Is it a natural male/female divide? Or a mother/anyone else one? Or maybe it's just me.
I'm untidy. By inclination and by choice, I live in more-or-less chaos. I'd find it quite unsettling to have everything in exactly its proper place, every cushion plumped and each surface clear.
On the other hand, I have a inbuilt clutterometer that starts to sound an alarm when a certain degree of overload is reached. For example, let's say that a member if the family is doing some paperwork. I think that it's entirely reasonable to leave it out to finish the next day, even if it spreads all over the table and seeps onto the floor. A half-done jigsaw or Lego edifice was treated with similar tolerance when my children were younger. However, if it's still there weeks later, untouched, gathering dust, it's going to get cleared away - by its owner if he's there or by me if it's in my way. Naturally, if I do the clearing, however festooned it had become with grimy cobwebs, that would be the day it would be required and lamentations would assuredly follow.
Whatever housework is done around here is normally done by me. When my children lived at home they and the Sage helped, but nowadays if I don't do it it isn't likely to get done at all. The exception is the dishwasher, which is filled or emptied by whoever is around, and recently, as I've been busy, the Sage has emptied it most often.
Today, I fetched a glass and cut open a couple of oranges. "Would you like some orange juice?" I asked Ro. He said yes please, so I squeezed the juice, poured it into the glass and gave it to him. The Sage didn't want any juice, but he was by the cupboard. "Would you get me another glass, please?" He took out a pint tumbler. "Sorry, there aren't any smaller glasses."
Now, I'm not a fussy person, but that was all wrong. I couldn't put the juice of two oranges into a pint pot. I couldn't (at an appropriate time of day) have drunk wine out of it, either. I went to the cupboard, reached (no need to move them) behind the pint glasses and took out a wine glass.
To return to my question at the start. Is it a male thing or what? First, why could he not see that there were smaller glasses behind the big one? Second, and I have explained this now, when I put glasses away, I automatically group them. A front-to-back row of similar type. I am emphatically untidy, disorganised, casual, but this seems normal to me.
The Sage was impressed by my reasoning and has assured me he will follow my example in future. But I've always done it and quietly tidied up after him, for to mention it except when the moment presents itself as it did today, would be the action of a bore and a nag. And in nearly 34 years, he had never noticed.
Why?
Thursday, 15 February 2007
Wednesday, 14 February 2007
The Small Day
I'm at a loss to make today sound interesting.
I'd planned to work all morning, but when Dilly rang up for advice, as a bird had fallen down the chimney in Squiffany's room and was trapped in the covered-up fireplace, I was quick to leave my desk and go to help. I played with the children while the Sage and Dilly released the starling from its prison.
Some time later, after tea and more play, I went back and did a bit of work. Haircut this afternoon, followed by a meeting with the Health and Safety inspector, who was relaxed and helpful.
And that's about it.
Two more items gave me pleasure. I have been happily browsing through the Aldeburgh Festival programme, deciding which concerts to go to. I'll be going on my own I expect, but in June, so at least it'll be light and summery (well, it was last June).
And I received a cheque from the Inland Revenue. £132.94. Champagne tonight, oh yes.
If you are waiting for news of Valentine Day events, bear in mind that every day here is filled with romance and such fluffiness does not wait for a special day.
I'd planned to work all morning, but when Dilly rang up for advice, as a bird had fallen down the chimney in Squiffany's room and was trapped in the covered-up fireplace, I was quick to leave my desk and go to help. I played with the children while the Sage and Dilly released the starling from its prison.
Some time later, after tea and more play, I went back and did a bit of work. Haircut this afternoon, followed by a meeting with the Health and Safety inspector, who was relaxed and helpful.
And that's about it.
Two more items gave me pleasure. I have been happily browsing through the Aldeburgh Festival programme, deciding which concerts to go to. I'll be going on my own I expect, but in June, so at least it'll be light and summery (well, it was last June).
And I received a cheque from the Inland Revenue. £132.94. Champagne tonight, oh yes.
If you are waiting for news of Valentine Day events, bear in mind that every day here is filled with romance and such fluffiness does not wait for a special day.
Tuesday, 13 February 2007
Z approaches the evening
I spent the afternoon and evening making marmalade. Three batches, twenty-one pots. I feel quite steamy, yet tired. What a pity I don't like early nights. The thought of a lazy hour or two reading in bed sounds so good, yet never works for me. Lying uncomfortably on one side, one eye closed to keep the book in focus, or else on my back, bearing the weight of a hefty hardback in my chilly fingers - neither quite works.
Nor does going to sleep. Two hours early to bed means nervous wakefulness by 3 am. Too early to get up, but sufficiently rested to be unable to doze off again until a glance at the clock tells me it is not absurdly early to start the day. That sends me off all right. Into a heavy and dreamless slumber, until woken by Radio 4 into bleariness that lasts the whole morning.
No. I will rouse myself and enter into bright and witty conversation with my husband. Heh heh. Poor man. He's probably just winding down for the evening. He hasn't a chance...
Nor does going to sleep. Two hours early to bed means nervous wakefulness by 3 am. Too early to get up, but sufficiently rested to be unable to doze off again until a glance at the clock tells me it is not absurdly early to start the day. That sends me off all right. Into a heavy and dreamless slumber, until woken by Radio 4 into bleariness that lasts the whole morning.
No. I will rouse myself and enter into bright and witty conversation with my husband. Heh heh. Poor man. He's probably just winding down for the evening. He hasn't a chance...
Up with Skool Part 2
Comments from yesterday's post - "15 minute lessons? How can children learn anything if they have to stop every fifteen minutes? And how's that going to prepare them for the real world out there?"
I also think that less able pupils will be equally less able to understand interest rates as they are to understand integration and differentiation. Though I guess it will be harder for them to argue that they don't see the point of it in the former case.
I'll start by saying that I saw a half-hour presentation which précised a considerable amount of preliminary work which, at this stage, is a possible way for this school to go forward. The specific ideas he had for the planning process, which are clever and, I believe, potentially very usable, are his intellectual property and I was told them in confidence at this stage. The newspaper article I linked to yesterday is on a similar theme, but was written by a journalist not an educationalist and I haven't received specific information about what the DfES* is actually planning. However, I'll explain a bit more from what I do know and can say.
Short lessons would not and should not be given in every subject but there are some things that could be taught, not necessarily by a specialist teacher, in short bursts. And not every 15 minutes, maybe one 15 minute lesson slipped in during the day, either as a brief reminder of a longer lesson the day before or as a quick stimulating introduction to a minority subject. For example (and this is only my example, not one being actually suggested), B@dgerd@ddy said that there is a petition going the rounds to have sign language taught in every school. Now, that would be inappropriate, I think, to have on the National Curriculum, but how about 15 minutes once or twice a week for half a term, with the option of following it up if you are interested? Or, for a group of pupils who have difficulty in reading, a 15 minute reading aloud session? Maybe in pairs, taking it in turns to read to each other. Perhaps the teacher spending a few minutes reading a chapter of a really eye-opening book that is beyond the pupils' capabilities to read but not their ability to understand? It will not, of course, be possible for a whole school to keep shifting round to different rooms every few minutes, but focusing on that and ridiculing it risks ignoring real potential in an idea.
I didn't suggest teaching the minutiae of interest rates (and it was, again, my example, not the school's), the whole principle of how you can end up paying for something over and over again, which people can't understand or they wouldn't do it. How the 'easier' the payment, the longer you will keep paying it.
There is an article in todays E@stern Da1ly Pre$$, which I would link to if I could but it seems that I'll have to subscribe to their website to do so (silly buggers), saying that teenagers are building up worrying levels of debt. People in their first jobs are being granted loans from banks that would entail them paying back more than their monthly salary each month. "Most young people do not budget ... and have no idea ...good financial habits are not something that are talked about at school" said the spokesman from the C1t1zens' Adv1ce Bure@u debtl1ne (I do hope these annoying twiddles keep Google away from me here, does anyone know?).
Just because someone is not an academic high flier does not mean that he or she is not capable of learning to run their own life and understanding practicalities. But they need to be taught them. When I was young, I would not have been able to borrow more money than I could pay back. The first thing this government did was to charge fees to university students, while simultaneously taking away their grants, which caused much of the problem and is just one of the many crimes of a so-called 'Labour' administration which has spent the last ten years screwing the poor.
Dandelion also asked "What was wrong with the old education system anyway?"
Which old education system do you mean? The one when you were at school? When I was? The fact is that there are an awful lot of kids who spend 12 years in school and have nothing to show for it. If, instead of starting with a rigid curriculum to follow, you can start with a range of options that cater for the aptitude of each pupil and, as far as practicable, to tailor the education to the child. There is a good deal of it happening already, with the amount of vocational education going on. Pupils who are simply not going to get good marks in a wide range of GCSE subjects can focus on a few, and learn a trade at the same time, such as hairdressing, building or catering. They can take exams which give them GCSE-equivalent qualifications and take the core subjects too. Disaffected students can do work placements for part of the week; an 'alternative curriculum' that keeps them out of school some of the time, which can be, frankly, a benefit for everyone, but which is useful and does not simply lose them from education altogether.
And there is a lot wrong with education for more academically able children too. Back in the 1970s when comprehensive education was brought in, so much was thrown out as elitist and highbrow. The opportunity to broaden and enhance education for all children was wilfully thrown away in favour of 'dumbing down'. This hit poorer, disadvantaged but intelligent pupils and drove wealthier ones to the private and selective sector. I'm not meaning to be political here, but successive governments have each followed their own idealogical agenda in education rather than actually looked at the people - pupils and teachers - involved, and it is taking years to put right.
But it is getting better. There are possibilities and I'm hopeful about them. There are going to be blind alleys and daft ideas, but that's the way with something new. If all we look for are the things that can go wrong, we will not see the opportunities. I reiterate, the DfES must let go and trust the schools. Not dictate everything that goes on, not make it relate to league tables, let schools go the traditional way if it is working well and they do not want to have a shake-up forced upon them. Give their attention to the schools that are failing and struggling and let the others, such as mine (while we've got some bloody good staff with ideas, ideals and practical, pragmatic enthusiasm) have a go.
*Department for Education and Science
PS. I'll get back off the soapbox and back into the kitchen now. Time to make marmalade.
I also think that less able pupils will be equally less able to understand interest rates as they are to understand integration and differentiation. Though I guess it will be harder for them to argue that they don't see the point of it in the former case.
I'll start by saying that I saw a half-hour presentation which précised a considerable amount of preliminary work which, at this stage, is a possible way for this school to go forward. The specific ideas he had for the planning process, which are clever and, I believe, potentially very usable, are his intellectual property and I was told them in confidence at this stage. The newspaper article I linked to yesterday is on a similar theme, but was written by a journalist not an educationalist and I haven't received specific information about what the DfES* is actually planning. However, I'll explain a bit more from what I do know and can say.
Short lessons would not and should not be given in every subject but there are some things that could be taught, not necessarily by a specialist teacher, in short bursts. And not every 15 minutes, maybe one 15 minute lesson slipped in during the day, either as a brief reminder of a longer lesson the day before or as a quick stimulating introduction to a minority subject. For example (and this is only my example, not one being actually suggested), B@dgerd@ddy said that there is a petition going the rounds to have sign language taught in every school. Now, that would be inappropriate, I think, to have on the National Curriculum, but how about 15 minutes once or twice a week for half a term, with the option of following it up if you are interested? Or, for a group of pupils who have difficulty in reading, a 15 minute reading aloud session? Maybe in pairs, taking it in turns to read to each other. Perhaps the teacher spending a few minutes reading a chapter of a really eye-opening book that is beyond the pupils' capabilities to read but not their ability to understand? It will not, of course, be possible for a whole school to keep shifting round to different rooms every few minutes, but focusing on that and ridiculing it risks ignoring real potential in an idea.
I didn't suggest teaching the minutiae of interest rates (and it was, again, my example, not the school's), the whole principle of how you can end up paying for something over and over again, which people can't understand or they wouldn't do it. How the 'easier' the payment, the longer you will keep paying it.
There is an article in todays E@stern Da1ly Pre$$, which I would link to if I could but it seems that I'll have to subscribe to their website to do so (silly buggers), saying that teenagers are building up worrying levels of debt. People in their first jobs are being granted loans from banks that would entail them paying back more than their monthly salary each month. "Most young people do not budget ... and have no idea ...good financial habits are not something that are talked about at school" said the spokesman from the C1t1zens' Adv1ce Bure@u debtl1ne (I do hope these annoying twiddles keep Google away from me here, does anyone know?).
Just because someone is not an academic high flier does not mean that he or she is not capable of learning to run their own life and understanding practicalities. But they need to be taught them. When I was young, I would not have been able to borrow more money than I could pay back. The first thing this government did was to charge fees to university students, while simultaneously taking away their grants, which caused much of the problem and is just one of the many crimes of a so-called 'Labour' administration which has spent the last ten years screwing the poor.
Dandelion also asked "What was wrong with the old education system anyway?"
Which old education system do you mean? The one when you were at school? When I was? The fact is that there are an awful lot of kids who spend 12 years in school and have nothing to show for it. If, instead of starting with a rigid curriculum to follow, you can start with a range of options that cater for the aptitude of each pupil and, as far as practicable, to tailor the education to the child. There is a good deal of it happening already, with the amount of vocational education going on. Pupils who are simply not going to get good marks in a wide range of GCSE subjects can focus on a few, and learn a trade at the same time, such as hairdressing, building or catering. They can take exams which give them GCSE-equivalent qualifications and take the core subjects too. Disaffected students can do work placements for part of the week; an 'alternative curriculum' that keeps them out of school some of the time, which can be, frankly, a benefit for everyone, but which is useful and does not simply lose them from education altogether.
And there is a lot wrong with education for more academically able children too. Back in the 1970s when comprehensive education was brought in, so much was thrown out as elitist and highbrow. The opportunity to broaden and enhance education for all children was wilfully thrown away in favour of 'dumbing down'. This hit poorer, disadvantaged but intelligent pupils and drove wealthier ones to the private and selective sector. I'm not meaning to be political here, but successive governments have each followed their own idealogical agenda in education rather than actually looked at the people - pupils and teachers - involved, and it is taking years to put right.
But it is getting better. There are possibilities and I'm hopeful about them. There are going to be blind alleys and daft ideas, but that's the way with something new. If all we look for are the things that can go wrong, we will not see the opportunities. I reiterate, the DfES must let go and trust the schools. Not dictate everything that goes on, not make it relate to league tables, let schools go the traditional way if it is working well and they do not want to have a shake-up forced upon them. Give their attention to the schools that are failing and struggling and let the others, such as mine (while we've got some bloody good staff with ideas, ideals and practical, pragmatic enthusiasm) have a go.
*Department for Education and Science
PS. I'll get back off the soapbox and back into the kitchen now. Time to make marmalade.
Monday, 12 February 2007
Up with Skool
At a committee meeting a fortnight ago, we were treated to an explanation by one of the senior teachers of the preliminary planning he has been doing, regarding the way he would like the school curriculum to go in the future. It was fascinating, daunting and quite exciting (if you're the sort of person who gets excited by school curriculums. Or curricula. It seems that I am). He also told us about other educational changes likely to be in the pipeline; since the school is just coming through an entire reorganisation of its staffing structure - superbly planned and executed, I will say, it's working well - and S*ff*lk is likely to be going from a 3-tier system to a 2-tier one (changing schools at 11 rather than 9 and 13), I was, ultimately, more daunted than enthused, although it was quite a close contest.
But since then, I have become enthused again. However, HOWEVER, this all depends on how the government decides to play it.
You may have seen this in the papers last week. Skip through all the bumph about Mandarin, I have no idea where that is coming from so suddenly - the Times has given a 'teach yourself Mandarin CD' and is blathering on about it constantly. The last time they got this sort of bee in their bonnet, they pretended all their readers were writing in begging them to make the newspaper sodding tabloid so that they could make it an annoyingly titchy paper and lied IN THEIR TEETH saying that it was responding to reader pressure when it had never been mentioned before, so maybe it will be printed in Mandarin any day now and I will have to read another paper instead. Um, don't worry, I may digress but I never lose the thread, even if my listeners (or readers) are old and grey by the time I've finished - the key words (back to this article I've linked to) are 'give teachers more flexibility' and 'interest and enthuse their pupils'.
