Maths

I keep reading about how important maths is; how the world is crying out for mathematicians. Every secondary school is desperate for maths teachers. A retiring maths teacher friend told me that from the three people the school tried to interview to replace her, one cancelled at the last minuite, another didn't turn up and the third wasn't legally allowed to be in the country, never mind teach.

So, this country, desperate for mathematicians is doing everything it can to encourage them, right?

I'm not sure.

My son loves maths. Given the choice he would only do maths. Even as a small boy I was only able to persuade him to let me read a bedtime story if he could work out the proportion of pages I had read. He is a very happy boy now, because two of his four A levels are maths, the other two have quite a bit of maths in and we have started looking at Universities, where he hopes to be even happier because he will be allowed to do maths all day, every day.

But to get into a University to study this subject has become increasingly difficult. At University visits the Long Suffering Husband invariably gets talking to someone who will suck their teeth and say, "Ooh, good luck to him. Crazy grades for maths." I have wondered what you need for Medicine these days because maths requires three As (although A*s would be better). Even the University that is currently ranked 63rd for Maths wants 320 points, which I think is ABB (with the A in maths). Those might be the grades all subjects need for entry these days but I suspect that as people know that mathematicians are highly paid the competition for the places is fierce, which pushes the entry grades up. 

I felt quite sorry for a lecturer we met on a recent visit. He had just finished giving a talk and someone asked one of the students a question. "Is it very much harder at degree level than it was at A level?"

Sensible question and I expect the lecturer was hoping the student would talk about independent study and tutors being approachable. The student replied, "Well, yes. At A level you can get an A* by learning all the questions and the answers but there are no mark schemes published for exams at Uni."

"Yes, unfortunately," jumped in the lecturer, "that is what you have to do for A level. You need 90% to get an A* at A level, which I could never have done because I make mistakes."

He went on to say that really he wanted to teach people who could make mistakes and learn from them but the University entry grades meant that he had to take people who learnt the answers. 

How sad. All those potential mathematicians, who would make excellent teachers because they've made mistakes missed. 

There is also an extra qualification, STEM (sixth term examination in maths) for Maths that all the Universities have said they want.

 It is only compulsory at a few but they all want it. They are also very well aware that private school children are coached through it. My son was planning to do it anyway because that's his idea of fun;  his school are at least aware of it and he has teachers he can ask for help but he will be competing for his place at University with people who will have been taught exactly how to get the very best mark.

I worry about making maths an elitist subject in this way. It makes sense that brain surgery is only for the top few but surely maths is for everyone. 

The Nottingham Thing

Every University has its thing; the thing that is mentioned in every talk when you visit an Open Day. In Bangor it was tea, Essex favoured toast and Bournemouth were obsessed with the beach. This weekend was Nottingham, for us, and as we visited on the best day of the Summer we were suspicious that it was going to be the sun and the fact that, "It always shines in Nottingham."

It was, however, buses. Everyone wanted to tell you that the tram line wasn't finished but that was fine because the buses were brilliant. Apparently, everyone voted against the tram except the leader of the council and his mate who runs the company building it. You can go into town for a pound  by bus and you'll have the same tutor all the time you are at University unless they get run over by buses. Yes, he really did say buses. A one bus-squishing is not enough to keep those Nottingham tutors down.

In light of the bus love, we decided to take a bus tour of the town. Our guide was a local; an old lady who reviewed the papers on BBC radio Nottingham once a month. She had never quite got over being told off for saying, on air, that nobody cared that Noel Gallagher and Patsy Kensit had split up. She took a poll of the bus to find out if we cared and although both the Long Suffering Husband and I were tempted to stand up and say, "We care very much, Oasis were our life and Pasty was our Wonderwall," we decided not to embarrass our son and so her poll of the last 16 years of bus tours was conclusive: Not one single person cared about the marriage of a boy from Oasis.

I don't know whether the buses deserve their special status but this woman deserves a comedy award. She told us about little Jesse Boot, who had never been able to cure his arthritis but donated the land for the college without mentioning Boots the Chemist once. I really hope that she is doing stand up in a seedy nightclub somewhere but I doubt it because when we got off I asked her and she said something about having a seat next to the driver as her feet ache.

This woman is a comedy legend

These are some of her gems:

"Eateries like girl Friday's  , tit Friday's or TIFtidays"

"Here is our tree-lined boulevard. You know the chomps eleesies in Paris, well we invented it."

