On the way there, Son Number One plugged his iPod into the car speakers and we had to listen to Elvis. He said that's what happens when you're forced to listen to BBC Radio 2 all day at work - you start liking crap music. He played a bit of early Stevie Wonder, and I told him I didn't mind that, as it was Motown. 'No, it's not,' he said. 'It's Stevie Wonder.' To which Son Number 2 (the guitar player) rolled his eyes and sighed. 

For the first time, my uncle declined to join us. Instead, he stayed at home with a ready-meal and the Christmas Downton Abbey special. My parents said he was being a grumpy bugger, but I could see the appeal. Not of Downton Abbey, but of making less fuss and feeling obliged to join the festivities. We don't celebrate Christmas as a religious holiday - more of a family one. But not being Christians doesn't mean we can avoid Christmas. I feel a hypocrite for taking part in the celebrations. If anything, I celebrate Yule, but none of us have the option of saying, 'Actually, can I work through Christmas, because it's not my thing?' It's how our holiday calendar is set up and that's that. So if my uncle wants to lock the door and have a normal day, then fine. I've sort of lost respect for the Christmas of today's Western World. If it was purely a proper religious festival, then great, but for too many people, it's now an over-dressed, tarted-up time to have too much stuff. And the commercialism starts in September, for goodness sake. I've seen too many photos on Facebook from people who are saying, 'Hey, look at the big pile of presents I got! Look at how much money people spent on me!' 

I'm going back a bit now, but when I was little, yes, we got together as a family, but even the youngest children got dragged to Midnight Mass by my Grandparents. I remember trying not to fall asleep during the sermon, and being brought back to life every time we had to stand up and sing. Then I would be mightily embarrassed, because I thought everyone would be looking at the little girl standing next to the big Yorkshireman who was singing too loudly. My Grandmother would sing in a very high-pitched voice, which would get my cousins and me giggling and into trouble. Maybe it was because I was younger, but Christmas seemed simpler and more important, even when I was a little six-year-old heathen. There was a Christmas tree in the corner of the kitchen, but that was it, decoration-wise. It's never going to be a religious holiday for me, but I wish it could be quieter and more respectful. 

Anyway, despite me saying that I'm not good at planning things, we have already organised next Christmas. We are going to Cornwall. We've booked a farmhouse, and are going to spend the week with The Daughter and her second family. It's not going to be big and gaudy; it's going to be simple and about the people who are important to us. This plan, as many do, started after a few drinks. We were at my parents' house on Boxing Day evening, and my mum said, 'I wonder what we'll be doing this time next year?' And Son Number One said, 'Well, you know Sis keeps saying about Christmas in Cornwall...' Then my dad said, 'Why not? Let's do it.' (Which is the opposite of what he said when we kind of hinted about it last year.) So, now we're booked up. Daughter's boyfriend's parents have converted some barns on their farm, and we'll be staying in one of them. And even though the alcohol has worn off, we all still want to go. Sorted.

Introverts unite. Quietly.

And so we reach that time of year when we spend too much, eat too much and drink too much, all justified by the phrase, 'Oh well, it's nearly Christmas,' before we get to January and complain that we have no money and need to lose a few kilos. I have actually been Christmas shopping. Twice. The first time, I had a massive list, a bad mood, a bored husband, and all I bought was a chap-stick. Second time around, I managed to buy a few presents, after which The Husband and I decided to reward ourselves with a cup of coffee in town. Unfortunately, we got sidetracked by an advert for afternoon tea in the shop next door. Never mind. It happens. 

The Daughter and her boyfriend get home from their three months of travelling this Monday. From looking at the photos she's been sharing on Facebook, I like the look of Sri Lanka and New Zealand the most. They loved New Zealand, and were very sad to leave, so I wouldn't be at all surprised if they decided to head out that way permanently, some time in the future. 