The preliminary plans he showed us were his own interpretation of a curriculum that would, ideally, cater for each pupil, whatever his or her aptitude or ability. His view is - and it is certainly one I share - that many pupils are completely turned off school in their teens, if not before. And I've said this for years - I don't blame the poor little buggers - if you are destined not to be one of life's academic achievers, you will spend many years at school feeling not good enough. Destined to fail. In your vulnerable teens, to be put in the bottom set of everything. Knowing that, however hard you tried, you would still be in the bottom set - how surprising is it that many of them play the fool or worse? How much better would it be to offer a curriculum that teaches you what you really need, whether it's understanding how interest rates can rip you off or working out the best get-out score in darts (and how many "underachievers" can do that? - lots of them) and prepares them for working life, with basic 3Rs and general knowledge, plus useful vocational training.
On the other side of the same coin, too many bright students in middle-ranking schools have little chance of reaching their full academic potential. I know about that, I went to a nice traditional girls' school where we were taught nice traditional girls' subjects and no chance of much science or languages. I went to the just-turned-comprehensive former Grammar School to take Latin and French A levels; I'd already taken English and History but that was about all they could do, except Art which I couldn't and Biology, where I'd have been the only one in the class. I was stunned by the education I could have had, and which has now almost vanished from state schools.
The plans outlined could put this right. Cater for the aptitude of each child. It could be so good. However, it is also vastly complex - it's all very well, talking about focusing on obscure subjects for a term at a time, or having 15 minute lessons, but where are the teachers? How do you timetable? Move a thousand children to a different room for 15 minutes? It all needs to be thought through.
There are a few things to watch out for. One is not to make it 'topic based'. They tried that in primary schools a few years ago. The idea was that you linked history, geography, maths, literacy, all in one lesson - yes there was some merit in the theory, but the result was that nothing was taught properly.
Another is to offer it to the schools and let them run with it. Don't dictate. If a school does not want to go that way, don't make them. Of course, there are still the areas of the core curriculum and these probably will still go in the league tables (because we have a government that thinks you make a pig put on weight by weighing it) but trust them to know their strengths and get it right.
Nothing this government has yet done gives me a great deal of hope about that, but some pretty imaginative people have managed to get the plans to the drawing board, at any rate. My school is looking to press on, to a greater or lesser degree, with its plans. I don't know what the result will be, but I still need to decide whether to become really engaged in it, or to get out while I haven't had to do any work.
But since then, I have become enthused again. However, HOWEVER, this all depends on how the government decides to play it.
You may have seen this in the papers last week. Skip through all the bumph about Mandarin, I have no idea where that is coming from so suddenly - the Times has given a 'teach yourself Mandarin CD' and is blathering on about it constantly. The last time they got this sort of bee in their bonnet, they pretended all their readers were writing in begging them to make the newspaper sodding tabloid so that they could make it an annoyingly titchy paper and lied IN THEIR TEETH saying that it was responding to reader pressure when it had never been mentioned before, so maybe it will be printed in Mandarin any day now and I will have to read another paper instead. Um, don't worry, I may digress but I never lose the thread, even if my listeners (or readers) are old and grey by the time I've finished - the key words (back to this article I've linked to) are 'give teachers more flexibility' and 'interest and enthuse their pupils'.
The preliminary plans he showed us were his own interpretation of a curriculum that would, ideally, cater for each pupil, whatever his or her aptitude or ability. His view is - and it is certainly one I share - that many pupils are completely turned off school in their teens, if not before. And I've said this for years - I don't blame the poor little buggers - if you are destined not to be one of life's academic achievers, you will spend many years at school feeling not good enough. Destined to fail. In your vulnerable teens, to be put in the bottom set of everything. Knowing that, however hard you tried, you would still be in the bottom set - how surprising is it that many of them play the fool or worse? How much better would it be to offer a curriculum that teaches you what you really need, whether it's understanding how interest rates can rip you off or working out the best get-out score in darts (and how many "underachievers" can do that? - lots of them) and prepares them for working life, with basic 3Rs and general knowledge, plus useful vocational training.
On the other side of the same coin, too many bright students in middle-ranking schools have little chance of reaching their full academic potential. I know about that, I went to a nice traditional girls' school where we were taught nice traditional girls' subjects and no chance of much science or languages. I went to the just-turned-comprehensive former Grammar School to take Latin and French A levels; I'd already taken English and History but that was about all they could do, except Art which I couldn't and Biology, where I'd have been the only one in the class. I was stunned by the education I could have had, and which has now almost vanished from state schools.
The plans outlined could put this right. Cater for the aptitude of each child. It could be so good. However, it is also vastly complex - it's all very well, talking about focusing on obscure subjects for a term at a time, or having 15 minute lessons, but where are the teachers? How do you timetable? Move a thousand children to a different room for 15 minutes? It all needs to be thought through.
There are a few things to watch out for. One is not to make it 'topic based'. They tried that in primary schools a few years ago. The idea was that you linked history, geography, maths, literacy, all in one lesson - yes there was some merit in the theory, but the result was that nothing was taught properly.
Another is to offer it to the schools and let them run with it. Don't dictate. If a school does not want to go that way, don't make them. Of course, there are still the areas of the core curriculum and these probably will still go in the league tables (because we have a government that thinks you make a pig put on weight by weighing it) but trust them to know their strengths and get it right.
Nothing this government has yet done gives me a great deal of hope about that, but some pretty imaginative people have managed to get the plans to the drawing board, at any rate. My school is looking to press on, to a greater or lesser degree, with its plans. I don't know what the result will be, but I still need to decide whether to become really engaged in it, or to get out while I haven't had to do any work.
Sunday, 11 February 2007
The food enthusiast
"What are we having for dinner tonight?" asked Ro. "The pumpkin soup I made the other day," I told him "and a pizza. I was going to make some cheese scones, but your father and I agreed, let's make life easy and see what's in the freezer." "We're not having that cabbage then?"
There is half a small Savoy cabbage left; the other half went in the minestrone soup. "We could," I suggested without meaning it at all, "shred and deep fry the cabbage to sprinkle over the soup." "That might be nice" said the lad, keenly.
Well yes, it might be, if he's going to do it. If he thinks I am, he might be a little less than appointed.
At present, he's making himself a substantial salad sandwich for his lunch tomorrow. I am drinking wine. A pleasant pink Pinot Grigio. I am going to spend the evening reading the papers - skipping the news and heading for the articles - and mellowing nicely.
There is half a small Savoy cabbage left; the other half went in the minestrone soup. "We could," I suggested without meaning it at all, "shred and deep fry the cabbage to sprinkle over the soup." "That might be nice" said the lad, keenly.
Well yes, it might be, if he's going to do it. If he thinks I am, he might be a little less than appointed.
At present, he's making himself a substantial salad sandwich for his lunch tomorrow. I am drinking wine. A pleasant pink Pinot Grigio. I am going to spend the evening reading the papers - skipping the news and heading for the articles - and mellowing nicely.
Rodding and Godding
Ooh dear. The Sage told me this morning that, coincidentally, both our and next door's drains blocked yesterday. I may not have mentioned before (for why should I?) that we are not on mains drainage, but that each house has a septic tank. Ours is a splendid large brick underground affair whilst Al and Dilly's is the smaller modern plastic sort - still buried safely out of sight, of course. They both last for some years without needing to be emptied (ours was last emptied at least 23 years ago, it digests its own contents) but occasionally the drains block, as drains do. Sometimes tree roots get into ours, which are very old. Once a poor rabbit crawled into the pipe at the further end and got stuck - that was a nasty one.
So yesterday and this morning, the Sage and a helper (a friend y'day and Al today) have been glumly struggling with the drain rods.
AND I WASN'T HERE TO HELP!!(!)
I am the only regular churchgoer in the family. Maybe drawing conclusions from this is simple superstition, but I rather like to think that I have a guardian with a sense of humour.
A young couple came to church today whom I didn't know; from their air of uncertainty I assumed that they were the pair whose banns of marriage are currently being read out at the services, and so it proved. I said 'hello' to them, and when the banns were being read I looked their way (seated on the organ stool, I am in front of and sideways on to the congregation). They looked so happy, and I gave them a big grin. They stayed for coffee afterwards - we serve very good coffee and it is not an ordeal - and chatted to people. I like it when this happens as churchgoers are always portrayed as such freaks. This isn't surprising when you read what some representatives of some churches say, but we're not all bigoted narrow-minded unpleasant types stuck somewhere in one of the more ignorant eras in history with a refusal to accept that another's point of view may be valid even if we don't share it. Just some self-styled Christians are. And I suspect that makes Jesus quite cross.
So yesterday and this morning, the Sage and a helper (a friend y'day and Al today) have been glumly struggling with the drain rods.
AND I WASN'T HERE TO HELP!!(!)
I am the only regular churchgoer in the family. Maybe drawing conclusions from this is simple superstition, but I rather like to think that I have a guardian with a sense of humour.
A young couple came to church today whom I didn't know; from their air of uncertainty I assumed that they were the pair whose banns of marriage are currently being read out at the services, and so it proved. I said 'hello' to them, and when the banns were being read I looked their way (seated on the organ stool, I am in front of and sideways on to the congregation). They looked so happy, and I gave them a big grin. They stayed for coffee afterwards - we serve very good coffee and it is not an ordeal - and chatted to people. I like it when this happens as churchgoers are always portrayed as such freaks. This isn't surprising when you read what some representatives of some churches say, but we're not all bigoted narrow-minded unpleasant types stuck somewhere in one of the more ignorant eras in history with a refusal to accept that another's point of view may be valid even if we don't share it. Just some self-styled Christians are. And I suspect that makes Jesus quite cross.
Saturday, 10 February 2007
"One"'s Fine Day
I cannot fault British Rail! Or, at any rate, the version we have in East Anglia, which is called "One".
There is work on the line between Norwich and Diss and so the Norwich people have to be bused in. Diss is my nearest station (well, actually, it isn't quite, but the nearest is on a very slow line where you have to change at Ipswich so I don't use it). I picked up my pre-ordered ticket and spoke to the conductor as I toodled along the platform.
"This is the London train?" "This train is going to London, yes," he replied, more correctly. We grinned at each other. He was extremely handsome and a pleasure to grin at. Later, he came round to check tickets. I eyed him surreptitiously - he is a good fifteen years younger than I and I had no unwholesome thoughts. His name is Errol.
As I neared Liverpool Street, I went to the lavatory. I was rather dismayed to find a long, thin anaemic-looking turd floating in the bowl. Not that I haven't seen worse, but the next person in might think I'd done it - I could see it was a confirmed floater. Indeed, two more flushes didn't eliminate it. Fortunately, no one was waiting at the door when I left to lurch back to my seat. The train was going very fast and we arrived five minutes early.
Furthermore, the bus took less than fifteen minutes to get to Trafalgar Square, instead of the thirty-three suggested by the website.
The two painting that, for today, pleased me particularly were this and this. Neither reproduction is very clear, I'm afraid and you may have to go and see for yourself.
The monochrome one of the girl at the window - there is also a boy looking through the telescope but he is not easy to see - is beautiful and has been painted with great charm. I could spend a long time looking at it. There is a great deal of detail and I love the unassuming skill of the artist.
The children were enchanting. The cherubic one at the back looks so proud of his splendid uniform whilst the eldest has a more confident air of familiarity with his fine clothes. The little boy at the front is, regrettably, clutching a bird so hard that I'm afraid he is hurting it, but I adore his badly cut fringe that looks as if he hacked away at it himself with a penknife.
I hadn't seen El, Phil or my sister M since Christmas, and we were glad to see each other. An hour or two in the National Gallery, a good lunch and a wander round Covent Garden, then I came home. Again, the train was on time - a pity one has to remark on it when it should be unremarkable, but at least it can be said.
And dinner waiting for me. Mind you, I'd cooked all but the vegetables myself yesterday, but I was glad of the foresight.
It's my holier than thou Sunday tomorrow, to church at 7.30 to set up for the early service and then back at 10 to play the organ at 11. Have I practised? The answer, as ever, is no.
There is work on the line between Norwich and Diss and so the Norwich people have to be bused in. Diss is my nearest station (well, actually, it isn't quite, but the nearest is on a very slow line where you have to change at Ipswich so I don't use it). I picked up my pre-ordered ticket and spoke to the conductor as I toodled along the platform.
"This is the London train?" "This train is going to London, yes," he replied, more correctly. We grinned at each other. He was extremely handsome and a pleasure to grin at. Later, he came round to check tickets. I eyed him surreptitiously - he is a good fifteen years younger than I and I had no unwholesome thoughts. His name is Errol.
As I neared Liverpool Street, I went to the lavatory. I was rather dismayed to find a long, thin anaemic-looking turd floating in the bowl. Not that I haven't seen worse, but the next person in might think I'd done it - I could see it was a confirmed floater. Indeed, two more flushes didn't eliminate it. Fortunately, no one was waiting at the door when I left to lurch back to my seat. The train was going very fast and we arrived five minutes early.
Furthermore, the bus took less than fifteen minutes to get to Trafalgar Square, instead of the thirty-three suggested by the website.
The two painting that, for today, pleased me particularly were this and this. Neither reproduction is very clear, I'm afraid and you may have to go and see for yourself.
The monochrome one of the girl at the window - there is also a boy looking through the telescope but he is not easy to see - is beautiful and has been painted with great charm. I could spend a long time looking at it. There is a great deal of detail and I love the unassuming skill of the artist.
The children were enchanting. The cherubic one at the back looks so proud of his splendid uniform whilst the eldest has a more confident air of familiarity with his fine clothes. The little boy at the front is, regrettably, clutching a bird so hard that I'm afraid he is hurting it, but I adore his badly cut fringe that looks as if he hacked away at it himself with a penknife.
I hadn't seen El, Phil or my sister M since Christmas, and we were glad to see each other. An hour or two in the National Gallery, a good lunch and a wander round Covent Garden, then I came home. Again, the train was on time - a pity one has to remark on it when it should be unremarkable, but at least it can be said.
And dinner waiting for me. Mind you, I'd cooked all but the vegetables myself yesterday, but I was glad of the foresight.
It's my holier than thou Sunday tomorrow, to church at 7.30 to set up for the early service and then back at 10 to play the organ at 11. Have I practised? The answer, as ever, is no.
Friday, 9 February 2007
Cooking and remembering
I've spent the last three hours cooking. I am making squash soup, minestrone soup, game stock, beef casserole and braised red cabbage. I also have some rhubarb awaiting inspiration and a mango that I had forgotten and which is now perfectly ripe, but if I leave much longer will be past it. I had a similar avocado, but Ro and I shared that and now I'm sitting down with some brie, oatcakes and olives. I know that eating at ones desk is a dreadful example to the little ones, but this has rarely stopped me doing anything.
I had so many vegetables to prepare that I just put a box on the floor near me for the peelings, rather than spilling bits all over the floor while repeatedly opening the compost bin. I cut the cabbage in quarters, cut out the core and chucked it in the box. Tilly keenly rescued it and crunched it up, quarter by quarter. Very healthy, no doubt, but it may be necessary to encourage her to sit in another room this evening, for her digestion may be affected.
I haven't started on the marmalade and I'm not likely to now. Not today, that is, nor tomorrow, for I am going to the Dark Metropolis. My sister, El, Phil and I are having lunch together. It may not be the highly cultural outing that I said I'd be doing, but we are meeting up at the National Gallery, so it will count. Looking at that list, I've not got far yet, but I am buying unexpected music and liking it too (cheers, BD and Julie).
Looking up old posts reminded me of this one. Since I wrote it, I have had several occasions when I've remembered someone who didn't know me, or had forgotten my name, anyway. I wonder if this means that I'm getting better or whether I had been so worried about myself that I hadn't realised how many other people are the same.
I could be improving, you know. I phoned to book my train tickets yesterday (for those of you who don't live here, pre-booked tickets are cheaper) and, as often happens now, the person at the call centre said his name when he answered the phone. He was very helpful and found me the cheapest ticket - unfortunately it was two hours earlier than I wished to leave so I decided to spring the extra tenner for the later train but, since the difference was negligible, go First Class. El cheapo fare coming home, so I'm in the usual cattle truck.
He was friendly and sensible and at the end I (of course) thanked him. "Goodbye, Jason," I added. And realised that I've done this several times recently, remembering the names of people on helplines.
Is it possible, do you think, that writing about the problem I had with names has, by making me focus, cured it?