"We even have festivals where We Three Wet come an' wha'avyou'

"Coming up on your left you've got modern architecture. I'll not say anymore. No wonder they call it the amenities building. I don't know what amenities are."

"There's the Raleigh bicycle works - This lad, 'e were really ill and the doctors said to 'im, "cycle the hills of Austria it might cure you."  It did but he came back saddle sore. And that's 'ow we 'av the Raleigh bicycle works."

"A word of warning if you go to Woolaton park: The donkeys. The donkeys have the right to roam. One donkey called Ned pinches yer bum until you give him yer sandwiches. Sit on the grass then he can't get to yer bum."

"Front of Wollaton Hall looks like Wayne manor. It's not because it's Wollaton 'all."

"It's not a castle. It never 'as bin. It's a Ducal palace.  So if we take a left by the castle.....oh b..."

"Here we are, back at the University. I was ere meeself many many years ago an I enjoyed it. It's not changed."

Comedy legend.

Like Billio

Like Billy-O: It's not a phrase you hear very often these days, unless you watch Downton, where Rose says, "Oh but I do. I want to rush in like Billyo!" - floozie!

 It is a good phrase, though. It conjures up images of hellfire and damnation; something so fast and extreme that it can't possibly be good for you. It's perfect for Downton, as you can only imagine it being said with a plummy accent by someone in a tuxedo or flapper dress, "Oh, dahrling, I can't possibly go out in that: it's raining like billyo and my fascinator will look like a drowned ostrich."

It's a phrase we knew as children. I suspect it was on the National Curriculum, which means it will be back in use before too long, unless some of the non-words from the phonics tests start to catch on. (Quemp: small green mythical frog-like creature that lives in dark, damp holes. Some say the quemp is the ruler of all bog beings)

The Reverend Joseph Billio is a man I feel quite attached to. He may, or may not be the source of this phrase but for the last ten years our youth orchestra has been rehearsing in the Church that he built. This particular church is a beautiful Georgian building and we love rehearsing in it. There is a blue plaque on the front, which seems to be hiding, as if Billio would be a little shy of his fame. It was several years before I noticed it, even though the story of Billio had been told to me by our percussion director, who is shortly to become a Time Lord (or doctor of history) and I had seen his portrait in the church.

Blue Plaque

Seems to be hiding

Reverend Joseph Billio was born to the vicar of Wickham Bishops, Robert Billio in 1668.  Either Robert or Joseph was thrown out of the Parish for non-conformist sympathies (I can't work out who) and Joseph hired some land from William Coe in 1696 to build a meeting hall for 400 people. He then proceeded to give long and passionate sermons about how everyone was going to burn in hell, which were very popular and drew large crowds. 

These sermons are one of the possible derivations of the phrase, which could go on like Billio, spitting hellfire and damnation. Other people disagree, as the word didn't appear in print wasn't until 1882, where the Fort Wayne Gazette printed: "He lay on his side for about two hours, roaring like Billy-Hoo with the pain, as weak as a mouse"

That time-frame seems about right to me. 180 years to get across to America from Maldon, after all I know people from Maldon who took 40 years of their life to go as far as London. Maldonites are fitted with elastic at birth that brings them pinging back and most have very short elastic.

Yesterday, I took some infant children to visit the church. I used my key to let them in the back door. 

"Do you live here?" they asked, "Why do you have a key then?" 

They had been very interested in the graves and death in general, speculating about Mummies, vampires and the size of the people in the tombs. I showed them the portrait of Billio and told them the story about the phrase they had never heard of but all they wanted to know was whether he was dead. 

"What do you think?" I asked, "He was born in 1669, that would make him 347 years old."

"He's dead then," they all agreed.

"Did you know him?" another child asked.

"Errr, no!"

"Was he your Dad then?" he persisted.

"Well, let's see," I said standing next to the portrait, "do we look alike?"

Heads tilted to one side, giving the question considerable thought.

"Could be," the boy finally pronounced, "You have the same blond hair and big nose."

I suppose I asked for that.

The Rev Joseph Billio

This week's orchestra rehearsal  has seen me conducting like Billio, with my blond hair and big nose, as we only have three weeks before our concert. (Details here: //www.eventbrite.com/e/maldon-youth-orchestra-annual-summer-concert-tickets-17367696247). Please come and see us and have a look at the shy blue plaque while you are there.

Conducting like Billio.  Hands moving so fast they are a blur.

Comedy Landlords

Advice for anyone thinking of becoming a landlord.