They'll be staying in these parts for a few days before going back home to Cornwall for Christmas. For the second year, we'll be having Christmas dinner at a pub with my parents. It's a bit pricey, but it means that everyone can enjoy the day without worrying whether the turkey will be ready at the same time as the potatoes, and who will get the rickety chair at the dinner table. And there's no washing-up. 

For the first time, I gave the work's Christmas Do a miss. They were off to the pub in the village, where we go most years and complain about the food. And yet, we still go back. Yesterday, at school, while I was laminating and cutting-out numbers in French, an increasing number of grumpy people stomped up and down the corridor, complaining about going out that evening. I hope they had a good time. I did. I had a glass or two of rather nice red wine and read a book. Not a party game or a Christmas cracker in sight. I honestly think that the older I get, the more unsociable I get, and that's fine until people won't leave me to be antisocial in peace. 'What you need is a really good night out,' I've been told. Nope. What I need is a good malt whisky and the next DVD of Parenthood (the brilliant American six-season box-set, not the Steve Martin film). 

I wouldn't dream of telling someone, 'Look, a night in with a book will do you the world of good.' Go and enjoy your parties, you extroverts, and let me get away from people for a bit. 

I will have plenty of excuses to opt out of gatherings, anyway. I got an email from Roehampton University, offering me a place on their Children's Literature Masters course. It says the offer is conditional, depending on my degree results, but I already know that I've got a first, so I can start planning. Which reminds me: I better get on with that script I have to write for my present course. I'm six pages into it, with another eight to go, plus a commentary on what I've written: 'I chose the medium of radio, so I wouldn't have to think about stage directions or props. And, yes, I have used personal experience in my writing, because the character of Bitchy Mother is based on my Mother-in-law.' 

So, I'm sorry, I won't be able to make that party - I've just got so much work I have to do. 

Just keep swimming...

I have some catching up to do - sorry. In my previous post, I wrote that I'd got an interview for a prison librarian job. That didn't lead to anything; the job was only temporary because of a huge lack of funding and, the thing that actually ruled the job out for me, I'd have to use the phone. Almost anyone with a stammer will tell you that phones are their nemesis. The Husband makes my appointments for me; I have a special arrangement with the Open University which means he can speak on my behalf. It's annoying and I don't know why I'm so bad with phones. I'm okay with family and some of my friends - I have a caller display on my phone, and if it's not someone I'll be fluent with, I just leave it to the answering machine. Technology is kind of on my side - most official things can be dealt with through email; some friends prefer a text to a phone call, but if the phone rings at work, it's no good looking at me to answer it. Or Ms Titian, because she's fairly deaf and wears hearing aids. Once, dire circumstances left us both in charge of the school office, and we were next to useless. All the forms got filled in, and money got counted, but phones? Nah!

So, no prison job. Which is kind of okay, especially as The Husband's friend, who is a warden at said prison, saw his partner beaten up last week by someone who was fuelled up on drugs. The worst I've ever had is a chair thrown at me by one of our past Year 6 students, so maybe I'm better where I am... I have got rid of my library duties, though. For a job that needed two or three hours a week timetabled for it, I was given no time at all, and the piles of unfinished jobs and the feelings of guilt were getting to me. I couldn't manage much overtime to get things done. Actually, that's a lie. I could have managed it, but if this year has taught me anything, it's 'make the most of the time you have with your family.' Sadly, I've also learned some lessons about my friends. When I said I was going to give up the library, most said, 'Good idea - that'll be one less thing to stress about,' but two friends stopped talking to me. When I asked them if they'd be interested in taking it on, they refused to discuss it and I caught the exchange of, 'See, I told you...' looks between them. I think they believed I was giving up something I used to love in a fit of pique. Thankfully, The Boss Lady was on my side and relieved me of the burden immediately. 