I had so many vegetables to prepare that I just put a box on the floor near me for the peelings, rather than spilling bits all over the floor while repeatedly opening the compost bin. I cut the cabbage in quarters, cut out the core and chucked it in the box. Tilly keenly rescued it and crunched it up, quarter by quarter. Very healthy, no doubt, but it may be necessary to encourage her to sit in another room this evening, for her digestion may be affected.
I haven't started on the marmalade and I'm not likely to now. Not today, that is, nor tomorrow, for I am going to the Dark Metropolis. My sister, El, Phil and I are having lunch together. It may not be the highly cultural outing that I said I'd be doing, but we are meeting up at the National Gallery, so it will count. Looking at that list, I've not got far yet, but I am buying unexpected music and liking it too (cheers, BD and Julie).
Looking up old posts reminded me of this one. Since I wrote it, I have had several occasions when I've remembered someone who didn't know me, or had forgotten my name, anyway. I wonder if this means that I'm getting better or whether I had been so worried about myself that I hadn't realised how many other people are the same.
I could be improving, you know. I phoned to book my train tickets yesterday (for those of you who don't live here, pre-booked tickets are cheaper) and, as often happens now, the person at the call centre said his name when he answered the phone. He was very helpful and found me the cheapest ticket - unfortunately it was two hours earlier than I wished to leave so I decided to spring the extra tenner for the later train but, since the difference was negligible, go First Class. El cheapo fare coming home, so I'm in the usual cattle truck.
He was friendly and sensible and at the end I (of course) thanked him. "Goodbye, Jason," I added. And realised that I've done this several times recently, remembering the names of people on helplines.
Is it possible, do you think, that writing about the problem I had with names has, by making me focus, cured it?
Thursday, 8 February 2007
Confession time
I've just sent this email to the PCC. There was nothing else to do.
I'm awfully sorry. I have left undone those things that I ought to have done (I draw a veil over the rest of the confession) and cannot put it right as I have lost my vital notebook.
I have written most of the minutes but I have no notes. So they are more of a draft than you usually receive.
The things that you need to check are your names - if you were not at the meeting, please tell me and I'll shift you from 'present' to 'apologies'.
Proposers and seconders - corrections appreciated.
Dates - I'd just written '4th Tuesdays except Dec.' which was limited help.
Reports - that was where I'd finished altogether so I wrote down what I'd said and ... look, I'm embarrassed enough.
Help? Please? And *usual secretary* , you are laughing at me. I can hear it from here.
love Z*
Does this sound mortified enough?
Well, it wasn't. I then sent the email without attaching the minutes. My reputation for efficiency is entirely shot and no one will ever trust me with any job ever again.
Hey, look on the bright side!
I'm awfully sorry. I have left undone those things that I ought to have done (I draw a veil over the rest of the confession) and cannot put it right as I have lost my vital notebook.
I have written most of the minutes but I have no notes. So they are more of a draft than you usually receive.
The things that you need to check are your names - if you were not at the meeting, please tell me and I'll shift you from 'present' to 'apologies'.
Proposers and seconders - corrections appreciated.
Dates - I'd just written '4th Tuesdays except Dec.' which was limited help.
Reports - that was where I'd finished altogether so I wrote down what I'd said and ... look, I'm embarrassed enough.
Help? Please? And *usual secretary* , you are laughing at me. I can hear it from here.
love Z*
Does this sound mortified enough?
Well, it wasn't. I then sent the email without attaching the minutes. My reputation for efficiency is entirely shot and no one will ever trust me with any job ever again.
Hey, look on the bright side!
Winter came, but it didn't take its coat off
I woke to a grey day, but it started snowing not long after. It was all quite cheering and I looked forward to building a snowman with Squiffany.
But later, even as snow was falling, the trees started to drip with melting ice and it was cold and damp and cheerless. My meeting had been cancelled as the forecast was bad, so I bought Seville oranges from Al and came home to make marmalade.
Unfortunately, it has been one of those afternoons when annoying things have cropped up and have had to be dealt with and I haven't done it after all.
And I have had occasion to reprimand* my husband, who is not, at present, sagacious at all. He is very apologetic, now that the damage is done, but I don't become offended without good reason and the atmosphere is cool.
Very cold outside and the roads will be treacherous as soon as it freezes. I'd rather have had a good cheering snowfall.
*we didn't quarrel, exactly.
Wednesday, 7 February 2007
Youth of Today
I was asked in a comment not long ago if I think that life is harder for young people now than it was in earlier decades. Listening to the Today Programme on Radio 4 this morning, I realised that the post I have spent some time drafting is made redundant by the superb and moving explanation, by two young lads of 15 and 16, of their life in Peckham. This takes you to Radio 4 and Today, and right now it's under 'teenagers in the area'. After tonight, I hope you will be able to find it in the 'listen again' archives for at least the next week. it's also a podcast, which I hope you can find here
These were two articulate and sensible young men talking about the difficulty of staying safe and gaining an education in their area of London today. They are disgusted about the conditions that prevail at school, where couples have sex in the school toilets, where drug pushers have more influence and power than any authority and where many youngsters join in, as to stand aside leaves you in fear for your life. One of them saw his first stabbing, blood and guts hanging out, when he was nine. He was afraid to leave his home for days. He points out that most fathers are long gone and many mothers cannot be relied on, being addicted to drugs themselves.
Afterwards, there was an interview with the director of a youth charity. He said that a great deal had been done in the last few years. Unfortunately, by locking up the drug pushers in their twenties, the teenagers had taken over - the average age of these was now nearer seventeen than twenty-seven and these kids were more ruthless and vicious than their older counterparts.
I grieve for those boys. I don't think that things have been so bad for at least a hundred years. There was, in the years between the two world wars, poverty and hardship, but anything like this was , if it existed, a small and isolated problem. Being treated harshly by an unfeeling boss or being beaten by a cruel headteacher; even unemployment, conscription, hunger, was not like this.
Even those youngsters who live in safer areas and have more money are not much better off. Those prostitutes who were murdered in Ipswich last year - they were pretty young girls, mostly from 'respectable' homes - I'm not giving a value judgement here, just saying that prostitution was not in their family background. They had, or so their families said, gone the way they had because they had become addicted to drugs. It was noticeable that, much as the reporters wanted them too, most locals, even in the local villages, were sympathetic and sad and they didn't condemn them for their lifestyle.
I became a teenager in the late 1960s, when we were all pretty relaxed about drugs. Pot and LSD were pretty well all that were available and the worst thing that could happen (pretty bad, it was agreed) was a 'bad trip'. I never took drugs and didn't even smoke - peer pressure sent me the other way and I never intended to do anything I might become addicted to. But the late 60s, early 70s, were halcyon times if you were young, in this country. Even cynics like me (no hippy, me, I didn't believe that if you love each other things would be all right. Well, correct that, they would be, but it ain't never going to happen and I thought that hippyness was sadly delusional) were pretty cheerful. It has been downhill all the way since then, for the young. Well, so I think. I do love young people*, they try really hard in spite of everything and I hate those middle aged bastards like me (not me, people of my age) who are ruining the world.
Oh damn. You can see why drafting doesn't work for me, if I didn't post this at once, I'd be back to the drawing board in the morning.
*you count as 'young people' if you are young enough to be my child, that is, 36 and under. Anything older, sorry darlings, you're my generation. You are still my generation unless you are older than my mother, who would now be 83. Or my father, who'd be 97 in July.
These were two articulate and sensible young men talking about the difficulty of staying safe and gaining an education in their area of London today. They are disgusted about the conditions that prevail at school, where couples have sex in the school toilets, where drug pushers have more influence and power than any authority and where many youngsters join in, as to stand aside leaves you in fear for your life. One of them saw his first stabbing, blood and guts hanging out, when he was nine. He was afraid to leave his home for days. He points out that most fathers are long gone and many mothers cannot be relied on, being addicted to drugs themselves.
Afterwards, there was an interview with the director of a youth charity. He said that a great deal had been done in the last few years. Unfortunately, by locking up the drug pushers in their twenties, the teenagers had taken over - the average age of these was now nearer seventeen than twenty-seven and these kids were more ruthless and vicious than their older counterparts.
I grieve for those boys. I don't think that things have been so bad for at least a hundred years. There was, in the years between the two world wars, poverty and hardship, but anything like this was , if it existed, a small and isolated problem. Being treated harshly by an unfeeling boss or being beaten by a cruel headteacher; even unemployment, conscription, hunger, was not like this.
Even those youngsters who live in safer areas and have more money are not much better off. Those prostitutes who were murdered in Ipswich last year - they were pretty young girls, mostly from 'respectable' homes - I'm not giving a value judgement here, just saying that prostitution was not in their family background. They had, or so their families said, gone the way they had because they had become addicted to drugs. It was noticeable that, much as the reporters wanted them too, most locals, even in the local villages, were sympathetic and sad and they didn't condemn them for their lifestyle.
I became a teenager in the late 1960s, when we were all pretty relaxed about drugs. Pot and LSD were pretty well all that were available and the worst thing that could happen (pretty bad, it was agreed) was a 'bad trip'. I never took drugs and didn't even smoke - peer pressure sent me the other way and I never intended to do anything I might become addicted to. But the late 60s, early 70s, were halcyon times if you were young, in this country. Even cynics like me (no hippy, me, I didn't believe that if you love each other things would be all right. Well, correct that, they would be, but it ain't never going to happen and I thought that hippyness was sadly delusional) were pretty cheerful. It has been downhill all the way since then, for the young. Well, so I think. I do love young people*, they try really hard in spite of everything and I hate those middle aged bastards like me (not me, people of my age) who are ruining the world.
Oh damn. You can see why drafting doesn't work for me, if I didn't post this at once, I'd be back to the drawing board in the morning.
*you count as 'young people' if you are young enough to be my child, that is, 36 and under. Anything older, sorry darlings, you're my generation. You are still my generation unless you are older than my mother, who would now be 83. Or my father, who'd be 97 in July.
Talking about food, mostly
I realised that I have not eaten much today. I had the juice of two oranges and a slice of dry bread for breakfast, and at lunchtime the Sage needed me and my car to tow Al's van to the garage. Al was relieved that it made it home last night. It started to make an odd chugging sound when he was delivering a box of veg and he didn't really want to have to walk home at the end of a day on his feet. This morning he meant to take it to the garage, but it wouldn't start at all.
So the time reserved for lunch was spent pushing the van to a place it was attachable to the car and driving very slowly through Yagnub to the garage. When we reached the roundabout (only one roundabout in this town), fortunately there was no traffic for a minute so I simply turned right instead of going all the way round and risking wrapping the tow rope round the Black Dog. After this, I didn't have time to eat and just grabbed half a slice of ham and an olive.
As a result, I was hungry by 6 and made a little bowlful of olives - black with chillies and green with lemon, flavoursome cheddar cheese and a few mini oatcakes. The pleasured anticipation, as I poured a glass of red wine too, made me realise that I really haven't been giving myself enough edible treats, recently. Although delicious, it was not quite exciting enough for the degree of happiness I felt.
My book has still not turned up, but I have made a reasonable fist of the minutes and sent them to the Chairman with a confession. I hope he will be able to fill in any gaps. He is a dear man and I have tested his patience twice within a week. I feel very embarrassed. I have suggested that, either I resign and bother the Catholics or Quakers instead of the Church of England, or that he gives me a great deal of annoying work to do at once, for I will not protest. But he probably would not trust me with it any longer.
I called on Dilly and the children. Dilly was giving Pugsley some puréed pear. He mumbled it around his mouth for a while and some was returned to his chin. "I'm not sure how much he actually swallows," she said. "When he has sweet potato, he makes an awful mess and you can see how much - or little - has gone down his throat." When he had had most of it spooned in his mouth, his face crumpled and he shut his mouth. Dilly tried another spoonful, but he put his bib over his face. As soon as she put down the dish and took off his bib, he smiled again. I'm not sure that this baby will need to learn to speak.
PS. The Sage has just handed me a letter from Norfolk County Council about risks from Avian Flu. It is, I am happy to say, well written, sensible and reassuring without resorting to 'we know best' platitudes. I congratulate the writer.
It says, sensibly and realistically, keep poultry indoors if you can, but if this is impractical, keep their food and water where wild birds can't get to it. It explains that meat and eggs aren't going to spread the illness even if it is there to be spread, but wash your hands - you do wash your hands after touching raw poultry anyway, don't you (yes, obsessively). It gives relaxedly useful advice, but no threats or scaremongering.
Might the BBC learn from them? Might pigs fly?
So the time reserved for lunch was spent pushing the van to a place it was attachable to the car and driving very slowly through Yagnub to the garage. When we reached the roundabout (only one roundabout in this town), fortunately there was no traffic for a minute so I simply turned right instead of going all the way round and risking wrapping the tow rope round the Black Dog. After this, I didn't have time to eat and just grabbed half a slice of ham and an olive.
As a result, I was hungry by 6 and made a little bowlful of olives - black with chillies and green with lemon, flavoursome cheddar cheese and a few mini oatcakes. The pleasured anticipation, as I poured a glass of red wine too, made me realise that I really haven't been giving myself enough edible treats, recently. Although delicious, it was not quite exciting enough for the degree of happiness I felt.
My book has still not turned up, but I have made a reasonable fist of the minutes and sent them to the Chairman with a confession. I hope he will be able to fill in any gaps. He is a dear man and I have tested his patience twice within a week. I feel very embarrassed. I have suggested that, either I resign and bother the Catholics or Quakers instead of the Church of England, or that he gives me a great deal of annoying work to do at once, for I will not protest. But he probably would not trust me with it any longer.
I called on Dilly and the children. Dilly was giving Pugsley some puréed pear. He mumbled it around his mouth for a while and some was returned to his chin. "I'm not sure how much he actually swallows," she said. "When he has sweet potato, he makes an awful mess and you can see how much - or little - has gone down his throat." When he had had most of it spooned in his mouth, his face crumpled and he shut his mouth. Dilly tried another spoonful, but he put his bib over his face. As soon as she put down the dish and took off his bib, he smiled again. I'm not sure that this baby will need to learn to speak.
PS. The Sage has just handed me a letter from Norfolk County Council about risks from Avian Flu. It is, I am happy to say, well written, sensible and reassuring without resorting to 'we know best' platitudes. I congratulate the writer.
It says, sensibly and realistically, keep poultry indoors if you can, but if this is impractical, keep their food and water where wild birds can't get to it. It explains that meat and eggs aren't going to spread the illness even if it is there to be spread, but wash your hands - you do wash your hands after touching raw poultry anyway, don't you (yes, obsessively). It gives relaxedly useful advice, but no threats or scaremongering.
Might the BBC learn from them? Might pigs fly?
Too much money
I've just checked my diary and have a meeting tomorrow. Marmalade making is off.
On the other hand, several inches of snow are forecast for tomorrow. The meeting might be off.
The chickens are becoming used to their new home in the greenhouse. They may be glad of it by tomorrow.
I was chatting to the WI treasurer last night. She asked my if I'd like to claim for expenses for the four polyanthus I'd taken for the table flowers. "Goodness, no," I said. "They only cost 50p each." She explained that, with the increase in subscriptions, our branch is expecting to have a £500 surplus and so they are offering people who do the food and flowers the cost of them.
I had forgotten that the subscription is imposed by Head Office. They want to have a big increase in the sum paid for affiliation to the national group and are justifying it by sending out a glossy magazine to each member - there always has been a magazine, but it has been paid for separately if you want it. I suppose that they don't want to be seen to be taking a higher percentage of the sub, so the sub has been raised enough to maintain a tactful proportion. Our expenses are not high, however, as it is, so we will probably have to spend our surplus on parties. One can resign from the National Federation and just become a friendly group, and some WIs have, but they have to hand back anything they have with the WI name, even if it was made and paid for by the group. For example, we have two tablecloths, embroidered by members, one to commemorate the 80th anniversary and the other to celebrate the different elements of Denton village life as lived by WI members. Heavy handed? Feels like it. I haven't been on the committee for years though, I only go because I see friends there, some of whom I don't see anywhere else.
I must dry my hair and put on my face, I'm playing the organ for a funeral this morning. I am still not sure what it says about me, that I've planned my own funeral already. Not that I expect it to happen any time soon. But I've chosen the hymns, the reading and the coffin. So long as I overcome diffidence and tell my family what they all are, it will be excellent.