1. You are not running the Best Exotic Marigold Hotel.

2. Your tenants would like to move in on the day they start paying you.

3. It will not be all right in the end. They will continue to live in your property thinking you are an idiot.

4. Having female tenants isn't a good way to try to find a girlfriend.

5. In general, a furnished room should have the furniture in it before your tenant moves in.

6. Raw plugs. That's all I'm saying but if you find the blind that you have hastily attached to the ceiling falls off then all I can say is raw plugs.

7. Make friends with a can of deodorant if you are going to spend 6 hours trying to put up an ugly wardrobe in your tenant's room.

8. You can not change the contact after it has been signed.

9. Be sensible about the rules you have; too many and none will be followed. As tempting as it is to add,"Rule 126 - You will not have friends who laugh at me," nobody will adhere to it and it will gradually dawn on them that eating in bed, putting make up on, having plants and wearing shoes aren't a crime either. 

10. While your tenants like a nice home they do not want to know how much the bathroom cost you.

11. Likewise, they will not be impressed with the wardrobe you insisted you overspent on, when it arrives with instructions in Polish, a big EBay sticker and the ugliest doors on the planet.

12. If you have forgotten to buy kitchen equipment and offer to take your tenant with you (after three days) to buy some then don't stroke the irons before making your purchase; this really is a very odd thing to do and certainly won't help with rule 126. 

13. These days, if you say you are providing Internet, your tenants will expect unlimited broadband. Any less they will consider a breach of their human rights.

14. Female tenants might be less messy than men (although this is debatable) but they will gang up on you. 

15. Each of those female tenants will also have a potentially angry mother.

16. Although it is your house, once a tenant has moved in, you are no longer allowed to treat it as such. You need to stop just letting yourself in and shouting, "Honey, I'm home!"

17. Waiting to see what the wardrobe looks like before buying the chest of drawers might be a mistake. Nothing is going to match that.

18. Contemplating building works after your tenants have moved in should only be considered if it is going to make you a lot more money and you can afford to lose the rent from the tenants you have.

19. You should not engage your tenants in conversation while attempting DIY. Asking them if their father is any good at DIY to find he is a 9th generation cabinet maker won't help. If you then insist you too are a skilled craftsman from your genes up then rule 126 will be gone forever.

20. Give up being liked. You are now a figure of fun, like Rigsby from Rising Damp or Jerzy (Jeremy) Balowski in the Young Ones. Sitcoms have taught us that landlords should be treated without respect and are incidental characters to be made fun of; they bring light relief to the drama of the main story.

Love a Lanyard

Last time we were looking at Universities my daughter became a little obsessed. "Ooh, I love a lanyard!" she would exclaim at every check-in desk. I was more excited by the free pens and canvas bags but with age I am beginning to see the value.

"Has anyone seen my keys?"

Instead of shouting, "Have you checked the fridge?" My family could reply, "Around your neck."

When I'm teaching I'm always loosing whiteboard pens (which are too thick to push into my ponytail) and I swear the board rubber has a life of its own. Teachers notoriously carry a whistle around their neck but maybe with all the lanyards I'm collecting I could start a trend.

Lanyards for keys, glasses, the ubiquitous to-do list notebook, diary, whiteboard pen, board rubber, name badge (it's important to remember who you are), and the whistle.

Yesterday, my Facebook timeline filled with pictures of Dads and as my friends are now heading towards their middle age the fathers sat with reading glasses, a pint of beer and a smug, 'I'm retired' smile. One Dad, however, was on a Segway with a lanyard around his neck. On the lanyard was an unidentifiable red item. I asked. It might be something important that I would want on my lanyard. "It could be the emergency stop button for when you fall off," she replied.

Oh yes! I want one of those. A proper stop-the-world-I-want-to-get-off button. Genius.

There is a problem, though. Lanyards suffer from the bead problem. You may have read a previous blog about the bead problem but if not here is a 

picture.

The Essex Problem

We have started the endless round of University visits again. It doesn't seem like four years since we last looked. Somehow, you imagine it will be easier with the second child, as you've looked at them all before but you haven't. We looked at 12 out of 109 Universities for my daughter and my son isn't interested in any of those. It seems such a huge redponsibility: to support them in choosing the place they will live and study for the next three years (at least).

Yesterday, we visited Essex University. It wasn't high on his list because it's tricky to leave home and be independent when you move somewhere that you could walk to in 5 1/2 hours. 

It was a University that the Long Suffering Husband and I had discounted, thinking it wouldn't be good because you never appreciate what you have on your doorstep. We were, however, pleasantly surprised. It felt like somewhere we understood. 