Things are getting better at work, I have to admit. Yesterday, I was given a regular Friday afternoon slot in my favourite class. They have a new teacher who I get on really well with, and have known vaguely for years and years, as he's the father of my son's best friend. He's a great person to be sarcastic and irreverent with, so that's a big plus. We also have a new teaching assistant who is an old friend, and that I had forgotten that I loved so much, so things are on the up. I have taken a leaf out of another colleague's book, and have started saying what I think a bit more. Agreeing with people and doing everything I was asked to just got me walked over, I found. 

Anyway, enough complaining. I should be writing a script for my next assignment, but it's not due until January 5th, so I'm thinking I can leave it until the school Christmas holidays and get it done then. Deluded? Maybe. I'm still waiting to hear from Roehampton University about whether I've been accepted on their Masters course. Apparently, when they said I'd hear within the week (3 weeks ago), I'd been sent the wrong automated email. I should hear within 6 weeks. Meanwhile, I've got some reading to catch up on. I've just bought the second in a series by Terry Goodkind - all magic and ridiculousness, but very enjoyable. The new book is 1027 pages long (rubs hands in gleeful anticipation). Unfortunately, I've forgotten what happened in the first book, so I've got to go back and read that again first. And there are 17 books in the series, so this could take some time, and a lot of bookshelf space. 

Better get the coffee on... 

He who would cross the Bridge of Death...

We have a field at the back of our house, separated from our garden by a stream. The field seems to be the stamping ground for every neighbourhood cat. Almost every house along our row has a plank going from their garden to the field but, typically, the right cats never use the right bridges. There was obviously some cat function going on this morning. From my kitchen window, I could see five of them, secretly watching each other, then doing that slow walk which they think makes them invisible to other cats. Then one cat sat on the end of our bridge. Panic and confusion all round, as they all suddenly wanted to cross the bridge, but without getting beaten-up. I imagined a kind of cat Holy Grail situation: 'Tell me, young Scroggins, what is the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow?' 

Our biggest cat, Merlin, has recently started bringing home young rabbits from the field. The first one was alive; he was carrying it like a kitten and it hung from his jaws without protest until we persuaded Merlin to let it go. But the next two didn't fare so well. He brought them both home and dumped them by the back door. There's nothing that puts you off your breakfast as much as a cat ripping the innards out of a rabbit, I can tell you. 

A cat we had a few years ago used to be an expert rat-catcher. When my daughter was ill and drowsing on our sofa-bad, the cat came in and gently laid a dead rat next to her pillow. He really didn't understand the commotion it caused. Such a generous act, so cruelly scorned....

Looking for a picture for this post, I found the one above, which reminded me of when we moved a cupboard from our kitchen (someone had given us a big bookshelf, and no-one argues with me over bookshelves...). We recovered numerous biros, bits of screwed-up foil, pilfered Halloween sweets, a highlighter we'd been looking for for ages, a felt mouse and a pad of post-its. One Christmas, I'd been given some bits and pieces by the school-children, and I decided to save a Lindt chocolate teddy for the next day. When I came downstairs in the morning, it was lying on the floor with cat teeth-marks in it. Merlin didn't like chocolate, it was just sitting there and had to be destroyed. My fault for leaving it in the open, I know, but... grrrrrrr!

(This post was meant to be about honesty, but that'll have to wait for another day. Yet again, the cats have taken over something that was not meant to be theirs.)

Putting Christmas away and discovering some family history

I have an impatience, as soon as we hit the new year, to de-Christmasify everything, so the tree is down and the cards are off the shelves. Decorations have been returned to the loft, where I spent a pleasant hour playing 'What's in that box?' I found out that The Husband has been hoarding every lead from every defunct electrical device we've ever owned, and that I really need to say no when my mother offers me another pair of curtains. I did find useful things, too. Although, when I say 'useful', I mean things that will clutter up the house until I put them back in the loft next month. I found two cat beds, which I have brought down in the hope that the cats will prefer them to our sofas. Slim chance, I know. Both cats are, at the moment, spread across the top of Son Number One's radiator, toasting themselves.