And I gave one of the polyanthus to the treasurer, one to the friend who gave me a lift and will give one to Dilly. The other is for me.
On the other hand, several inches of snow are forecast for tomorrow. The meeting might be off.
The chickens are becoming used to their new home in the greenhouse. They may be glad of it by tomorrow.
I was chatting to the WI treasurer last night. She asked my if I'd like to claim for expenses for the four polyanthus I'd taken for the table flowers. "Goodness, no," I said. "They only cost 50p each." She explained that, with the increase in subscriptions, our branch is expecting to have a £500 surplus and so they are offering people who do the food and flowers the cost of them.
I had forgotten that the subscription is imposed by Head Office. They want to have a big increase in the sum paid for affiliation to the national group and are justifying it by sending out a glossy magazine to each member - there always has been a magazine, but it has been paid for separately if you want it. I suppose that they don't want to be seen to be taking a higher percentage of the sub, so the sub has been raised enough to maintain a tactful proportion. Our expenses are not high, however, as it is, so we will probably have to spend our surplus on parties. One can resign from the National Federation and just become a friendly group, and some WIs have, but they have to hand back anything they have with the WI name, even if it was made and paid for by the group. For example, we have two tablecloths, embroidered by members, one to commemorate the 80th anniversary and the other to celebrate the different elements of Denton village life as lived by WI members. Heavy handed? Feels like it. I haven't been on the committee for years though, I only go because I see friends there, some of whom I don't see anywhere else.
I must dry my hair and put on my face, I'm playing the organ for a funeral this morning. I am still not sure what it says about me, that I've planned my own funeral already. Not that I expect it to happen any time soon. But I've chosen the hymns, the reading and the coffin. So long as I overcome diffidence and tell my family what they all are, it will be excellent.
And I gave one of the polyanthus to the treasurer, one to the friend who gave me a lift and will give one to Dilly. The other is for me.
Tuesday, 6 February 2007
Even if it's freezing, it must be spring
I was driving back from Norwich when my eye was caught by an odd-shaped bird atop a bush. The sun was behind it, so I couldn't see what sort it was for a moment.
Then I realised. It was two birds and they were At It. Having It Off.
In public too. Shameless, they were.
Apparently, we will have snow on Thursday. That's all right, I'll have time to build a snowman on Thursday. I also hope I might have time to make marmalade. Al still has a couple of cratesful unopened, but he thinks that will be the last of the Seville oranges.
I haven't had much sleep the last couple of night, I've been waking up at 3 or 4 am and staying awake (worrying about that bloody notebook, isn't it stupid. It's not as if it helps). I hope WI is worth turning out for.
Then I realised. It was two birds and they were At It. Having It Off.
In public too. Shameless, they were.
Apparently, we will have snow on Thursday. That's all right, I'll have time to build a snowman on Thursday. I also hope I might have time to make marmalade. Al still has a couple of cratesful unopened, but he thinks that will be the last of the Seville oranges.
I haven't had much sleep the last couple of night, I've been waking up at 3 or 4 am and staying awake (worrying about that bloody notebook, isn't it stupid. It's not as if it helps). I hope WI is worth turning out for.
Monday, 5 February 2007
Z asks awkward questions
It's now around 10.45 pm and I'm just sitting down with some cheese and biscuits and a dram of Scotch, having just got back from a governors' training meeting. One of the best presented and most interesting I've been to in a long time, in fact. The last one I attended, the Local Authority person presenting the session started it by saying "I hope you all know that this is no longer to explain the new system, as the Government has put back its implementation by a year." No, I hadn't known, I had done this training twice in the previous few years and it would have been nice to have been told in advance.
I amused myself by asking tricky questions, based on my in-depth knowledge of the subject. You can catch 'em out, you know.
This one was on behaviour and anti-bullying matters. There is a new Education Act, being implemented in April and he was telling us about the new jollities within.
I drove through Lowestoft. I lived in Lowestoft from the age of 3 or 4 to 32 and now can hardly find my way about the town now. New roads all over the place. It's good, actually, they haven't dealt with all the congestion caused by having a town that is cut in half by a bridge, but they have improved it considerably. However, I did find myself driving down a road I hadn't known existed. I didn't lose my bearings, so I wasn't very late...
I was bored stiff within the first three minutes. He asked for the general principles one should be considering when drawing up a school's Behavioural Policy. The usual jargon was mentioned. 'Whole-school ethos.' 'Respect, not only from pupil to teacher, but from pupil to pupil, pupil for him- or herself, teacher for pupil.' 'Work ethic' .. and all the rest. Worthy and true, but we've been there before, so many times. But, skilful instructor that we had, he spotted instantly that we'd all been there, done ...... I'll spare you the cliché. He had his Powerpoint presentation, but skimmed over whole pages - "don't need to tell you about that, it's in the hand-out. Let's talk about what it really means."
Two and a quarter hours (no one minded that it overran) well spent. I found myself asking lots of questions and stating quite a lot of opinions/facts (hey, with me, aren't they the same thing? heh heh), some of which were really quite pertinent. I also asked my nasty question, which was ducked the last time I asked it (which I mentioned).
"If a pupil has been excluded from one school and you have a place available, the Local Authority can compel you to accept him/her. However, what is the legal position if the exclusion has been for physical violence against another pupil or member of staff, and the Governing Body fears that it could happen again?" He replied that the LA can still oblige the school to take the pupil. "What if it happens again, the parent or teacher finds that there was a demonstrable risk and sues? Whose is the liability." He did a bit of sensible fudging. "So, if the Head and the Governors refuse to take the pupil, but are overruled, they are in the clear? It will be the LA that will be sued?"
He said, for a definitive answer, that it would be necessary to consult the legal department of the LA. I apologised for asking a mean question, said that my school has been well supported by the LA and they only do what the Government tells them.
My speciality is in being absolutely horrible and then being awfully nice. Wrong-foots people. I'm good cop, bad cop, all on my own.
At the end, I gave him a top-notch evaluation (we have a Sheet of Judgment to fill in), except that he didn't give out the hand-outs until the end. I said that I can see why, he doesn't want us to read rather than listen, but it means your notes are on a separate piece of paper, rather than against the item they are relevant to. I also said the room was too hot, but that was on a different evaluation.
Another full day tomorrow, a meeting all morning, shop all afternoon and Women's Institute in the evening. I'm doing the table flowers. I'm sorry to say that I will probably buy four pretty flowering pot plants, rather than spend an hour arranging flowers.
I amused myself by asking tricky questions, based on my in-depth knowledge of the subject. You can catch 'em out, you know.
This one was on behaviour and anti-bullying matters. There is a new Education Act, being implemented in April and he was telling us about the new jollities within.
I drove through Lowestoft. I lived in Lowestoft from the age of 3 or 4 to 32 and now can hardly find my way about the town now. New roads all over the place. It's good, actually, they haven't dealt with all the congestion caused by having a town that is cut in half by a bridge, but they have improved it considerably. However, I did find myself driving down a road I hadn't known existed. I didn't lose my bearings, so I wasn't very late...
I was bored stiff within the first three minutes. He asked for the general principles one should be considering when drawing up a school's Behavioural Policy. The usual jargon was mentioned. 'Whole-school ethos.' 'Respect, not only from pupil to teacher, but from pupil to pupil, pupil for him- or herself, teacher for pupil.' 'Work ethic' .. and all the rest. Worthy and true, but we've been there before, so many times. But, skilful instructor that we had, he spotted instantly that we'd all been there, done ...... I'll spare you the cliché. He had his Powerpoint presentation, but skimmed over whole pages - "don't need to tell you about that, it's in the hand-out. Let's talk about what it really means."
Two and a quarter hours (no one minded that it overran) well spent. I found myself asking lots of questions and stating quite a lot of opinions/facts (hey, with me, aren't they the same thing? heh heh), some of which were really quite pertinent. I also asked my nasty question, which was ducked the last time I asked it (which I mentioned).
"If a pupil has been excluded from one school and you have a place available, the Local Authority can compel you to accept him/her. However, what is the legal position if the exclusion has been for physical violence against another pupil or member of staff, and the Governing Body fears that it could happen again?" He replied that the LA can still oblige the school to take the pupil. "What if it happens again, the parent or teacher finds that there was a demonstrable risk and sues? Whose is the liability." He did a bit of sensible fudging. "So, if the Head and the Governors refuse to take the pupil, but are overruled, they are in the clear? It will be the LA that will be sued?"
He said, for a definitive answer, that it would be necessary to consult the legal department of the LA. I apologised for asking a mean question, said that my school has been well supported by the LA and they only do what the Government tells them.
My speciality is in being absolutely horrible and then being awfully nice. Wrong-foots people. I'm good cop, bad cop, all on my own.
At the end, I gave him a top-notch evaluation (we have a Sheet of Judgment to fill in), except that he didn't give out the hand-outs until the end. I said that I can see why, he doesn't want us to read rather than listen, but it means your notes are on a separate piece of paper, rather than against the item they are relevant to. I also said the room was too hot, but that was on a different evaluation.
Another full day tomorrow, a meeting all morning, shop all afternoon and Women's Institute in the evening. I'm doing the table flowers. I'm sorry to say that I will probably buy four pretty flowering pot plants, rather than spend an hour arranging flowers.
More Yagnub news
The bakery was broken into last night. They prised open a sash window at the side of the shop. They took the float and the charity box. What did they expect to find? Sticky buns?
Al supposes he'll have to take the float home out of the tills every night. He has always said that at least he doesn't need to worry about burglary, not unless the local ne'er-do-wells are anxious about their 5-a-day, but if they are after a few pounds in small change, he'll have to change his mind.
And the town has been thick with reporters*, wanting a new angle on bird flu. I was sorry for the butcher opposite - a bloke with a camera was filming his shop from just outside the window, a couple of yards away and then from the other side of the marketplace. Poor Adrian had to stand there, nowhere to hide. And his 'free-range chickens' sign in the window. I'm not sure why they are here, Halesworth, 9 miles away, is next to the turkey farm.
It was confirmed that the Ch1cken Round@bout birds (I did a link a while back, here is another one) are officially wild birds, so they will not need to be rounded up, even if poultry have to be kept indoors. If ours do, they can go in the biggest greehouse, which is about 40 feet by 14 feet and they will be fine until the weather heats up. And then we will have to think again, unless we want them to lay hard-boiled eggs.
*ooer. Natasha Kaplinsky has made a special trip Herself to Holton. And the BBC is most anxious about the Ch1cken Round@bout.
I think, am I a cynic, that a little bit of each reporter rather hopes that the outbreak hasn't been entirely contained.
Al supposes he'll have to take the float home out of the tills every night. He has always said that at least he doesn't need to worry about burglary, not unless the local ne'er-do-wells are anxious about their 5-a-day, but if they are after a few pounds in small change, he'll have to change his mind.
And the town has been thick with reporters*, wanting a new angle on bird flu. I was sorry for the butcher opposite - a bloke with a camera was filming his shop from just outside the window, a couple of yards away and then from the other side of the marketplace. Poor Adrian had to stand there, nowhere to hide. And his 'free-range chickens' sign in the window. I'm not sure why they are here, Halesworth, 9 miles away, is next to the turkey farm.
It was confirmed that the Ch1cken Round@bout birds (I did a link a while back, here is another one) are officially wild birds, so they will not need to be rounded up, even if poultry have to be kept indoors. If ours do, they can go in the biggest greehouse, which is about 40 feet by 14 feet and they will be fine until the weather heats up. And then we will have to think again, unless we want them to lay hard-boiled eggs.
*ooer. Natasha Kaplinsky has made a special trip Herself to Holton. And the BBC is most anxious about the Ch1cken Round@bout.
I think, am I a cynic, that a little bit of each reporter rather hopes that the outbreak hasn't been entirely contained.
Sunday, 4 February 2007
Snowdrops, aconites and irises
Nothing out-of-season blooming that I can see, but it's such a delight to have the first flowers of the year in the garden.
You can click on them to enlarge - that little iris is a gorgeous colour.
Another lovely little iris.
Sunday morning
I'm listening to a CD of Dinu Lipatti playing Bach, Mozart, Scarlatti and Schubert. It is a total pleasure. He has a rare lightness and delicacy of touch; he charms without sentimentality and his selflessly superb technique lets you absorb every note of the music, which is played with great feeling but without an intrusion of himself. So many musicians let you know that it is them who matters most, not the piece being played.
Until recently, he was only a name to me. I knew that he was a pianist who died young and that was all. Until I was given a Mountain Goats CD for Christmas, on which Dinu Lipatti's Bones is one of the tracks, so I looked him up and ordered a disc, which includes some Schubert from his last recital. He was dying and knew it, and the piece is played as if he's without a care in the world.
I took a few photos yesterday of early spring flowers in the garden. I'd say winter flowers, but the birds think it is spring and it does feel like it. Anyway, I'll post them later.
Until recently, he was only a name to me. I knew that he was a pianist who died young and that was all. Until I was given a Mountain Goats CD for Christmas, on which Dinu Lipatti's Bones is one of the tracks, so I looked him up and ordered a disc, which includes some Schubert from his last recital. He was dying and knew it, and the piece is played as if he's without a care in the world.
I took a few photos yesterday of early spring flowers in the garden. I'd say winter flowers, but the birds think it is spring and it does feel like it. Anyway, I'll post them later.
Saturday, 3 February 2007
Yagnub News
This one's mostly for B@dgerd@ddy...
A bloke went into the computer shop on Thursday to buy a laptop. He paid by credit card. The assistant, upon putting the card through the machine, was notified that it was stolen. He played it cool. "Thanks, that's fine," he said. "If you call back later, I'll have your laptop ready for you."
The bloke toddled off trustingly, and duly returned an hour or two later to fetch the computer. The police were waiting, hardly able to believe their luck. The young man in the computer shop has had a smile from ear to there ever since.
The road was blocked all afternoon, by the market traders' vans as they packed up and the police car on the other side of the road, as they spent a long time getting the shopkeeper's statement. It's a one-way street, so everyone had to back down and drive around the town.
Oh, and still for BD, RightPrice has been shut for a couple of weeks for refurbishment - Peter has taken it on himself now; it used to belong to his parents. He decided to give it a good clearout and repaint. On Wednesday, he was painting the shop front. Very slowly. Everyone who passed by wanted to stop for a chat...well, we've missed him, we need him for our bargain shopping.
Apparently, he intends to change the name of the shop, but we don't know yet what to. Jean favours 'Pete's Bazaar' to go with the Gay Shopper. If that's what he chooses, I do hope he asks Al how to spell Bizarre...
A bloke went into the computer shop on Thursday to buy a laptop. He paid by credit card. The assistant, upon putting the card through the machine, was notified that it was stolen. He played it cool. "Thanks, that's fine," he said. "If you call back later, I'll have your laptop ready for you."
The bloke toddled off trustingly, and duly returned an hour or two later to fetch the computer. The police were waiting, hardly able to believe their luck. The young man in the computer shop has had a smile from ear to there ever since.
The road was blocked all afternoon, by the market traders' vans as they packed up and the police car on the other side of the road, as they spent a long time getting the shopkeeper's statement. It's a one-way street, so everyone had to back down and drive around the town.
Oh, and still for BD, RightPrice has been shut for a couple of weeks for refurbishment - Peter has taken it on himself now; it used to belong to his parents. He decided to give it a good clearout and repaint. On Wednesday, he was painting the shop front. Very slowly. Everyone who passed by wanted to stop for a chat...well, we've missed him, we need him for our bargain shopping.
Apparently, he intends to change the name of the shop, but we don't know yet what to. Jean favours 'Pete's Bazaar' to go with the Gay Shopper. If that's what he chooses, I do hope he asks Al how to spell Bizarre...
Z is in despair
I have lost a notebook. It is a large, hard-covered, ring-bound black book, A4 size, that I use for meetings to take notes and minutes if necessary. I last used it on 16th January. I know where and that I drove straight home afterwards. I assumed that I'd brought it in the house and it is only now, when I need it again, that I can't find it.
I remember where I put it at the lecture, in the theatre on the floor beside me with my handbag on top. I don't remember not having it when I left, but in any case have phoned the theatre to ask. I have checked the car. Three times (it is too large to miss even once) and the Sage has looked too. I could have put it in the kitchen, I should have put it in the study, I might have left it in the drawing room. I can't find it. I have also checked the dining room and the cloakroom. I would not have taken it upstairs, I'm not so far gone that I'm even looking there.