Having lived in Essex all our lives we recognised the quirks and humour of the place. When we took the accommodation tour, we knew about the historical extraordinarily high suicide rate and so were not as surprised by the Towers as other parents. The acres and acres of green didn't make us turn to each other, wide eyed and say, "It's like a huge park." When the information brochure suggested we look for Campus Cat and feed the ducks we nodded sagely. I have a couple of friends who are doing postgraduate studies at Essex and they have often told me about how Campus Cat sits in History lectures about China, doing her Chaiman Miaow impression or how the ducks have been persuaded to spell out 'Happy Birthday' with the clever placement of toast crusts.

I was a bit disappointed not to find Campus Cat but I did see a couple of one legged ducks and every talk we went to mentioned toast.

After one talk I heard some parents say that the lecturer had contradicted himself. They were right, he did but this was entirely due to the Essex problem. 

He was describing some of the reasons to come to Essex. "It's very diverse," he said,"there are people from all cultures here. I always say to the foreign students that they should fall in love with a local girl. If you want to know about a culture, get to know the Phillipino students, see what they eat but they don't. They all stay in their little groups." He also said that living is Essex was brilliant because it was close to London but it wasn't London. I've always thought that was Essex's major disadvantage. The county loses out on funding and culture because, well, why bother when you can be in London in an hour. He said that you wouldn't want to go to a London University because London was horrible but his suggestion for sport Wednesday's was to hop on a train and go and see a show. 

Whether you are from Essex or not, a visit to one of their open days is a must, if only to have a go on the library lift and add to your collection of pens, canvas bags and lanyards. The library lift is an amazing contraption, one that forces you to be brave, and take a leap of faith. 

Where else could you go, where someone could say, "I'll take you up the paternoster," (as happened to my friend in freshers week), without you having to slap them?

Good Vibrations

I might have made a mistake.  Shocking, I know, as I am practically perfect in every way but it's nearly 9, I'm still working and beginning to feel really stressed.

Tomorrow is the Summer Music Concert and I have found it to be particularly difficult to organise this year, so I decided not to go to play and sing with the silly adults that I usually join on a Wednesday night.  Instead, I have made a programme, sorted music out, practised the piano and put backing tracks on a CD.  It could be argued that this was a good move, as I am now a little prepared.
However, I think it was a mistake.  I'm not happy with the pieces I have to play to accompany. I will carry on practising for a few more hours, I'm sure I won't sleep and my neck and shoulders are very tight.

I should have gone to play music and have a laugh.  The concert will be fine.  Fine, I tell you.  Absolutely fine. Perfectly fine.  Even more than perfectly fine.  No one is coming to listen to me anyway and the children are always brilliant.  What are you worrying for, woman?

I should have gone to play the Bass Clarinet, that I have recently taken up.  The Bass Clarinet is a therapeutic instrument, especially on the low notes.  In a lesson today the class were playing percussion instruments and they managed to play the same rhythm all at the same time.  I got quite excited and jumped around the room shouting, "Yes!  Yes!  Yes!"
One of the children said, "When we played that I could feel the vibrations through the floor and it felt good."
That's what it's like playing the Bass Clarinet, although I'm told that a Contrabass Clarinet is even better.  Apparently, it rivals leaning up against the washing machine.

You'll be pleased that I can't write more rambling words tonight, as I have piano to burn.

How Old?

When I'm teaching the flute, conversations can touch any subject.  One parent often says that her child's lessons are counselling sessions with a bit of music thrown in.

When you teach at home there is also the influence of other members of the household.  Today, the Long Suffering Husband popped his head round the door.
"I thought you weren't coming home?" I said
"I'm going now but your Dad has fallen over and your Mum has tied him to a chair,  Leaving now,"
he answered.
I noticed that my pupils eyes seemed a little larger than usual but we just got on with playing music.  After a little while, a little voice piped up, "I love listening to conversations," and I noticed that she'd gone a little pale. I had to point out that my Dad had decided not to play golf because he's a bit tired and my Mum had suggested he didn't go out.  I'm not sure she believed me. Later on she gave me an origami  crane that she said was meant to bring her luck but as it hadn't she thought I should have it.  I didn't ask.  It's probably wise not to ask if you are being cursed.

Gift or curse?