More interesting than cat beds, I found an album of postcards that was packed up with a load of children's picture books for some reason. They are written in German and, fittingly, send Christmas and New Year wishes. The first is dated 1st January 1919, and had been sent to Birmingham from Zurich. Others were sent to Lille. From the names on the back, they were sent to my paternal Grandmother from her family in Switzerland. I need to find out more about my family history, but this is what my father's cousin has to say about my Grandmother's parents:

'Joseph was captured in Oct 1914 at the first battle of Ypres, 3 weeks after landing in France. He was Royal Welsh Fusilier 1st Battalion, attached to 22nd Brigade 7th division. He escaped, swam Lake Constance, met Marthe Buser whilst interned in Meiringan and married in the Anglican Church in Lausanne and possibly Bern, on release in Aug 1918, they stayed at Croix d'Ouchy Hotel in Lausanne. 

Marthe was born in Sainte Croix a small village north of Lausanne. Marthe was actually working at St John Moore Barracks, Shorncliffe in Folkestone in 1911 before the war.

Marie (seated, and Marthe’s mother) was born in 1862 in St Gallen.'

This is my Grandmother, also called Marthe, (bottom left) 

with her sister, father and step-mother. 

I really must learn more about my Grandmother's history - I think it was a pretty interesting one. I know my father said she'd caught one of the last trains out of France at the beginning of the war. Apparently a stranger asked her to carry some papers out of the country and deliver them to someone in London. Goodness knows what she was responsible for...

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. 

Here we go again...

Well, that's it - the holidays are over and it's time for school again tomorrow. It was staff training today, and I promise you that I didn't touch the chocolate tin in the staff room. Mainly because there were only toffees left, and I'm far too scared of my dentist to risk losing a filling. 

The Christmas decorations have all come down, thankfully. I can't wait to get rid of them after the event is over. I'd be quite happy to pack everything away on Boxing Day, but my husband won't let me. He's only just taken down the embarrassing lights from around the roof.

I'm just realising what a killjoy I'm seeming. So far on this blog, I've admitted that I only party under pressure, refuse to wear my pyjamas to school (Children in Need day) and want to pack away the tinsel at the first opportunity. I'm not a miserable cow, honestly. I can quote a Christmas picture from the class that says I'm nice and 'mack school fun'. Yes, I know, that was the picture I nearly confiscated when I saw it being passed around the classroom...Bearing that in mind, have I made any pertinent New Year's resolutions? Um...no.

 

(Photo: lolsnaps.com)

I don't think I've ever made a New Year's resolution. Which at least means I've never broken one, either. So, what could I do? I don't smoke... so I could always start. No, seriously, I have no bad habits I want to break. Drinking red wine is good for your heart once you're over a certain age, I hear. I'm not at that certain age yet, but I will be one day, so I'm getting in lots of practice (or even practise...Where's a grammar Nazi when you need one?). I tend to leave things to the last minute, as you know, but my friend tells me that working to a tight deadline crystallizes your thinking, and I'm all for that. What else? Eat healthily? Nahhhhh. 

Maybe I could stop moaning about things. I do tend to whinge: 'Brownies tonight? Ohhhhh, I really don't want to go. Why did I agree to do Brownies?' And then I go, and the girls are great and make me laugh, and I like to think I help them have a good time. 'Lunchtime philosophy club? Ohhhhh, I wish I'd never mentioned it.' And then I go, and the children amaze me and remind me how great they are, and maybe a few minds have been opened a bit. 'Start of term? Ohhhhh, the holidays were too short, I don't feel like school again.' And then I go, and remember that 99% of the children are wonderful and I've missed them an awful lot. And even the horrible ones are lovely for a few days. 