I'm a bit screwed without it. Hell and damn. Blast. Whatever expletive comes to mind, please think it, loudly, on my behalf.
I have not given up hope, but I don't know why not - it's the simple impossibility of it being lost, I presume. But it's not here.
I learned by heart, when I was doing French A Level, one short passage of L'Avare, by Molière. It goes something like this (and I'm a bit too agitated to think about spelling, sorry)
'Où est-il? Où se cache-t-il? Que ferai-je pour le trouver? N'est-il point çi? N'est-il point la? Qui est-il*?"
*At this point, he realises his money is stolen, not lost. But I have no one to blame but myself.
-----------------------------------
Ro was sympathetic but pretty uninterested, until I mentioned the £20 reward that is offered to whomsoever finds the book. He has gone to look in the car. If, by the way, I find it myself, £20 goes in the church plate tomorrow.
I remember where I put it at the lecture, in the theatre on the floor beside me with my handbag on top. I don't remember not having it when I left, but in any case have phoned the theatre to ask. I have checked the car. Three times (it is too large to miss even once) and the Sage has looked too. I could have put it in the kitchen, I should have put it in the study, I might have left it in the drawing room. I can't find it. I have also checked the dining room and the cloakroom. I would not have taken it upstairs, I'm not so far gone that I'm even looking there.
I'm a bit screwed without it. Hell and damn. Blast. Whatever expletive comes to mind, please think it, loudly, on my behalf.
I have not given up hope, but I don't know why not - it's the simple impossibility of it being lost, I presume. But it's not here.
I learned by heart, when I was doing French A Level, one short passage of L'Avare, by Molière. It goes something like this (and I'm a bit too agitated to think about spelling, sorry)
'Où est-il? Où se cache-t-il? Que ferai-je pour le trouver? N'est-il point çi? N'est-il point la? Qui est-il*?"
*At this point, he realises his money is stolen, not lost. But I have no one to blame but myself.
-----------------------------------
Ro was sympathetic but pretty uninterested, until I mentioned the £20 reward that is offered to whomsoever finds the book. He has gone to look in the car. If, by the way, I find it myself, £20 goes in the church plate tomorrow.
Friday, 2 February 2007
Z likes her children
Ro said, last night, that he had come the closest ever to losing his temper at work yesterday. He, like my other son Al, gets angry about twice a year, so I was curious.
Apparently, some middle-management little tin god called him in because his printer wasn't working. Ro found that the problem was that he needed toner. "I'll speak to H" he offered, "get her to order you some." "No, that's all right, I'll tell A to get it, I'll enjoy that," said the ltg. He rang her up at once, on speakerphone, and laid the law down at length, telling her that it was her job to see to that sort of thing, man of his importance should not have to wait, da-de-da - laying the law down because he could, you know.
Ro can't bear this sort of thing. "It was the worst thing I've listened to since I was mending a computer in an office where they were making racist jokes" he said. "That time, I blanked them out and got on with the job. I was just the IT bloke, they didn't even notice I was there."
"I went to commiserate with A and apologise that I'd had to hear it. She said he is always an arsehole, don't worry, she blanks it out too."
Fortunately, Ro's immediate boss, in his department of two, is a good bloke and they get on well, and it's a good company to work for.
El is even happier in her job. She is going on a work trip soon, that is so cool that I am beside myself with envy. "What is it, a team-building exercise?" I asked. This is her return email:-
"I know - it's TOO BLOODY BRILLIANT!!
They've promised it's not going to be 'team building' as such - just a hoopla cos the office has had a brilliant 2006. But I do love them all the more for it ;-)"
I am jealous. I want to go too. I can't even tell you what it is, can I. Damn.
Apparently, some middle-management little tin god called him in because his printer wasn't working. Ro found that the problem was that he needed toner. "I'll speak to H" he offered, "get her to order you some." "No, that's all right, I'll tell A to get it, I'll enjoy that," said the ltg. He rang her up at once, on speakerphone, and laid the law down at length, telling her that it was her job to see to that sort of thing, man of his importance should not have to wait, da-de-da - laying the law down because he could, you know.
Ro can't bear this sort of thing. "It was the worst thing I've listened to since I was mending a computer in an office where they were making racist jokes" he said. "That time, I blanked them out and got on with the job. I was just the IT bloke, they didn't even notice I was there."
"I went to commiserate with A and apologise that I'd had to hear it. She said he is always an arsehole, don't worry, she blanks it out too."
Fortunately, Ro's immediate boss, in his department of two, is a good bloke and they get on well, and it's a good company to work for.
El is even happier in her job. She is going on a work trip soon, that is so cool that I am beside myself with envy. "What is it, a team-building exercise?" I asked. This is her return email:-
"I know - it's TOO BLOODY BRILLIANT!!
They've promised it's not going to be 'team building' as such - just a hoopla cos the office has had a brilliant 2006. But I do love them all the more for it ;-)"
I am jealous. I want to go too. I can't even tell you what it is, can I. Damn.
Z dislikes sweeping statements
I thought that Al1ce M1les’s article in the Times, a couple of days ago, had some interesting points but she lost me entirely when, three paragraphs from the end, she said "If you are in a couple, it may make sense for one of you to look after the children while the other does paid work. That is sort of a luxury but also sort of a hell; I wouldn’t advise any mother to give up work: before you know it you are trapped in unemployment and crawling the walls with boredom."
Am I being oversensitive in suggesting that she has, in public and in print, thoroughly insulted her own children? I don't know how many children she has, or what age they are, but I'd be a bit hurt to find that my mother had found motherhood a boring trap, rather than a joy, if not an unmitigated one.
Alice has the luxury of a job she, presumably enjoys, where she is paid to give her opinion (we give ours for free) and can make sweeping statements, with or without research to back them up. Many jobs are not so fulfilling. Good childcare is expensive, as this article in the same paper pointed out the other day and surely many parents find that most of their wages are being taken up by this cost and they still have to do all their cooking, shopping and housework, as well as cope when the children are unwell. And give time and love to their partner.
I'm not saying that a parent of young children should not go out to work. I'm not suggesting that looking after two or three pre-school children is easy - it can be hard work, it can be isolating unless you have friends in the same situation and, sometimes, being with a toddler or two all day can make you feel as if you are defined by mummyness or daddyness. However, Alice's sweeping statement surely is unfeeling and risks offending, not only those parents who think bringing up children is an important and fulfilling job in itself, but also those childcare workers who feel the same way.
Joe Khouri, of Tokyo, wrote this comment on Alice's article
"Yesterday The Times noted that childcare costs rose by several times the rate of inflation. The Times carries weekly, if not daily, stories that describe the gamut of underage drinking, drug-taking, criminality and sex that currently entertains many of Britain's youth.
Ms Miles' solution: Take the one parent a child has and put them to work.
Does she read as well as she writes? Instead of bunging a few quid at single parents, who are after all just "crawling the walls with boredom" for something useful to do, perhaps use this money to encourage parents to bring up children properly and develop their child's education beyond what the rapidly degrading school system provides. You know, some proper parenting skills. Maybe spend a bit on a decent, clean, affordable local sports complex. After-school groups, police on the streets. When a parent believes that their child is entertained, happy, healthy and safe, maybe THEN they might be comfortable getting a job. Isn't this obvious?"
The question of single parents is not one I'm looking at here, there are too many considerations and pitfalls. It's the value we no longer put on parenting. I'm not saying that a parent should or should not give up their job and stay home while the children are small. There are all sorts of things to take into account. I'm just saying that bringing up children well matters. It's fulfilling and important. Not all people, by any means, have an aptitude for it and presumably Alice is one of those, so has done the best she can by her children by working to provide care for them by someone who wants to give it. Others have trained hard to get a great job and want to have a fulfilling career as well as motherhood. Others again have to work whether they want to or not. I know many people who have used this career break as an opportunity to change paths altogether. I know some who have never gone back to full-time paid work, myself included. Some people, indeed, are 'trapped in unemployment' for various reasons - often the poverty trap, rather than the parenthood trap. But full-time mums are not all frustrated, unhappy housewives.
PS Take a look over the pond, hey. Gotta love 'em.
Am I being oversensitive in suggesting that she has, in public and in print, thoroughly insulted her own children? I don't know how many children she has, or what age they are, but I'd be a bit hurt to find that my mother had found motherhood a boring trap, rather than a joy, if not an unmitigated one.
Alice has the luxury of a job she, presumably enjoys, where she is paid to give her opinion (we give ours for free) and can make sweeping statements, with or without research to back them up. Many jobs are not so fulfilling. Good childcare is expensive, as this article in the same paper pointed out the other day and surely many parents find that most of their wages are being taken up by this cost and they still have to do all their cooking, shopping and housework, as well as cope when the children are unwell. And give time and love to their partner.
I'm not saying that a parent of young children should not go out to work. I'm not suggesting that looking after two or three pre-school children is easy - it can be hard work, it can be isolating unless you have friends in the same situation and, sometimes, being with a toddler or two all day can make you feel as if you are defined by mummyness or daddyness. However, Alice's sweeping statement surely is unfeeling and risks offending, not only those parents who think bringing up children is an important and fulfilling job in itself, but also those childcare workers who feel the same way.
Joe Khouri, of Tokyo, wrote this comment on Alice's article
"Yesterday The Times noted that childcare costs rose by several times the rate of inflation. The Times carries weekly, if not daily, stories that describe the gamut of underage drinking, drug-taking, criminality and sex that currently entertains many of Britain's youth.
Ms Miles' solution: Take the one parent a child has and put them to work.
Does she read as well as she writes? Instead of bunging a few quid at single parents, who are after all just "crawling the walls with boredom" for something useful to do, perhaps use this money to encourage parents to bring up children properly and develop their child's education beyond what the rapidly degrading school system provides. You know, some proper parenting skills. Maybe spend a bit on a decent, clean, affordable local sports complex. After-school groups, police on the streets. When a parent believes that their child is entertained, happy, healthy and safe, maybe THEN they might be comfortable getting a job. Isn't this obvious?"
The question of single parents is not one I'm looking at here, there are too many considerations and pitfalls. It's the value we no longer put on parenting. I'm not saying that a parent should or should not give up their job and stay home while the children are small. There are all sorts of things to take into account. I'm just saying that bringing up children well matters. It's fulfilling and important. Not all people, by any means, have an aptitude for it and presumably Alice is one of those, so has done the best she can by her children by working to provide care for them by someone who wants to give it. Others have trained hard to get a great job and want to have a fulfilling career as well as motherhood. Others again have to work whether they want to or not. I know many people who have used this career break as an opportunity to change paths altogether. I know some who have never gone back to full-time paid work, myself included. Some people, indeed, are 'trapped in unemployment' for various reasons - often the poverty trap, rather than the parenthood trap. But full-time mums are not all frustrated, unhappy housewives.
PS Take a look over the pond, hey. Gotta love 'em.
Thursday, 1 February 2007
Puzzling monologue of the day and a debate with myself
"I just popped in for a couple of onions and some mushrooms," she said. "Spaghetti Bolognese for tea. I fetched the vegetables for her and weighed them. "My son-in-law is coming round this evening and he's vegetarian and I've already got some corn, so I thought 'Spaghetti Bolognese'."
Add to that a presentation on the shape of things to come in secondary education, and it's not surprising I feel a little brain-weary tonight. Right now, I'm wondering just for how long my sense of social responsibility will last before I quit as a school governor. I'm honestly not sure if I want to relearn it all for the umpteenth time. I just thank goodness that I'm not paid and so a salary and pension doesn't come into the equation.
It's not that it's not interesting, and I admire the work that the school is doing. But it's all going pretty well now - is this, therefore, a good time to go? I've a couple more years before I'm up for reappointment, but it might not be so good then and I'd not quit if I were needed. But governor recruitment is not easy, and I have a good working relationship with the staff. And, to me (yeah, pathetic, I'd laugh too if I felt like it), it's been a way of giving something to the community. It's why I've put much of my energy into Special Educational Needs. Help the underdogs, even the angry and disaffected ones.
I'm feeling dispirited. I'll feel better tomorrow.
Add to that a presentation on the shape of things to come in secondary education, and it's not surprising I feel a little brain-weary tonight. Right now, I'm wondering just for how long my sense of social responsibility will last before I quit as a school governor. I'm honestly not sure if I want to relearn it all for the umpteenth time. I just thank goodness that I'm not paid and so a salary and pension doesn't come into the equation.
It's not that it's not interesting, and I admire the work that the school is doing. But it's all going pretty well now - is this, therefore, a good time to go? I've a couple more years before I'm up for reappointment, but it might not be so good then and I'd not quit if I were needed. But governor recruitment is not easy, and I have a good working relationship with the staff. And, to me (yeah, pathetic, I'd laugh too if I felt like it), it's been a way of giving something to the community. It's why I've put much of my energy into Special Educational Needs. Help the underdogs, even the angry and disaffected ones.
I'm feeling dispirited. I'll feel better tomorrow.
Z pleads guilty to titterer and spokesperson of the bleeding obvious, but she is innocent of pranksterism
I read Jane, as I always do. Who took me to Billy*, whom I hadn't met before. And that led me to this. The bit that made me laugh most was in the comments "My grandaughter was convinced to try this "googling" of which you speak by a schoolfriend and now she is pregnant."
I should like to make it clear that I always, if I know it, acknowledge original authorship. But I do acknowledge that I have not the imagination for original thought. I'm not quite as opinionated as Mr Waterhouse, but then I'm not paid to be.
*Sorry, I've found that the link doesn't work. If you'd like to visit Billy, he has left a comment on this post.
I should like to make it clear that I always, if I know it, acknowledge original authorship. But I do acknowledge that I have not the imagination for original thought. I'm not quite as opinionated as Mr Waterhouse, but then I'm not paid to be.
*Sorry, I've found that the link doesn't work. If you'd like to visit Billy, he has left a comment on this post.
Wednesday, 31 January 2007
Today, rather serious-minded
Wendz’s post today decided me. For various reasons, not least Dandelion's question as to whether I think young people now have it harder than in the past (still a post in draft Dandelion, sorry, I should just post it and be damned), this incident has been in my mind. I haven't told anyone until now and still know that I'm breaking a confidence and hope that, by changing a few unimportant details, anonymity is preserved.
It was just before Christmas, two years ago. My young friend, the daughter of friends too, was thirteen. We chatted sometimes online, and for the couple of days, I had known that something was on her mind. Delicately, I asked what was the matter. A pause. "Oh, nothing really. Just a stupid pregnancy scare, it's all right now."
Thirteen, remember. We 'talked' for probably a couple of hours. I asked if she was sure she wasn't pregnant, no she wasn't, but had convinced herself she couldn't be. I asked what had happened.
She had visited a friend's house, and a number of other teenagers were there. The parents were out and the kids were drinking. She had got off with a sixteen-year-old boy from school, lots of them were kissing, it got heavier... I was asking personal questions I wasn't comfortable with, with a child who was not my own, but she wanted to confide and I wanted her to face it, acknowledge it to herself and (I hoped) practice telling an adult. He was putting his fingers inside her, then he got semen on his fingers and put them back in her.
I did wonder if she was letting imagination take her here, so asked some specific questions. The answers rang true. Simple, descriptive, how it felt.
I told her that it was not likely she was pregnant from what she had said, but if she was anxious then it was not too late for the morning-after pill. I asked her to talk to her parents or, if she felt she couldn't, to go to the school nurse. A weekly drop-in clinic had recently started, for advice, chat or whatever was needed for students who did not want to go to the doctor. She said that she had been able to cope with writing it down, but talking, face to face, was impossible.
I felt in a real quandary. I knew that I should not keep it secret, but it was such a delicate position that telling her parents could do more harm than good. Breaking her trust would be seen as a betrayal and I hoped that telling me would be the first step to taking responsibility for her actions.
I advised her again to tell a nurse and to talk to her parents. I told her that she must not risk drinking alcohol away from home. With her parents' permission, it was all right at home as she would learn how it affects her. It alters judgement, so that one does not realise one is going too far until it is really hard to stop, and this goes for the boy as well as the girl. Boys are obsessed with sex, I told her, they can't help it. He knew well that he should stop, and it was appalling that he hadn't - and illegal, too, he was guilty of assault, at least - but her judgment was impaired too. She hadn't asked him to stop. I asked if she felt she loved him? No, she liked him but that was all. Afterwards, he'd walked her home, held her hand, been really sweet to her.
