Following 'The F**k it Way'

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

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

Frustration

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

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

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

I just can't Lego of anything...

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

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


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

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

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

Lost for words

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

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

I can't stand Dr Seuss, but this 

turned out to be true.

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

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

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

Productive procrastination

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

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

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

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

Going Dewey eyed

School is a great place when there are no children around. Today was a staff training day (the children broke up for the Easter holidays yesterday) and we spent the whole day sorting out the library. Old books were given to charity, and new books were organised by author or subject. But first, bookshelves had to be moved. One teacher took over and directed others as to where shelves should be put. She then changed her mind a couple of times, finally deciding they were best out where they'd started. Another teacher and I suggested a different arrangement, to which everyone else disagreed. After trying it out, we argued our case for so long, everyone got bored and wandered off, so we won and the arrangement stayed. It was later pointed out that one shelf was in an ideal place for leaning on, in which case it would fall over and there'd probably be a flat child incident. Obviously, if that should happen, the other victor and I will blame the arrangement on someone else. 

Being one of the few who knew the whereabouts of the stickers for our distantly-related-to-the-Dewey-system system, I was given the job of labelling the non-fiction books. I often mess up important jobs, so I grabbed Ms Fab on the way to the library, thinking we could mess it up together. It took about four and a half hours and I think most books are in the right place. We didn't get too sidetracked, although we found out there's a Dewey number for books on human hair, and we had to make up categories for one or two books. 

Coming home with armfuls of stuff that was going to be thrown out, I looked at my overflowing bookshelves and longed to get them into some sort of order. I can't work out how to do it though, as they're all stacked up sideways and there are two teetering piles on the floor. Mr Chaos, after confirming that I was being sad and obsessive, has restricted me to six categories: read, unread and half-finished in fiction and non-fiction. At the moment, I have an eclectic mix. Philosophy and religion dominate the non-fiction, followed by myths, children's picture books and 'the rest'. I can't mix hardbacks and paperbacks as my shelves are different sizes, and then there're my study books, which are a mixture of fiction and fact. 

I think I'm just going to have to make Son Number One homeless and take over his room. 

Writing through fog

Please excuse me if I write rubbish today. The school children didn't think it enough to share the latest sick bug with me, they kindly gave me a cold as well, bless their hearts. The Boss Lady was very understanding, ordering me off work until Monday and, no doubt, adding me to the ever-lengthening list of names under a sad face on the office notice-board, which warns staff of who has the latest lurgy. The icky bit over, I'm now just getting through boxes of tissues and pathetically trailing after everyone in the house, because I'm bored. My head's too foggy to study, although I may have a crack at the creative writing later. 

I have to do life writing, so it'll really just be like an extra long blog entry. I was going to write about the month I spent in hospital a few years ago, after my appendix decided to perforate in a spectacular fashion. I only have 1500 words, so will do snapshots of times I remember with affection, such as when I had a reaction to morphine and thought the curtains around my bed had come to life. Or when I saw an air bubble travelling slowly down the tube of my drip and thought I was going to die, but didn't want to bother the nurses. Did you know that coloured photos taken of your insides when they are full of poison are incredibly beautiful and look like something from space? I got shown lots of pictures by doctors who were amazed that I was interested. I wish I'd asked to keep one (a picture that is, not a doctor. Although...). I could have framed it. 'Is that a supernova?' someone would have asked. 'No, that's just me,' I would have replied, modestly.

Do I need to do my creative writing? I could just copy and paste a couple of blog entries. Although someone did actually ask if they could do that, and were told they'd be plagiarising themselves. You have to be careful with that - you never know when you might accidentally sue yourself for writing the same thing twice. 

I have been good, and registered for my next Open University course. I decided I would go for the English Language one, and ignore all the reviews which said, 'Avoid like the plague,' or, 'I hated this course - the worst ever.' I think it sounds interesting. Let's just hope I feel the same way when the course actually starts. 

Non uniform = non work

I read that this year's Red Nose Day has raised £75 million and counting. Thankfully, our school was one that decided to join in with the fun (Son Number Two's high school thought it was a bit beneath them, sadly.) So I donned a red dress, ditched it as I remembered I was on playground duty and an Arctic wind was blowing, and found a rather creased red t-shirt to go with black jeans. I then had to raid the 'change pot' in the kitchen for money, as I was skint. I never seem to have more than a couple of pounds on me, and when the collection envelopes do the rounds at work I have to ask for loans from my children.

The school children were sky-high all day. Non-uniform affects them like that, for some reason. Obviously royal blue sweatshirts have some sort of soporific quality to them. A minuscule amount of work got done in the morning, but the afternoon was given over to what was loosely titled a 'talent show'.  We had acts from every class, including two teachers who are game for anything. If you ever need a violin-playing unicyclist, you know where to come. Mr Chaos showed us what real talent is with his singing, and then we had half an hour until home-time. I suppose we could have fitted a tiny bit of work in...but we didn't. After stuffing ourselves with cupcakes provided by a thoughtful student, it was time to get ready for the weekend. 

Hope you have a good one.