Oh, all right then. I'll stop moaning. And I really don't have anything to moan about. Not really. I love my job, and the children are brilliant, and I miss them when it's the holidays. I'm also enjoying Open University, even though I moan about that, as well. Two assignments have been handed in during these holidays, I'll have you know...and I never want to read children's poetry again. No, shut up, I liked them really. My family are brilliant, I've got nothing to moan about there, and I don't think my children hate me too much. My husband puts up with an awful lot: 'Do you mind if I enrol on another OU course for September? What? Oh, yes, it is the same price as the last one. Sorry. And I'll need a big pile of books, too...' I just hope he's not making a resolution to curb my book-buying, as I've decided to study 20th Century Literature next. 'Yes, I will need a brand new copy of "Rebecca", dear husband. I know I've already got two, but all the pages are falling out...' I hope it won't mean divorce, as I've got quite fond of him over the past 22 years, but books, come on, that's important...

Washing the car, and other pointless exercises

It's raining, it's cold, it's Christmas Eve, and my husband is considering washing the car. This must be a man-thing, surely? I have never driven around on a Sunday morning and seen hoards of women cleaning their cars, and yet, there are the men, with buckets, cloths and bottles of Turtle Wax, cleaning an already clean car. 

(Photo: Halfords)

Why???

Is it just me, or is it a totally pointless thing to do? I know my lovely Dad would say it stops the car going rusty (by adding water, how does that work?), and I expect he's right somehow, but I live in the middle of the countryside and know that, if I clean my car today, it'll be muddy again tomorrow. Surely, continual washing will just gradually wear away the paint, whereas a coating of grime will protect the car surface from the elements. My friend's daughter has little plants growing on the roof of her car, which, she argues, makes it more environmentally friendly. 

I have stickers of flowers all over my car, which I think distracts viewers from the dirt. They don't see a dirty car, they see sunflowers and bumble bees. My husband and Son Number One hate the flowers. Once, my husband pulled over to have a go at an inconsiderate motorist, but you don't have the same impact when you climb out of a car with pink and purple butterflies on the sides. I love my hippy car. One of the school children asked me if I had been shopping in a nearby town last week. 'Yes,' I said, 'did you see me?' 'No,' he replied, 'but I saw your car in the car park.' Which I thought was rather lovely. (If you feel an urge to Hippify your car, then go to the Hippy Motors website, which helps you to annoy angry motorists with your peaceful calmness and laid-back attitude to driving.)

Anyway, the husband has now decided against washing the car (sensible man) and is watching the football instead. He's taken some training, but he's getting there. He's now less likely to complain about my piles of Important Stuff and actually start one of his own. He accepts that I'd rather read a book than dust things, and if he wants a happy, relatively stress-free wife, then the housework will be done next week. Possibly.

So, it's Christmas tomorrow. Have a wonderful day. Or a great Yuletide, or whatever it is you celebrate. Wishing you, and those you love, a great holiday. Much love. xx

P.S.

She made it home. A 10 hour journey by train and bus, carrying a suitcase the size of a small house. Christmas may now begin...

I saw three trains go sailing by...

The daughter is on her way here for Christmas. She left Cornwall in the early hours, and made it as far as Plymouth before the landscape disappeared under water. Trains were cancelled, replacement buses reversed into things, and slowly, slowly, she makes her way here through the rain. 

(Photo: BBC)
Cornwall

And school has finished for the year. Do I cheer, or quietly sob with relief? I was given lots of wine, so soon I'll no longer care. (Have no fear, Dear Daughter, I will leave you a bottle or three...)

We finished the term with a walk to the village church, for our Christmas service. The vicar sees himself as a deeply funny, Bruce Forsyth type character, starting sermons with, 'Nice to see you, to see you...' to which the children just sit silently, staring at him, no doubt thinking he's a complete plonker. Which he is. Sitting in the choir stalls, the oldest juniors, the class teacher and I could hear nothing of the sermon, so we passed the time by picking out the various carved animals in the church. The boys I sat next to kept muttering things to me out of the corners of their mouths. It sounded like Humphrey Bogart telling me about phoenixes and griffins. We even found an elephant. 