I still don't know if I should have done more. She did promise to take my advice, and also to consider talking to her parents. I was going away in a week's time, to spend three weeks in India, and Christmas was in between - at least, I knew, she would be busy with family things for the holidays and she promised to email me if she needed to talk. What I did not do was raise the subject of contraception at all. I strongly felt that this could encourage her to think that it was all right, that I might be condoning this happening again.
So, why did this happen to this child, with loving, united parents, who was cared for and treasured? I'm afraid that I think that it was because she had been encouraged to grow up too fast. She takes acting and dancing classes, she is poised, attractive and outgoing but, actually, it's a cover for quite low self-esteem, common to most teenage girls. She is smiling, charming, eager to please. She wears, and wore even then, very short skirts, low-cut cropped tops, makeup, had an expensive haircut - you might know she was thirteen, but you would still take her for sixteen or more. She does not dress tartily, but quite provocatively. Her mother, as far as I'd ever seen, wanted to be her friend and encouraged her. She loved having an attractive, popular daughter. Her father, a kind man, imposed the household rules but assumed that if his wife approved the clothes, they must be all right.
A while later, I asked if things were okay. She told me they were, but didn't take it further. Later again, her father and I had a chat. She had confided in him and his wife. They had talked it through and (he wasn't specific) agreed some sort of ground rules - largely, this seems to consist of her being honest. Also, she has stopped drinking, even at home. She still dresses the same way, but I guess this becomes less outrageous as she gets older. She has, at present, an elaborately dyed and layered hairstyle that is, actually, very attractive but must have cost a fortune and is way OTT for a fifteen-year-old.
I think it is a shame that she was encouraged, in various ways, to behave beyond her years or her capability to control. Her nice, polite, middle class background made it harder - if she was tougher, streetwise, assertive, she would have been more able, perhaps, to tell the boy to shove off and not abuse her. She is not alone, I know other girls like her. She has so many material things and, thank goodness, she seems to be coping with things reasonably well now, for which I credit her father. But the modern age does these children no favours at all.
It was just before Christmas, two years ago. My young friend, the daughter of friends too, was thirteen. We chatted sometimes online, and for the couple of days, I had known that something was on her mind. Delicately, I asked what was the matter. A pause. "Oh, nothing really. Just a stupid pregnancy scare, it's all right now."
Thirteen, remember. We 'talked' for probably a couple of hours. I asked if she was sure she wasn't pregnant, no she wasn't, but had convinced herself she couldn't be. I asked what had happened.
She had visited a friend's house, and a number of other teenagers were there. The parents were out and the kids were drinking. She had got off with a sixteen-year-old boy from school, lots of them were kissing, it got heavier... I was asking personal questions I wasn't comfortable with, with a child who was not my own, but she wanted to confide and I wanted her to face it, acknowledge it to herself and (I hoped) practice telling an adult. He was putting his fingers inside her, then he got semen on his fingers and put them back in her.
I did wonder if she was letting imagination take her here, so asked some specific questions. The answers rang true. Simple, descriptive, how it felt.
I told her that it was not likely she was pregnant from what she had said, but if she was anxious then it was not too late for the morning-after pill. I asked her to talk to her parents or, if she felt she couldn't, to go to the school nurse. A weekly drop-in clinic had recently started, for advice, chat or whatever was needed for students who did not want to go to the doctor. She said that she had been able to cope with writing it down, but talking, face to face, was impossible.
I felt in a real quandary. I knew that I should not keep it secret, but it was such a delicate position that telling her parents could do more harm than good. Breaking her trust would be seen as a betrayal and I hoped that telling me would be the first step to taking responsibility for her actions.
I advised her again to tell a nurse and to talk to her parents. I told her that she must not risk drinking alcohol away from home. With her parents' permission, it was all right at home as she would learn how it affects her. It alters judgement, so that one does not realise one is going too far until it is really hard to stop, and this goes for the boy as well as the girl. Boys are obsessed with sex, I told her, they can't help it. He knew well that he should stop, and it was appalling that he hadn't - and illegal, too, he was guilty of assault, at least - but her judgment was impaired too. She hadn't asked him to stop. I asked if she felt she loved him? No, she liked him but that was all. Afterwards, he'd walked her home, held her hand, been really sweet to her.
I still don't know if I should have done more. She did promise to take my advice, and also to consider talking to her parents. I was going away in a week's time, to spend three weeks in India, and Christmas was in between - at least, I knew, she would be busy with family things for the holidays and she promised to email me if she needed to talk. What I did not do was raise the subject of contraception at all. I strongly felt that this could encourage her to think that it was all right, that I might be condoning this happening again.
So, why did this happen to this child, with loving, united parents, who was cared for and treasured? I'm afraid that I think that it was because she had been encouraged to grow up too fast. She takes acting and dancing classes, she is poised, attractive and outgoing but, actually, it's a cover for quite low self-esteem, common to most teenage girls. She is smiling, charming, eager to please. She wears, and wore even then, very short skirts, low-cut cropped tops, makeup, had an expensive haircut - you might know she was thirteen, but you would still take her for sixteen or more. She does not dress tartily, but quite provocatively. Her mother, as far as I'd ever seen, wanted to be her friend and encouraged her. She loved having an attractive, popular daughter. Her father, a kind man, imposed the household rules but assumed that if his wife approved the clothes, they must be all right.
A while later, I asked if things were okay. She told me they were, but didn't take it further. Later again, her father and I had a chat. She had confided in him and his wife. They had talked it through and (he wasn't specific) agreed some sort of ground rules - largely, this seems to consist of her being honest. Also, she has stopped drinking, even at home. She still dresses the same way, but I guess this becomes less outrageous as she gets older. She has, at present, an elaborately dyed and layered hairstyle that is, actually, very attractive but must have cost a fortune and is way OTT for a fifteen-year-old.
I think it is a shame that she was encouraged, in various ways, to behave beyond her years or her capability to control. Her nice, polite, middle class background made it harder - if she was tougher, streetwise, assertive, she would have been more able, perhaps, to tell the boy to shove off and not abuse her. She is not alone, I know other girls like her. She has so many material things and, thank goodness, she seems to be coping with things reasonably well now, for which I credit her father. But the modern age does these children no favours at all.
Tuesday, 30 January 2007
I've sent a get well soon car card
Talking to a friend. We had planned to meet. "I got the day off work wrong," he said. "Next week. Sorry." I reminded him that I am, officially, the Most Disorganised Person in East Anglia and so say "Pfft" if not "Pshaw" to such small misremembers.
Furthermore, his car is in for repair. The garage has lent him a car. It is a Banger. Ooh, actually Banger sounds quite fun. No, it is an old and decrepit banger. A jalopy.
"No power steering" he said. "It's a fight round every roundabout." I sympathised. "It was only four years ago that I first got power steering" I said (I don't do new cars and that). "A year ago, I didn't have climate control. Alarming how quickly that seems normal." "The only climate control I have is the window," he lamented. "And that sticks."
Look, darling heart, if you really want sympathy, don't make me laugh like that. Hope the car is back in fighting trim soon. xx(x)
Furthermore, his car is in for repair. The garage has lent him a car. It is a Banger. Ooh, actually Banger sounds quite fun. No, it is an old and decrepit banger. A jalopy.
"No power steering" he said. "It's a fight round every roundabout." I sympathised. "It was only four years ago that I first got power steering" I said (I don't do new cars and that). "A year ago, I didn't have climate control. Alarming how quickly that seems normal." "The only climate control I have is the window," he lamented. "And that sticks."
Look, darling heart, if you really want sympathy, don't make me laugh like that. Hope the car is back in fighting trim soon. xx(x)
Dunno about death, but taxes really hurt
Al and Dilly felt a bit punch-drunk by the end of last week. What with Al's wisdom tooth extraction - he was on jelly and ice-cream and chicken soup for a day or two there - the resulting bill and, cruellest of all, his tax demand.
If you are self-employed, you have to pay on anticipated earnings*. This balances out, as you don't pay twice - the tax on the anticipated earnings for one year are, as it were, absorbed by what you paid the year before. However, when you start up a business, obviously you don't know what the earnings are likely to be, so this is not done for the first couple of years. This time was the first occasion Al had had to pay on anticipated earnings. It just so happened that, nearly two years ago (that is, at the start of the tax year in question), Yagnub's largest - though still small - supermarket moved a mile or so out of the town centre and, as a result, Al's takings rocketed. Since then, he has done pretty well. However, it has meant that he had a vast tax bill, three-quarters of it to be paid now. The total works out at 43% of his year's earnings. Since he is a basic-rate taxpayer, this means he was, in effect, taxed at double rate, with no tax-free allowance.
It hurt.
In addition, Dilly is not earning and is not receiving maternity pay. Right now, the shop wages and bills are being paid out of the week's takings - that is, the eggs that are delivered and paid for on Tuesday are enough to cause a cash-flow problem.
They are remarkably cheerful, in the circumstances. At least, they say, they didn't have to borrow the money. Just strip their savings account. And, right now, that was what it was there for.
*Bear in mind, as you read what follows, that I don't quite understand it myself, so this is my interpretation of the rules.
If you are self-employed, you have to pay on anticipated earnings*. This balances out, as you don't pay twice - the tax on the anticipated earnings for one year are, as it were, absorbed by what you paid the year before. However, when you start up a business, obviously you don't know what the earnings are likely to be, so this is not done for the first couple of years. This time was the first occasion Al had had to pay on anticipated earnings. It just so happened that, nearly two years ago (that is, at the start of the tax year in question), Yagnub's largest - though still small - supermarket moved a mile or so out of the town centre and, as a result, Al's takings rocketed. Since then, he has done pretty well. However, it has meant that he had a vast tax bill, three-quarters of it to be paid now. The total works out at 43% of his year's earnings. Since he is a basic-rate taxpayer, this means he was, in effect, taxed at double rate, with no tax-free allowance.
It hurt.
In addition, Dilly is not earning and is not receiving maternity pay. Right now, the shop wages and bills are being paid out of the week's takings - that is, the eggs that are delivered and paid for on Tuesday are enough to cause a cash-flow problem.
They are remarkably cheerful, in the circumstances. At least, they say, they didn't have to borrow the money. Just strip their savings account. And, right now, that was what it was there for.
*Bear in mind, as you read what follows, that I don't quite understand it myself, so this is my interpretation of the rules.
Monday, 29 January 2007
While waiting for potatoes to cook...
Drafting isn't Me, you know. One has been deleted and the other is getting out of hand and needs shortening drastically. Ho hum. Inconsequential ramblings are much simpler. If I work on it, I get all impassioned and I use too many words.
Al and I are thinking about spring planting. Yes, I know, it's still January. It's the greenhouse we're thinking about - we want to grow early lettuces and suchlike, for the shop. I haven't got around to it for a couple of years, but it works well if you start early enough as they have been harvested by the time you want to put in cucumbers and tomatoes.
I've got seeds from last year that never got sown. Inefficiency reigned. I have put in my main seed order, but still have one catalogue to choose from, mostly pumpkins and chilli peppers. I want to have fun in the garden this year and, thanks to the chickens' grass-clearing efficiency, I intend to enlarge the veg patch. They have, by the way, been pecking keenly at the globe artichokes and I hope the plants will recover.
Halibut for dinner - I hope it's not one of the endangered species we aren't supposed to eat any more. It is so good to eat... I also couldn't resist some early forced rhubarb and I decided to make pumpkin (still a few home-grown ones) soup. The soup can wait until tomorrow; as I said to Ro, if I start serving three courses, he and his father will up their expectations of me unrealistically. That would never do. I have already promised young Al a day and a half in the shop weekly for a while. I'm concerned that he has been working too hard and so has Dilly - not easy, having two children under two.
Time to cook the halibut. TTFN, as they said. A long time ago.
Al and I are thinking about spring planting. Yes, I know, it's still January. It's the greenhouse we're thinking about - we want to grow early lettuces and suchlike, for the shop. I haven't got around to it for a couple of years, but it works well if you start early enough as they have been harvested by the time you want to put in cucumbers and tomatoes.
I've got seeds from last year that never got sown. Inefficiency reigned. I have put in my main seed order, but still have one catalogue to choose from, mostly pumpkins and chilli peppers. I want to have fun in the garden this year and, thanks to the chickens' grass-clearing efficiency, I intend to enlarge the veg patch. They have, by the way, been pecking keenly at the globe artichokes and I hope the plants will recover.
Halibut for dinner - I hope it's not one of the endangered species we aren't supposed to eat any more. It is so good to eat... I also couldn't resist some early forced rhubarb and I decided to make pumpkin (still a few home-grown ones) soup. The soup can wait until tomorrow; as I said to Ro, if I start serving three courses, he and his father will up their expectations of me unrealistically. That would never do. I have already promised young Al a day and a half in the shop weekly for a while. I'm concerned that he has been working too hard and so has Dilly - not easy, having two children under two.
Time to cook the halibut. TTFN, as they said. A long time ago.
Sunday, 28 January 2007
A name may not matter, but it feels as if it does
I've been amusing myself for the last few minutes by looking up family names on this website, as commended by Robert Crampton in yesterday's Times magazine. Very interesting, especially to see how some names were restricted to specific areas of the country in 1881 and have, since then, migrated all over the place. My own maiden name was well represented in the South-East then and now is not recorded - they need at least 100 people with that surname on the electoral register to be in their database. I suspected this, but it caused me a surprising pang to have it confirmed.
So I googled the name to cheer myself up and, to my surprise, found that there is a portrait of my great-great-great grandfather in the National Portrait Gallery. This is not as interesting as it sounds, as he is just one of the sitters for The House of Commons, 1833
by Sir George Hayter, along with several hundred other MPs of the time...I started to count the list of names but got bored at about 150 and gave up. I don't expect g-g-g-grandad will be easy to pick out in that crowd, so I don't suppose I'll look the picture out when I next visit.
So I googled the name to cheer myself up and, to my surprise, found that there is a portrait of my great-great-great grandfather in the National Portrait Gallery. This is not as interesting as it sounds, as he is just one of the sitters for The House of Commons, 1833
by Sir George Hayter, along with several hundred other MPs of the time...I started to count the list of names but got bored at about 150 and gave up. I don't expect g-g-g-grandad will be easy to pick out in that crowd, so I don't suppose I'll look the picture out when I next visit.
Saturday, 27 January 2007
Spoilsports in NZ
I'm on my way to bed, but I just have to share this with you. Particularly with the Boy, who affirmed his intention to get up to just this sort of escapade (although, of course, with his wife because he is not that sort of boy) a few decades from now.
Tonight's exciting installment. Who says Z doesn't do irony?
I'm drafting. I don't do drafting - what you poor bewildered darlings usually get are the Thoughts of Chairman Z in true rambling and random form - but I have several postsworth running concurrently and the least I can do is split them up a bit to make them coherent.
If you are lucky, I might get bored and delete the lot. If you are luckier still, you might be treated to a trio or more of deathless prose, wittily insightful and charmingly lighthearted. The most likely option of all is that I'll put up something rambling and marginally argumentative and you will be both indulgent and mildly irritated.
I don't do cliffhangers as well as Pi does, do I. Hmm. Do you do Hanging-by-your-Fingertip classes, Pi?
If you are lucky, I might get bored and delete the lot. If you are luckier still, you might be treated to a trio or more of deathless prose, wittily insightful and charmingly lighthearted. The most likely option of all is that I'll put up something rambling and marginally argumentative and you will be both indulgent and mildly irritated.
I don't do cliffhangers as well as Pi does, do I. Hmm. Do you do Hanging-by-your-Fingertip classes, Pi?
Friday, 26 January 2007
An extract in the life of Al
I've had another couple of days in the shop as Al has been visiting the dentist. Trouble with a wisdom tooth. The dentist advised extraction and had had a cancellation for this morning, so Al decided to bite the bullet. Ow.
He thought he'd be back for the afternoon. I said I'd keep the whole day available, just in case. I was not at all surprised when he didn't feel up to the afternoon shift. Quite apart from the lopsided mouth and the mumbled speech, he felt quite woozy and sore.