Another pupil, who is friendly with my daughter told me about a snapchat she had received.  It was my daughter's second day (but first official day) in her new job and she has been covering the events around the 800 years of the Magna Carta celebrations.  I'm a bit surprised by this, as on my first day at work I made tea. We discussed the Magna Carta for a little while, both agreeing that we didn't know very much about it that wasn't from Robin Hood.  I told her that I'd looked it up and seen that it had a clause in it that gave a widow the right to refuse to marry and the right to stay in her home for 40 days after her husband died.  We agreed that although women still didn't have true equality we were both grateful for the Magna Carta because the idea that you could be given to another husband as part of a house deal was, quite frankly, disgusting.  Then we started talking about how the Magna Carta probably wouldn't have affected our ancestors, anyway, as they were unlikely to have been Barons or free men. My pupil said that it was funny to think that we had family around at that time.  I suggested that they might not have been in England,
"Who knows?  Eight hundred years is a very long time ago.  Even you probably weren't around then," she said sticking her tongue into the side of her mouth and ducking.  I laughed and we played some Mozart duets.

In school the other day a child had asked me if I knew Mozart.  One of the new elements of the music curriculum is that children should develop a sense of the history of music and so I introduced a timeline to the classroom where we put the pieces of music we listen to.  This particular class are very keen on it and after we'd had the usual Mozart discussion (Does listening to Mozart really make you smarter? and How could any 4 year old write music?) they placed Sonata in C Major in the Classical Period at 1788.

"1788!  That was 227 years ago.  Do you really think I could have known Mozart? Do I look like I'm 250 years old?"
"Well, I don't know," said a small boy, "Me and my mum saw you this morning and she said you looked very old and tired."

It's true.  I look old and tired.  I know that because when I was in Tesco last week a man came up behind me.
"Excuse me, could you help me?" he asked.
I checked that I wasn't wearing blue and had been mistaken for a member of staff but I was wearing a pink dress.
"Can you help me choose which flowers are the nicest?" he persisted.
"Why, what have you done?" I asked
He insisted that he was entirely blameless but his wife needed some flowers.
"Oh, well, I, err, don't really know.  I don't know your wife,"
"I thought you'd be able to help because you look tired like she does and she would go out with pencils in her hair too."

The best place to keep pencils

Independence

Independence is my the thought of the moment.  Everything I see, hear or read about seems to come back to independence.

David Cameron is negotiating with Angela Merkel, along the lines of, "Give us everything we want or we won't play with you any more."  The threat of independence from the EU after a referendum just might be all the leverage he needs.

Scotland had a vote and decided against independence.  Being on your own is quite scary and most people choose company.  The Scots are still thinking about it, though.  If it wasn't so cold, I might move to Scotland and be independent with them.

Last week, Twitter went mad about a question on the GCSE maths paper about Hannah's sweets. Students ranted.  My favourite was from @EthanLinaker98 who wrote, "Hannah eats some sweets. Calculate the circumference of Jupiter using your tracing paper and a rusty spoon (5marks)"  This seemed to sum up the question, which appeared to me, to have a lot of extra information in it that wasn't needed.

19.  There are n sweets in a bag

6 of the sweets are orange

The rest of the sweets are yellow.

5

Hannah takes at random a sweet from the bag. She eats the sweet.

Hannah then takes at random another sweet from the bag .  She eats the sweet.

The probability that Hannah eats two orange sweets is 1/3

(a) Show that n^2 - n - 90 = 0 

 (^= to the power of - there don't seem to be as many characters on Blogger as I would like)

Independently, I set about solving the question.  First, I had to spend some time deciding which sweets Hannah had eaten and puzzling over the moral dilemma of whether they were hers to eat in the first place.  I decided that they were probably orange and lemon fizzballs and that for the sake of my sanity they were her sweets but the whoever wrote the questions should have made that clear.

I thought, "Well this is a silly question.  If they want to test whether they can solve a quadratic equation why don't they just ask them.  The answer is ten."  The mathematicians out there will know that I am not right and not because the solution to the equation could also be -9 because you can't have -9 sweets, once they are gone they are gone!

I showed my son the question and he explained why I had misinterpreted the question.  "It says show that, not solve.  They're different things.  It's an independence probability question. When Hannah takes the first sweet from the bag the chance of it being orange is 6/n .  She eats it so there are 5 orange sweets left.  The chance of the second sweet being orange is 5/(n-1). To get the probability of these two independent things you multiply them together.  6/n x 5/n-1.  The question tells you that this equals 1/3 and so you just have to re-arrange the equation.

6/n x 5/n-1 = 1/3

6x5/n(n-1) =1/3

30/n(n-1) = 1/3

90/n(n-1) = 1

n^2 - n = 90

n^2 - n-90 =0

Simple."