On the way back to school, supposedly full of Christian spirit, one girl asked me about the likelihood of her being reincarnated as a fish. I do love working with the older juniors. They're so strange. Actually, I'm thinking of using that conversation in my next creative writing assignment. The short story has been sent (scarlet fever, made as twee-less as possible) and next up is poetry. I'm aiming more for a Michael Rosen feel, rather than Wordsworth. Poetry is also the subject of my children's literature assignment, so I'm hoping they'll help each other on the way to some amazing marks (gives hollow laugh).

And now I must go - there are chocolates to be eaten and facebook updates of the Daughter's progress across the country to be read. If I don't write before, have a wonderful Christmas, and thank you so much for reading this rubbish. 

School Christmas Chaos

3 days left at school until the Christmas holidays. It's hard to work with those who are on a continual high (and I'm talking about the staff here). Last night was the annual 'do' at a local pub. Every year, people have a few drinks and get creative. Hacked-off waitresses are left to deal with nativity scenes made of ripped up crackers and drinking straws. One of the TAs does her famous napkin trick (I'm not going into details - the blog gets blocked by Google if I add adult content), and sly photos get taken which are hastily deleted from Facebook.

This lunchtime, it was the children's turn. They sat in the school hall while staff and governors served them their Christmas dinners. It was noisy. Some clever person had bought crackers with whistles inside. Well, that won't happen again - lesson learnt there...So we served them turkey, sausages and veg followed by ice cream. After gravy was spilt, roast potatoes shot across tables, and children stole each others ice cream, we scraped all the veg in the bin and sent the children out for an extra long break-time.

You can guess that our school Christmas tree

 looks nothing like this...

Next was my favourite bit - carols around the Christmas tree. We did the tear-jerkers like Away in a Manger, and Little Donkey. We did the irritatingly happy-clappy ones like Mary Had a Baby. Ms Fab had secretly taught the year 5's and 6's extra words to Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer, which looks set to become a new school tradition. Then it was The 12 days of Christmas, which we make ultra complicated by making the girls and boys sing different bits, that they have to stand up and sit down to. The children are brilliant - it's the adults who are rubbish and get dreadfully mixed up. To finish, and to wind the children up nicely before we sent them out to their parents, we did Jingle Bells, with added jingle and shouty bits. 

Over the next couple of days there are class Christmas parties, where the children will 'play games' (argue over who won at Pass the Parcel) and eat (until they're sick). The standard of party dress depends on which class you go in. Reception children are in jeans (boys) and princess dresses (hopefully just the girls). Infants are in jeans (boys) and leggings with Christmas jumpers (girls). Juniors are in jeans (boys and some girls) or tiny skirts (the rest, who get very cold at break-times).

And then we have Friday, when the children get another long dinner-break so the staff can do their 'Secret Santa'. We have to sit in the staff room and, one by one, open our pressies. 'Oh, that's lovely!' we hopefully get to say. I'll let you know if mine is lovely, or if I get another weird hat-thing. Gulp.

A woman's prerogative and all that...

I've changed the name of the blog. Sorry to be a pain, but the old one ('I've changed my mind, can I have my money back?') didn't seem to be relevant to what I'm writing about any more. I do still change my mind a lot, that's not any different, and I do feel sorry for my poor husband having to put up with it all, but the blog seems to have veered into school/Open Uni territory more. By the way, anyone want to buy a treadmill?

I have to admit that, when I was typing out the title to this post, I had to look up the spelling of 'prerogative', and it's just as well I did, as I actually thought it was 'per-rogative'. I've been saying it wrong for the past forty-mumble years. (Time for embarrassed wince.) I know I'm not the only one who does such things, thankfully. When my cousin was little, she couldn't say 'anemone'. (Actually, I'm on my second glass of wine, so I'm having the same problem.) Anyway, to stop her tying her tongue in knots, someone told her they were called Ernies. She was well into her thirties before someone asked her what the hell she was talking about. My husband drives me mad by saying 'pacific' instead of 'specific'. The whole family nag him about it, so I have a suspicion he now does it on purpose. 