Someone brought in some splendid homegrown parsnips, freshly dug and still spattered with authentic mud, which I promptly snapped up, offering £1.00 per kilo, which is about what Al pays the wholesaler. He was very pleased and said he has more to dig up. Al doesn't try to pay local growers less than the wholesaler, although of course it is a pure bonus for anyone who grows their own veg as they have no overheads to pay, except insofar as they would be spending money on their garden anyway. But the more people who think of him when they have a surplus, especially at this time of year when he has less local stuff to offer, the happier he is. So are the customers. I was putting the parsnips into a box and writing a large label for it when a customer, being served by Eileen, saw them. "Ooh, they look lovely. May I swap the ones I have just bought?"
Robert came in, a day early. Usually, he visits his parents on a Saturday and he buys a week's worth of fruit and veg, but he is moving house tomorrow. He told me he and his partner have also been choosing the day of their civil partnership ceremony. They had planned a very small do, but his mum says she would love them to have a big party and will make all the arrangements and foot the bill. So, happiness all round, and Al was pleased too, when he heard. Nothing like a wedding to make everyone smile.
I came home to be told that Tilly the dog was not well and had demonstrated the fact by chundering in several rooms. She quivered and looked scared, but this might have been because she thought she was in trouble. However, her eyes looked small and pained. She seems better now, and accepted a small piece of my potato at dinner. Let's hope she had only found something unspeakable to eat in the garden.
Back to the shop tomorrow. Neither Jean not Eileen can come in, and two people (Al and Sarah, the Saturday girl) really can't manage on a Saturday morning. I am becoming absurdly fit and healthy. Well, not fit for much but, you know, comparatively. I think I've been accepted as a 'flying' member of staff. Kit Kat Connie brought me a kit-kat as well as Eileen, this morning. I haven't eaten it yet. I bought a Chelsea bun from the bakery and scoffed that in the afternoon. But I will tomorrow.
He thought he'd be back for the afternoon. I said I'd keep the whole day available, just in case. I was not at all surprised when he didn't feel up to the afternoon shift. Quite apart from the lopsided mouth and the mumbled speech, he felt quite woozy and sore.
Someone brought in some splendid homegrown parsnips, freshly dug and still spattered with authentic mud, which I promptly snapped up, offering £1.00 per kilo, which is about what Al pays the wholesaler. He was very pleased and said he has more to dig up. Al doesn't try to pay local growers less than the wholesaler, although of course it is a pure bonus for anyone who grows their own veg as they have no overheads to pay, except insofar as they would be spending money on their garden anyway. But the more people who think of him when they have a surplus, especially at this time of year when he has less local stuff to offer, the happier he is. So are the customers. I was putting the parsnips into a box and writing a large label for it when a customer, being served by Eileen, saw them. "Ooh, they look lovely. May I swap the ones I have just bought?"
Robert came in, a day early. Usually, he visits his parents on a Saturday and he buys a week's worth of fruit and veg, but he is moving house tomorrow. He told me he and his partner have also been choosing the day of their civil partnership ceremony. They had planned a very small do, but his mum says she would love them to have a big party and will make all the arrangements and foot the bill. So, happiness all round, and Al was pleased too, when he heard. Nothing like a wedding to make everyone smile.
I came home to be told that Tilly the dog was not well and had demonstrated the fact by chundering in several rooms. She quivered and looked scared, but this might have been because she thought she was in trouble. However, her eyes looked small and pained. She seems better now, and accepted a small piece of my potato at dinner. Let's hope she had only found something unspeakable to eat in the garden.
Back to the shop tomorrow. Neither Jean not Eileen can come in, and two people (Al and Sarah, the Saturday girl) really can't manage on a Saturday morning. I am becoming absurdly fit and healthy. Well, not fit for much but, you know, comparatively. I think I've been accepted as a 'flying' member of staff. Kit Kat Connie brought me a kit-kat as well as Eileen, this morning. I haven't eaten it yet. I bought a Chelsea bun from the bakery and scoffed that in the afternoon. But I will tomorrow.
Thursday, 25 January 2007
Z never wants to turn into a Grumpy Old Woman
Darling Wendz, today, expressed her views on the annoying use of over-elaborate language that is used, not only in blogs - which were where her arrows were directed - but in daily conversation and, particularly, in writing. I wrote a draft of a post, that wasn't finished or posted, a week or two ago, which actually [although I entirely agree with Wendz in virtually everything she says, except for some of her linguistic bêtes noires (what on earth is wrong with 'pad' for walking softly over a carpeted floor in bare feet or slippers?)], came to almost exactly the opposite conclusion.
I am becoming more tolerant. I feel happier for it. I do not mind how people express themselves, especially in blogs, which they set up for their own self-expression and I need only read if I wish to.
I first ruminated on this (you know, after what Wendz said, I'm a little wary of using any long word when a short one would do, but self-confidence reigns on this blog) when I had watched an episode of the television programme 'Grumpy Old Women', an equal opportunities spin-off from 'Grumpy Old Men.' I could relate to everything they said but, and no doubt the outrage was emphasised for its entertainment value, I rejected almost all of it. I do not want to rejoice in grumpiness and intolerence.
The future doesn't belong to me. My values are old fashioned, but who am I to say they are better? Language is there to communicate (although, as Wendz suggests, jargon and cliché and polysyllables can get in the way of communication) - and I no longer care if someone confuses different spellings of the same word. If it was good enough for Shakespeare, I would be stuffy and pedantic to mind. If the meaning is clear, that is what matters. I will draw a line of differentiation here between formal and informal writing. I hate it when I receive an official letter with misspellings and bad grammar. Especially when it comes from the Education Department, as is not unknown. If I'm paying your wages, either through taxes or by buying your products, I expect you to write correctly.
Some years ago, I was on a train, coming home from London, when a woman of about 60 got on. She proceeded to peel and eat an orange. A few minutes later, a man lit up a cigarette - it was a non-smoking carriage. She protested. He pointed out that he hated the smell of orange, but he hadn't said anything to her. Now, of course, the point was that it was, indeed, a non-smoking carriage, so he was breaking the rules and she wasn't, but his point, that they were equal in terms of nuisance value, had a specious persuasiveness. There was a silence, while everyone watched with interest. She got to her feet and stormed out of the carriage. She was a Grumpy Old Woman*, he was an Awkward Young Man. They were both Inconsiderate. Neither was better than the other. None of us was better either, because she was 'right' and we should have spoken up but we did see his point as we hadn't liked her zest any more than his smoke.
I don't mind incoherent and awkward young people. I think David Cameron was a twit even to associate himself with the phrase 'hug a hoodie' but I see what he meant. Young people are awkward and frustrated, and who can blame them. They are nagged and pressurised at school, expected to rein in their natural energies, told their exams are worthless and far too easy to pass, allowed too little freedom until their teens, when suddenly they are given too much, and then watched with suspicion by everyone who assumes that they are up to no good. There are huge problems, largely with drugs. There are disaffected and aggressive thugs. But they are not going to improve by being disapproved of by old bats like me.
What I know, I think everyone should know. Dates. Geography. Literature. History. What used to be general knowledge, but has been squeezed out by the National Curriculum. But I break the very rules I was taught - by, for example, starting a sentence with 'but' or 'and'. Using the words 'a lot of' or 'got' - a pang goes through me, it's true, but my feeling is now that if it works, do it. Not in an official letter, but in a colloquial blog, it is not unacceptable. Furthermore, my general knowledge, recognised by my parents and grandparents, has gone. I do not necessarily care about the things my children's generation do and I don't think it matters. But if I shrug 'same difference, so what?', why shouldn't they? Why should niceties of behaviour or language matter to them? Or the date of Agincourt? Some ignorance is shocking, but I am no better. Before I complain about the speck of dust in their eye, I should fish the bloomin' great plank of wood out of mine, as the bible neatly puts it.
I don't want to try to ape them. That would be embarrassing. But I'll be a great deal happier if I can find a note of concord and live peaceably, rather than complain about the good old days.
*I do not mean to suggest that 60 is old, but that GOW'hood is a frame of mind that can strike at any time.
I am becoming more tolerant. I feel happier for it. I do not mind how people express themselves, especially in blogs, which they set up for their own self-expression and I need only read if I wish to.
I first ruminated on this (you know, after what Wendz said, I'm a little wary of using any long word when a short one would do, but self-confidence reigns on this blog) when I had watched an episode of the television programme 'Grumpy Old Women', an equal opportunities spin-off from 'Grumpy Old Men.' I could relate to everything they said but, and no doubt the outrage was emphasised for its entertainment value, I rejected almost all of it. I do not want to rejoice in grumpiness and intolerence.
The future doesn't belong to me. My values are old fashioned, but who am I to say they are better? Language is there to communicate (although, as Wendz suggests, jargon and cliché and polysyllables can get in the way of communication) - and I no longer care if someone confuses different spellings of the same word. If it was good enough for Shakespeare, I would be stuffy and pedantic to mind. If the meaning is clear, that is what matters. I will draw a line of differentiation here between formal and informal writing. I hate it when I receive an official letter with misspellings and bad grammar. Especially when it comes from the Education Department, as is not unknown. If I'm paying your wages, either through taxes or by buying your products, I expect you to write correctly.
Some years ago, I was on a train, coming home from London, when a woman of about 60 got on. She proceeded to peel and eat an orange. A few minutes later, a man lit up a cigarette - it was a non-smoking carriage. She protested. He pointed out that he hated the smell of orange, but he hadn't said anything to her. Now, of course, the point was that it was, indeed, a non-smoking carriage, so he was breaking the rules and she wasn't, but his point, that they were equal in terms of nuisance value, had a specious persuasiveness. There was a silence, while everyone watched with interest. She got to her feet and stormed out of the carriage. She was a Grumpy Old Woman*, he was an Awkward Young Man. They were both Inconsiderate. Neither was better than the other. None of us was better either, because she was 'right' and we should have spoken up but we did see his point as we hadn't liked her zest any more than his smoke.
I don't mind incoherent and awkward young people. I think David Cameron was a twit even to associate himself with the phrase 'hug a hoodie' but I see what he meant. Young people are awkward and frustrated, and who can blame them. They are nagged and pressurised at school, expected to rein in their natural energies, told their exams are worthless and far too easy to pass, allowed too little freedom until their teens, when suddenly they are given too much, and then watched with suspicion by everyone who assumes that they are up to no good. There are huge problems, largely with drugs. There are disaffected and aggressive thugs. But they are not going to improve by being disapproved of by old bats like me.
What I know, I think everyone should know. Dates. Geography. Literature. History. What used to be general knowledge, but has been squeezed out by the National Curriculum. But I break the very rules I was taught - by, for example, starting a sentence with 'but' or 'and'. Using the words 'a lot of' or 'got' - a pang goes through me, it's true, but my feeling is now that if it works, do it. Not in an official letter, but in a colloquial blog, it is not unacceptable. Furthermore, my general knowledge, recognised by my parents and grandparents, has gone. I do not necessarily care about the things my children's generation do and I don't think it matters. But if I shrug 'same difference, so what?', why shouldn't they? Why should niceties of behaviour or language matter to them? Or the date of Agincourt? Some ignorance is shocking, but I am no better. Before I complain about the speck of dust in their eye, I should fish the bloomin' great plank of wood out of mine, as the bible neatly puts it.
I don't want to try to ape them. That would be embarrassing. But I'll be a great deal happier if I can find a note of concord and live peaceably, rather than complain about the good old days.
*I do not mean to suggest that 60 is old, but that GOW'hood is a frame of mind that can strike at any time.
Wednesday, 24 January 2007
I could have talked all night...
... as usual. ( Updated, Thurdsay, at the end)
Thank you again for being so encouraging, and I am happy to report that my clothes were suitable. Do not underestimate the satisfaction this word brings. I was not overdressed compared to the others, but neither did I feel like Cinderella after midnight.
We did start off a little poorly by not reading our invitation properly. We turned up at our friends' house, just as his son and wife walked out of the front door. "Um" he said politely, for he is a most charming young man, "the party's not here, it's at Mahsrae Llah." We turned the car and embarrassedly drove back the way we'd come. The Hall was, until about 1930, the family home of our host, but some of the estate was sold off and, after a few changes of ownership, a family bought it about 25 years ago and have been restoring the original features ever since, running a business from there too. For the last three or four years, they have been doing weddings and similar jollies as well, although they do not do catering and so the restauranteurs where I mentioned having lunch the other day with Squiffany were in to provide dinner. Two daughters of a friend of mine, each of whom in turn was the restaurant manager until they moved on, were there as waitresses and it was good to see them again although they were, of course, too busy to chat. There were huge fires in every grate and I was quite warm, although bare-armed.
Delicious dinner, splendid company, we had a lovely time. I flirted decorously with my left-hand neighbour, who has been friends with our host from prep school days, over 60 years ago. Our opposite neighbour, an elderly lady I have known for years but in daytime situations, was slightly perturbed by this and wondered, by the look in her eye, if I was being carried away by unaccustomed wine, but I assured her that I'm always like this in the evenings, with or without the booze. I was a touch disconcerted, admittedly, by my wine glass being refilled after almost every sip; as I was chatting in the animated way that makes Z Good Value at a gathering, I did not always notice the stealthily pouring hand. Not that I drank too much, would I do that?
It was, although relaxed and happy, a slightly formal do: for example, the ladies retired after dinner, leaving the gentlemen to their port and racy anecdotes (I'm happy to say that port had been brought round with some highly yummy cheeses and totally delicious biscuits, which I must buy; fortunately the restaurant has a deli) and I sat next to someone whom I hadn't met for at least 15 years; she had been the rather posh secretary at my daughter's school. On my other hand was an elegant lady who had the rangy and handsome look of a racehorse.
I also had a happy opportunity to chat to friends who moved away from the village about 18 months ago, whom I haven't seen since. A great pleasure. I have promised to call, when I'm going down the A11 (or do I mean the M11?) as it is not a long detour.
Snowing when I left, snowing again at 8.30 this morning. Not enough to make a snowman, however, so my winter is not yet complete.
Tomorrow, I will take a photograph of my necklace for the Chairwoman and Stegbeetle - who might have meant photos of Me but, charming as he is to suggest it, I'm afraid that any taken are in the possession of the family and, don't you always find, pictures taken at a party always find you with your mouth full of food or open in raucous laughter and are not fit to be shown in mixed company.
And today's the day that was tomorrow yesterday.
The more observant among you may notice that the background on which the necklace lies is the velvet skirt.
Thank you again for being so encouraging, and I am happy to report that my clothes were suitable. Do not underestimate the satisfaction this word brings. I was not overdressed compared to the others, but neither did I feel like Cinderella after midnight.
We did start off a little poorly by not reading our invitation properly. We turned up at our friends' house, just as his son and wife walked out of the front door. "Um" he said politely, for he is a most charming young man, "the party's not here, it's at Mahsrae Llah." We turned the car and embarrassedly drove back the way we'd come. The Hall was, until about 1930, the family home of our host, but some of the estate was sold off and, after a few changes of ownership, a family bought it about 25 years ago and have been restoring the original features ever since, running a business from there too. For the last three or four years, they have been doing weddings and similar jollies as well, although they do not do catering and so the restauranteurs where I mentioned having lunch the other day with Squiffany were in to provide dinner. Two daughters of a friend of mine, each of whom in turn was the restaurant manager until they moved on, were there as waitresses and it was good to see them again although they were, of course, too busy to chat. There were huge fires in every grate and I was quite warm, although bare-armed.
Delicious dinner, splendid company, we had a lovely time. I flirted decorously with my left-hand neighbour, who has been friends with our host from prep school days, over 60 years ago. Our opposite neighbour, an elderly lady I have known for years but in daytime situations, was slightly perturbed by this and wondered, by the look in her eye, if I was being carried away by unaccustomed wine, but I assured her that I'm always like this in the evenings, with or without the booze. I was a touch disconcerted, admittedly, by my wine glass being refilled after almost every sip; as I was chatting in the animated way that makes Z Good Value at a gathering, I did not always notice the stealthily pouring hand. Not that I drank too much, would I do that?
It was, although relaxed and happy, a slightly formal do: for example, the ladies retired after dinner, leaving the gentlemen to their port and racy anecdotes (I'm happy to say that port had been brought round with some highly yummy cheeses and totally delicious biscuits, which I must buy; fortunately the restaurant has a deli) and I sat next to someone whom I hadn't met for at least 15 years; she had been the rather posh secretary at my daughter's school. On my other hand was an elegant lady who had the rangy and handsome look of a racehorse.