Manners maketh man (and woman)

So sorry - it's been a while since I last posted on here. I've just finished another children's literature assignment, and managed not to procrastinate too much this time. I'm getting pretty close to finishing my present courses: just three normal assignments and two big finales to go. That'll give me another 120 credits towards the degree. 120 more, then it's freedom! Two years until I can read whatever I want to, until I have my evenings and weekends back, and I turn back into a proper family member once more. 

Now, I know this blog is in danger of turning into a non-stop moan, but I read one of those narrow-minded facebook comments today. Not the 'I hate foreigners' one, or the 'men are idiots' one, although they do the usual rounds and I get the urge to delete the 'friends' who order me to share these bigoted statements. No, the one that wound me up today (sorry, I really must stop complaining. I do enjoy it so much, though...) was one that complained about young people all being 'bad-mannered, tattooed morons'. I dislike huge, sweeping statements as they're usually tailored to suit the speaker's prejudices, but being the owner, sorry, mother of three young people, this one particularly irked. Ok, so there are plenty of bad-mannered tattooed morons out there, but they are not, in any way, all 'young people'. And it doesn't figure that all three terms should go together anyway. 

Firstly, tattoo doesn't equal bad, and I'm not just saying that because I am illustrated myself. Most tattoos have a story behind them and are not as shallow as some people like to think. I have one which is a triple moon for my religion, one with the initials of my children and husband, wrapped in ivy (Victorian language of flowers, meaning the love you have for your family, I'll have you know) and a bracelet of forget-me-knots, partly in homage to my grandmother. I have been judged by my tattoos, although they are small and unobtrusive, by people who have also commented '...and they'll look awful when you're 90 with wrinkly skin.' To be honest, if I reach the age of 90, I think I'll have more worries than the state of my skin. So in my opinion, the tattooed moron can have what ever they like - it's a good conversation starter...

Next point - bad manners. Not exclusive to 'young people'. When I was a sales assistant in a book shop, many moons ago, most of the bad manners actually came from pensioners, who thought their age and experience meant they could talk to an 18 year old however they wished. The rudest person I have ever known may be younger than me, but is past the age of being a 'yoof'. She likes to do that 'talk to the hand' thing, so is nearing the age of being severely battered. 

Next time she does it, I'll draw a smiley face on her hand 

with an indelible marker pen. She'll love that...

To the haters on facebook: is it really so hard to try to like people? Ok, there are individuals out there that don't deserve the effort, but to paint all young people as being worthless says more about you than them, surely. I have several very ex students as facebook friends, and they're more likely to be posting angst-ridden statements about their lives (you just wait, it only gets worse...) than putting down other people. I have never seen a narrow-minded, prejudiced post from my teenage acquaintances but I've seen plenty from those who are my age. 

We had a great discussion at school last Friday on whether you can understand someone's point of view if they weren't the same religion as you. The consensus was: why are you even asking us this? How insulting and stupid. That evening, on facebook, an adult had posted a photo with a bigoted slogan that would have made those children shake their heads in disbelief. 

I know not all 'young people' are perfect, but I prefer them to an awful lot of adults at the moment...

Is my tutor on drugs?

Well I got my marks back for my 'poem'. 75 for the biggest pile of pretentious rubbish ever written. I was told I had included some good internal rhymes, which was very clever of me, as I have no idea what that means. My tutor gave me some examples, and it seems that several words had the sound 'er' repeated within them. I thought that was just how words worked. It wasn't done intentionally, but if it gave me extra marks then I'm all for it. 

After that little lift, the Husband, Son Number Two and I went into town and wandered. As usual, our wandering took us into Waterstones and we forced ourselves to drink coffee and eat cake. 

I found it very hard to sit still and be sociable as my chair was facing a sale table. I drank my bucket of coffee as quickly as possible, hoping the others would do the same, but the Husband leaves his coffee until it's almost cold. The sale table was calling, so I willed him to hurry up, and tried to resist the urge to 'accidentally' knock his cup over. The relief when he put his empty cup down so I could go and buy books was so overwhelming, it was worrying. Is it normal to get the jitters when restrained from book-buying? 

It's not as though I don't have anything to read at home. A colleague lent me a doorstop of a book on the French resistance earlier this week, I've just started the fourth in a series of weird books that belongs to Son Number Two, and I really should be writing an assignment on Peter Rabbit and Voices in the Park. So I shouldn't be buying more books or my essay's never going to get done. But I bought one anyway. It's called The Book of God, with a subheading: The Bible as a Novel, which is either going to be brilliant or irritate me hugely. I find religion fascinating. All religions. I have copies of the Ramayana, The Tibetan Book of the Dead and the Bhagavad Gita, as well as works on Tao, Zen Buddhism and various other ways of thinking or believing. I was given a lovely Bible that my Great-Grandfather used, and it has lots of tiny little pencil-scribbled notes in the margin. I even have a book by Richard Dawkins, which I bought to balance everything out a bit, but (despite being a Pagan, and believing in gods, not God) it made me so mad that I couldn't read it all. It's still on my shelf and maybe I'll read it when I need to be in a ferocious mood about something (like if the Mother in law decides to visit). 

I do feel the need to do that OU course I once mentioned on religion and controversy, so I emailed student support and they've made sure it'll be accessible to me. So once I've got linguistics out of the way, I'm up for a good argument on all things spiritual. 

Perhaps I should buy a few more books on the subject, just to make sure...