Sea Ernies

School-wise, the plays are coming to an end, and infant staff have stopped walking around with that forced, 'I'm fine, just don't ask about angel costumes' look to them. Last minute panics over sheep with snotty colds and why baby Jesus had been left in the PE cupboard have been sorted, and staff are piling into the chocolates that wonderful, understanding parents have left in the staff room. (Mrs Howard, I love you.)

Creative writing-wise, I'm back with the Scarlet Fever outbreak, as I couldn't think of an ending for my bookshop story. I got so fed up with it, I childishly typed: 'Then it burnt down and they all died. The end.' I hated my characters so much, I wanted to send a murderer in there to hack them to pieces, but I only had 2200 words, and I'd have needed that for the way the blood spattered up the wall in interesting arcs. I must make sure I send the correct copy as my assignment, or I may score about 9%.

On failed cooking and being horrible to little children...

I think son-number-one's cooking days are at an end. He found a recipe for chocolate brownies that you make in a mug, and the first couple were okay as he was supervised by the girlfriend. Left to his own devices last night, he decided that one measuring spoon was more or less the same size as another and the result nearly set the microwave on fire. The entire house still smells of burnt chocolate. I think he's now realised that cooking really is a waste of time; something I could have told him years ago. 

The Christmas card deliveries have started at school. I have six cards so far and five variations of my surname, but am glad to be appreciated by the children. 

Children of all ages are getting higher every day that we get closer to Christmas, and by the end of next week will be bouncing off the walls. The teaching assistant in the infant class is desperate for valium and hoping that the more fidgety children will be ill on Monday, as it's the Nativity play. I've been told there is one well-behaved Wise Man, but the other two are driving her to distraction. 

I have to admit to being unusually grumpy this afternoon, and berated two 10 year olds for sneakily drawing during lessons and then wandering around with bits of paper. After listening to my short-tempered rant, they quietly told me they'd been making me a surprise Christmas picture. One very sheepish apology later, they handed over a rather lovely drawing of me looking all smiley. No doubt they wanted to snatch it back and rip it to pieces, but, to their credit, they forgave me. 

Now I must go and start writing those 90-something Christmas cards. I even bought some coloured pens specially for the job. I do love all the children really you see...shush...don't tell them...

Oh, the irony...

I read a great blog yesterday, by Katherine Preston. She'd written a bit about irony, and how it's not the dreadful thing that's painted in this article from the New York Times. I completely agree. You may have noticed that I would not get through the day without a heavy dose of irony. People who take themselves too seriously are not attractive, no matter what they look like. Everyone needs a sense of humour. Working with certain children, I would go mad if I couldn't turn being told to get f***ed  into a joke: "Ok, but do you mind if I finish the lesson first?" makes them look the idiots, not me. 

I did make an idiot of myself yesterday, through trying to do a good deed for Mr Chaos (last time I do that, matey....). Most of the staff stayed late after school to put up Christmas decorations in the corridor and classrooms. Mr Chaos had a set of lights for his classroom tree, and, because there were some bulbs missing, we weren't sure if they'd work. He plugged them in. "Are they working?" he asked. "Yes," I answered, then they went out. "Oh, no, they've stopped...they're back on...oh, hang on..." Ok, so no-one told me they were flashing lights, but now all of facebook knows. Cheers for that...

So now the school is all Christmassy. The post-box is ready outside our classroom for those hundreds of cards being sent in the next couple of weeks. It doesn't matter how many letters of instruction we send home, we'll still get lots of cards that just say "To Joshua," or "To Chloe," on the front, and we'll have to work out which of the several dozen people it's meant for. I will have many interesting variations of my name, no doubt, not helped by the fact that another teaching assistant has a very similar name. We've often taken home each other's cards and had to bring them back the next day, "This must be yours, it says 'Thanks for being lovely,' and I know I haven't been, not to this child..."