I also had a happy opportunity to chat to friends who moved away from the village about 18 months ago, whom I haven't seen since. A great pleasure. I have promised to call, when I'm going down the A11 (or do I mean the M11?) as it is not a long detour.
Snowing when I left, snowing again at 8.30 this morning. Not enough to make a snowman, however, so my winter is not yet complete.
Tomorrow, I will take a photograph of my necklace for the Chairwoman and Stegbeetle - who might have meant photos of Me but, charming as he is to suggest it, I'm afraid that any taken are in the possession of the family and, don't you always find, pictures taken at a party always find you with your mouth full of food or open in raucous laughter and are not fit to be shown in mixed company.
And today's the day that was tomorrow yesterday.
The more observant among you may notice that the background on which the necklace lies is the velvet skirt.
Z gets wrong* with her children
I went next door to return Dilly's glasses to her, which she had left in the drawing room. She only wears them to drive, so had not realised they were missing.
"Granny's in trouble" observed Al. Dilly laughed. "I gave Squiffany some orange juice out of a carton, which I diluted. She took one taste and handed it back, saying 'Me don't like this orange juice'."
Mine is freshly squeezed. I have turned my granddaughter into an orange juice snob.
On the other hand, it was a nicely constructed sentence; one grammatical error, but not an uncommon one in small children.
*An excellent Norfolkism. Pronounced 'gits raahng'.
"Granny's in trouble" observed Al. Dilly laughed. "I gave Squiffany some orange juice out of a carton, which I diluted. She took one taste and handed it back, saying 'Me don't like this orange juice'."
Mine is freshly squeezed. I have turned my granddaughter into an orange juice snob.
On the other hand, it was a nicely constructed sentence; one grammatical error, but not an uncommon one in small children.
*An excellent Norfolkism. Pronounced 'gits raahng'.
Z does not have a hangover, which is just as well
Dilly needed to go shopping, but Squiffany didn't feel like going out. So she visited Granny. We did some painting. Then we decided to make cakes.
Butter and sugar are effectively mixed by hand
The bantams were keen to help and donated three eggs
Fingers were made before thumbs, as my father used to say, obscurely
Mm, cakes
Mmm, cakes and orange juice.
Butter and sugar are effectively mixed by hand
The bantams were keen to help and donated three eggs
Fingers were made before thumbs, as my father used to say, obscurely
Mm, cakes
Mmm, cakes and orange juice.
Tuesday, 23 January 2007
Ro is cooking sausages for himself, for Z and the Sage are partying!!(!)
Not knowing what to wear brought forth many sympathetic and encouraging comments, for which thank you.
I am wearing a rather old, but not that often worn (it is so elderly that, who knows, it may even be fashionable again soon), long, midnight-blue velvet skirt and a (I've been searching my brain for the colour, for purple, mauve and violet would not do, and I have it at last!) heliotrope silk top, which is sort of ruched so that it fits without being tight. It is sleeveless and has a sequined border. As you can see, I do not really have the vocabulary to describe clothes, they are not my forte.
I have gone rather more overboard on my jewellery, which is all gilden and diamondy, and am wearing my necklace and earrings that I bought in Chennai, which is alternate ruby and sapphire five-pointed flowers on a gold necklace. They are Sri Lanken rubies and sapphires and not good ones, it was not expensive, but it is pretty. I am sporting Perfume, which I rarely do, I usually sport the aroma of unadulterated Z.
Time to go, darlings.
I am wearing a rather old, but not that often worn (it is so elderly that, who knows, it may even be fashionable again soon), long, midnight-blue velvet skirt and a (I've been searching my brain for the colour, for purple, mauve and violet would not do, and I have it at last!) heliotrope silk top, which is sort of ruched so that it fits without being tight. It is sleeveless and has a sequined border. As you can see, I do not really have the vocabulary to describe clothes, they are not my forte.
I have gone rather more overboard on my jewellery, which is all gilden and diamondy, and am wearing my necklace and earrings that I bought in Chennai, which is alternate ruby and sapphire five-pointed flowers on a gold necklace. They are Sri Lanken rubies and sapphires and not good ones, it was not expensive, but it is pretty. I am sporting Perfume, which I rarely do, I usually sport the aroma of unadulterated Z.
Time to go, darlings.
Monday, 22 January 2007
Z has nothing to wear
We are going to a Party tomorrow night. The Sage is required to wear his dinner jacket. I started mentioning this gently some while back, and became slightly more insistent a week ago as, I pointed out, there was still time to send it to the cleaners/darn the moth holes/buy a new one (this last is not to be taken seriously). Much to my surprise, he sprung to his feet and said "I will go and check on it NOW, as you have kindly reminded me." He returned a couple of minutes later, looking highly smug, saying that it is still in its dry cleaner wrapper, he having sent it after the last wearing.
I was vastly impressed. I should also like to point out that, when I married him, the Sage (who was not yet so named as he had not earned the title) believed that it was up to a mother or a wife to deal with all matters of clothing. For a few years I did, indeed, buy shirts and socks and underwear and send clothes to the cleaners. But then I realised that, whilst it may be up to the mother of a small boy to do these things, a Man can do it on his own account. And I didn't want to be the mother to my husband, for we have no Oedipusish leanings round here. It took quite some time for him to adjust, during which he went round with holes in his socks and only three working shirts, but we got there.
So, the Sage is sorted. Isn't it easy for a man? He will put on his dinner suit and a smart white shirt and swear at his bow tie for a bit and he will look wonderful and suitable, and I don't know what to wear at all. I don't know where to pitch it. And I haven't bought anything dressy for evenings for years and years. It is a party in our friends' house to celebrate their 40th wedding anniversary. They are considerable landowners but wear their wealth lightly and understatedly. They have a beautiful house but not a smart one. They give great parties but not, usually, very formal ones. She is quite an informal dresser normally, but their parties do not normally mention DJs, so I think they must be upping the stakes someone for the momentousness of the occasion.
I was browsing through my wardrobe the other day, amongst clothes I haven't worn for ages, and I came across a very nice black tailored short-sleeved top - a little jacket, but not the sort you wear anything underneath. I was highly pleased and put it on. I could not do up the buttons! It is not a matter of weight gain, it is, um, Development. That is, of course, another matter. I have a cleavage now, which I used hardly to have and one has to wear different clothes. More fitting and lower cut, which sounds as though it Should Not Be, but loose clothes make you look as if you are actually that big all the way down and around, and high necks make you look all puffed out. It is not, I hasten to add, that I am exactly busty. It is all, furthermore, home grown. But why? It all started when I took up the clarinet, all that good breathing and chest muscle development. But it must have carried on since then, because this little black top is not that old - five years perhaps? Which, in my terms, is practically Brand New (I'm not big on clothes shopping).
There's nothing for it. I'm going to have to brave the cold of my bedroom (we like a warm bed and a cold room and don't heat the bedroom) and check out the wardrobe.
I was vastly impressed. I should also like to point out that, when I married him, the Sage (who was not yet so named as he had not earned the title) believed that it was up to a mother or a wife to deal with all matters of clothing. For a few years I did, indeed, buy shirts and socks and underwear and send clothes to the cleaners. But then I realised that, whilst it may be up to the mother of a small boy to do these things, a Man can do it on his own account. And I didn't want to be the mother to my husband, for we have no Oedipusish leanings round here. It took quite some time for him to adjust, during which he went round with holes in his socks and only three working shirts, but we got there.
So, the Sage is sorted. Isn't it easy for a man? He will put on his dinner suit and a smart white shirt and swear at his bow tie for a bit and he will look wonderful and suitable, and I don't know what to wear at all. I don't know where to pitch it. And I haven't bought anything dressy for evenings for years and years. It is a party in our friends' house to celebrate their 40th wedding anniversary. They are considerable landowners but wear their wealth lightly and understatedly. They have a beautiful house but not a smart one. They give great parties but not, usually, very formal ones. She is quite an informal dresser normally, but their parties do not normally mention DJs, so I think they must be upping the stakes someone for the momentousness of the occasion.
I was browsing through my wardrobe the other day, amongst clothes I haven't worn for ages, and I came across a very nice black tailored short-sleeved top - a little jacket, but not the sort you wear anything underneath. I was highly pleased and put it on. I could not do up the buttons! It is not a matter of weight gain, it is, um, Development. That is, of course, another matter. I have a cleavage now, which I used hardly to have and one has to wear different clothes. More fitting and lower cut, which sounds as though it Should Not Be, but loose clothes make you look as if you are actually that big all the way down and around, and high necks make you look all puffed out. It is not, I hasten to add, that I am exactly busty. It is all, furthermore, home grown. But why? It all started when I took up the clarinet, all that good breathing and chest muscle development. But it must have carried on since then, because this little black top is not that old - five years perhaps? Which, in my terms, is practically Brand New (I'm not big on clothes shopping).
There's nothing for it. I'm going to have to brave the cold of my bedroom (we like a warm bed and a cold room and don't heat the bedroom) and check out the wardrobe.
Sunday, 21 January 2007
The Sage is getting intense
He's bought another ebay piece. Half an hour to go on a third, and he's interested.
He's just kissed me.
Ooer!!(!)
He's just kissed me.
Ooer!!(!)
Well, it is Sunday and I have time on my hands
| You Are a Cinnamon Jelly Bean |
 Sassy and bold, your behavior is often shocking - even to those who know you well. And while you're too hot to handle, people still are addicted to you. |
Sassy? Er, no, I is a Good and Quiet Girl
| Your Personality Profile |
 You are dependable, popular, and observant. Deep and thoughtful, you are prone to moodiness. In fact, your emotions tend to influence everything you do. You are unique, creative, and expressive. You don't mind waving your freak flag every once and a while. And lucky for you, most people find your weird ways charming! |
Some of this.
| Your Career Personality: Original, Devoted, and Service Oriented |
 Your Ideal Careers: Art director Book editor College professor Composer Film director Graphic designer Novelist Stage actor Psychiatrist Writer |
I quite like these, though.
Thanks to DodderyOldFart, who so obviously isn't.
ABC tag. I don't know what happened to UVWXYZ. I think it is blatant letterism
A- Available or single? Neither
B- Best Friend? I’m not sure that I’ve ever had one, really. I’m closest to my family. I have a few friends from childhood, but I don’t see them often as we don’t live close to each other. I have good friends now, but not one ‘best’ friend
C- Cake or Pie? You want me to choose? Can’t I have both? Fish pie then
D- Drink of Choice? Strong black coffee, weak black tea (preferably Lapsang Souchong), red wine. Or mint tea, white wine, Lady Grey tea. Or gin and tonic, champagne, beer. Or draught Guinness, root ginger and honey in hot water, ice-cold water with a squeeze of lime juice. Or malt whisky – Laphroaig, or whiskey – Bushmills.
Right now, I’m drinking Lady Grey
E- Essential Item? My handbag. That makes me feel so middle-aged
F- Favorite Colour? I wanted an emerald. So the Sage bought me one. But my engagement ring is sapphire. Um. Blue
G- Gummi Bears or Worms? What, real worms? Or are they an alternative sweet? I like gummi bears, I have childish habits. I also like real worms, but would not care to eat one. Both chewy and gritty, I should think
H- Hometown? I live in mahsraE, a village near yagnuB (excuse the backspeak). I grew up in Lowestoft
I- Indulgence? A winter’s evening by the fire, with music and candles
J- January or February? January, so long as we have snow. If we don’t get snow until February, I reserve the right to change
K- Kids? Three, grown up
L- Life is incomplete without? Books, music and Radio 4. But if I had to choose, books
M- Marriage Date? 24th May 1973
N- Number of Siblings? One elder sister. She lives in Wiltshire and we visit each other when we can. Sometimes we meet in London. Sometimes, we even go on holiday together, which I think is a pretty Good Sign
O- Oranges or apples? Today, oranges. I squeezed two for breakfast
P- Phobias/Fears? Deep water. I am afraid of drowning. I’m not too good even in shallow water as I have to hold on to something if I’m out of my depth
Q- Favourite Quote? “She was small and delicately put together, but she looked durable.” The Big Sleep. Raymond Chandler
R- Reason to Smile? The sun shone today, the birds sang and I used my pruning saw
S- Season? I like all the seasons. I love to see things growing in spring, the new growth on the trees and the longer days. I love the English summer sun, which is just hot enough for me as long as I keep out of it directly, I love the smells of autumn and the ripeness. I enjoy crisp wintry weather and long evenings by the fire, dog on my lap
T- Tag three people! Ah. I need to check who hasn’t done this. Back later
B- Best Friend? I’m not sure that I’ve ever had one, really. I’m closest to my family. I have a few friends from childhood, but I don’t see them often as we don’t live close to each other. I have good friends now, but not one ‘best’ friend
C- Cake or Pie? You want me to choose? Can’t I have both? Fish pie then
D- Drink of Choice? Strong black coffee, weak black tea (preferably Lapsang Souchong), red wine. Or mint tea, white wine, Lady Grey tea. Or gin and tonic, champagne, beer. Or draught Guinness, root ginger and honey in hot water, ice-cold water with a squeeze of lime juice. Or malt whisky – Laphroaig, or whiskey – Bushmills.
Right now, I’m drinking Lady Grey
E- Essential Item? My handbag. That makes me feel so middle-aged
F- Favorite Colour? I wanted an emerald. So the Sage bought me one. But my engagement ring is sapphire. Um. Blue
G- Gummi Bears or Worms? What, real worms? Or are they an alternative sweet? I like gummi bears, I have childish habits. I also like real worms, but would not care to eat one. Both chewy and gritty, I should think
H- Hometown? I live in mahsraE, a village near yagnuB (excuse the backspeak). I grew up in Lowestoft
I- Indulgence? A winter’s evening by the fire, with music and candles
J- January or February? January, so long as we have snow. If we don’t get snow until February, I reserve the right to change
K- Kids? Three, grown up
L- Life is incomplete without? Books, music and Radio 4. But if I had to choose, books
M- Marriage Date? 24th May 1973
N- Number of Siblings? One elder sister. She lives in Wiltshire and we visit each other when we can. Sometimes we meet in London. Sometimes, we even go on holiday together, which I think is a pretty Good Sign
O- Oranges or apples? Today, oranges. I squeezed two for breakfast
P- Phobias/Fears? Deep water. I am afraid of drowning. I’m not too good even in shallow water as I have to hold on to something if I’m out of my depth
Q- Favourite Quote? “She was small and delicately put together, but she looked durable.” The Big Sleep. Raymond Chandler
R- Reason to Smile? The sun shone today, the birds sang and I used my pruning saw
S- Season? I like all the seasons. I love to see things growing in spring, the new growth on the trees and the longer days. I love the English summer sun, which is just hot enough for me as long as I keep out of it directly, I love the smells of autumn and the ripeness. I enjoy crisp wintry weather and long evenings by the fire, dog on my lap
T- Tag three people! Ah. I need to check who hasn’t done this. Back later
I suspect this is meant more to encourage than to describe
My Inner Hero - Paladin!
I strive to help others, and to bring truth and harmony to the world however I can*. Whether times are good or bad, you can always count on me**. I'm a shoulder to cry on, a champion for the helpless, and an all around nice person***.
How about you? Click here to find your own inner hero
*Can't you just see my tongue curling into my cheek here?
**Preferably good.
***Not all around, you should just see my other side.
Character Stats:
Rogue (14)
Warrior (6)
Wizard (12)
Paladin (15)
I think it's Rogue, almost equal with Paladin (what's a paladin, anyway?) that really describes me.
I did this a few days ago and have forgotten whose blog I got it from. Sorry.
I strive to help others, and to bring truth and harmony to the world however I can*. Whether times are good or bad, you can always count on me**. I'm a shoulder to cry on, a champion for the helpless, and an all around nice person***.
How about you? Click here to find your own inner hero
*Can't you just see my tongue curling into my cheek here?
**Preferably good.
***Not all around, you should just see my other side.
Character Stats:
Rogue (14)
Warrior (6)
Wizard (12)
Paladin (15)
I think it's Rogue, almost equal with Paladin (what's a paladin, anyway?) that really describes me.
I did this a few days ago and have forgotten whose blog I got it from. Sorry.
Saturday, 20 January 2007
I spoil the Sage
He's had fun this evening.
You wouldn't think a stand-up real-life auctioneer-for-forty-years would like eBay so much, would you.
I even paid.
You wouldn't think a stand-up real-life auctioneer-for-forty-years would like eBay so much, would you.
I even paid.
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