And...relax...(until next time).

The assignment has been sent! Cue sigh of relief and Chinese take-away. I was thinking I could give myself some time off, but have just realised I have two new assignments due in early January; one is on children's poetry, and the other is the story that I've not actually done any planning for yet. But before all of that, I really need to read a crappy book. My brain has been frozen by intellectual worthy-ness, and I need to thaw it out with some rubbish. I'm thinking Bridget Jones, or something similar. And then I'll see a mindless but watchable film - School of Rock? When my brain is sufficiently mushy, I'll get back to the studying. 

As for school - it's that time of year again. If someone tells me, yet again, how many sleeps until Christmas, they may not live to see it. We have the infants practising their play, which, admittedly is quite fun, especially when you have to play 'guess the animal' with the children in the front row. A monkey in the stable?? Oh, it's a cow, I see...You always have the child whose mum is a great dressmaker, and who puts everyone else to shame; two shepherds in Power Ranger dressing-gowns, plus one with a tunic, beard, and sandals, complete with lamb.

I must get some Christmas cards. We have a school post-box under the Christmas tree in the hall, and I have to try to remember all the children in the classes I work in. My surname is not an obvious one to spell, and I get many interesting variations, some of which I can't work out what sounding-out method got them there. The cards with additional messages like, 'You're cool,' or 'Thanks for being amazing,' I put in prime position at home. 'See,' I tell my family, 'someone thinks I'm great...'

And I really, really must start buying presents. My husband has hinted that he wants a printer. I can't get my head around presents like that. I want something for me, that I don't have to share with anyone, and that isn't practical. Or books. My friend's husband bought her a hoover once. He lived to tell the tale, but only just. I need to cut out lots of pictures of present ideas and stick them to various surfaces around the house. I'll prime the children, too. 'Ok, you need to say "I overheard Mum saying she's really short of £500 Waterstones vouchers," got that?'

Perks of the season.

Lots of people are complaining about the cold weather, but I love this time of year. I like coming in from work, closing the curtains and shutting the world out. My cotton skirts can stay in the ironing pile for another few months, and I can dig out the cosy jumpers from the back of the wardrobe. All of those thick layers do wonders for hiding my waistline, so bring on the biscuits! Actually, an extra layer of insulation helps during those freezing break times on the playground, so I'll have a hot chocolate too, thank you. There's a nice amount of rubbish on the tv, so I can waste the time I should be studying by watching 'I'm a Celebrity,' or 'Strictly Come Dancing.' So sad, I know...

Oh, if I must...

And then there's Christmas shopping to be done. Well, thought about, anyway. We picked our 'Secret Santas' today. Everyone's name is put in a bag, and whoever's you pick out, you buy a present for. On my first go, I picked my own name, but very stupidly put it back. I could have bought something amazing, costing a vast amount of money, and made myself look valued and well-loved. Instead, I was pathetically honest and picked again; I can kind of imagine a present for this person, so I got off lightly. At least I didn't get one of the male teachers. Buying presents for men is a nightmare, in my opinion. Even choosing something for my husband is difficult. I'm sure he unwraps presents from me with a resigned sigh. The person I can always find something for is me. I wander round town with a budget and I return with a book (for me), some make up (me), a nice scarf (you've guessed it) and a pair of earrings (yes, yes...). I'm sure my husband gets suspicious at how presents bought doesn't equal presents given, but he'd never complain because he hates Christmas shopping and wouldn't want to be landed with it all himself. I just see it as a shopping bonus. 

I hear that it snowed in Somerset recently. We need some snow here - piles of it, so the playing field can be covered in snowmen, igloos and giant snowballs that don't melt until March. Bring it on...