Oh.  I assumed that it was a question where the exam board were trying to catch students out, but no I was just too stupid to understand it.

"It could be worse," said my son, "we could be in Singapore and then Hannah and her sweets would seem easy."

He showed me the question he was talking about.  

We spent the evening arguing about it.  "It's July the 16th," he told me. 

"Who wants to be friends with Cheryl, anyway?  What kind of person replies with a list of 10 possible dates when you ask them when their birthday is?" (Actually, I said, "Well Cheryl can f off!" but the sentiment is the same)

"You can eliminate the top two months straight away because Albert and Bernard don't know."

"How do you know Cheryl didn't tell them?  She seems like a right pain in the butt that Cheryl."

"Huh?  Anyway, the answer is July the 16th."

"It could be August the 17th if Cheryl told Albert that Bernard doesn't know and he didn't deduce it. And anyway the grammar is appalling."

Following these questions appearing on Twitter the world has decided that students are either really thick (like me, obviously) or that questions are too hard.  Students on the other hand are having mental breakdowns and finding that since mental health funding has been cut due to austerity their future's are ruined anyway.

Cheltenham Ladies College responded to their students bouts of anxiety by suggesting that they would consider banning homework (or prep, as it is called if you are posh enough to go to Cheltenham Ladies College).  They will let the girls meditate instead.  Whilst, I am not against meditation, in fact I'm an advocate, I'm not sure this is the way to go.

Homework teaches independent learning, or it should.  Several years ago, before all primary schools taught to the test and spoon fed their pupils with the answers I did a music project that took me to all the primary schools in the area. At one private school we were shocked by the sea of blank faces when we asked, "Which of these instruments do you think has the lowest sound?"

Eventually, a boy put his hand up and said, "We haven't been taught that."

"Oh, that's fine but what do you think?"

Still, blank looks.

"Well, which one is bigger?"

They knew that.

"So, do you think the big one has a higher or a lower voice?"

No. They were stumped again, "We haven't been taught about instruments," said the brave boy, rolling his eyes at these stupid adults, who dared to ask them questions that were not on the test.

As I teacher, I still get excited if a pupil goes out of my lesson still singing, or makes their own instrument at home, or starts writing their own songs in the playground. Nobody would ever be a musician without a degree of independence.  The solution to children's anxiety has to be to stop expecting that they can all get As.  The government needs to stop believing that any child who doesn't get an A is being taught by a bad teacher and teachers and parents need to stop doing everything for their children.

Not allowing children independence keeps the control with the adults.  I can see the appeal of this.  If I hadn't encouraged independence in my own children then I wouldn't have been a basket-case for the last few days, worrying that my daughter was moving to Slough and my son was rejecting Universities that are too close to home.  Both my children would have lived at home forever and I would have been........

No, wait.

I'd have gone crazy.  Independence is fantastic.  Keep being independent kids.

Kissing Cousins

"Just before Nan died I visited her in hospital. She grabbed my hand and said, "Keep this family together," and I thought, "Oh, blimey, why me?  I'm not very sociable," my cousin told me today at a family gathering that she hadn't organised.  "I don't know why I can't do it because we've got loads in common and why shouldn't we?  Brothers and sisters are often alike, they get on don't they?  Well, they do, all except my brother.  We don't get on at all." I knew exactly what she meant, except that I don't have a brother and my sister is quite nice, even though she's never forgiven me for how mean I was to her when we were young and I've never forgiven her for putting my dress down the toilet just before the school concert.

When your father's side of the family contains 22 cousins it's nearly impossible to keep the family together and when you factor in the way we are alike, which is that none of us are very sociable then the idea is a risible hare-brained scheme. It might not be true that the rest of us are a bit reserved but as I boarder on reclusive the idea that it's the fault of my genes is very appealing.  I can see a strong family resemblance with my cousins on this side of the family, so why shouldn't a preference for the sofa, gin and tonic (or 6)  with a good book be a family trait too?

No family tree template is big enough.

We usually see more of my mother's side, where there are a mere 9 cousins and even then I have found family gatherings difficult.  The problem has been all the kissing.

I don't do kissing.  The Long Suffering Husband will tell you that I'm not really a touchy feely person.  I prefer to slip in and out of a gathering unseen or with a little wave, "See you soon (but maybe not too soon because sitting on my own on my sofa is much less effort),"  I'm trying to be better but I have very autistic tendencies when it comes to kissing people I don't really know.

 At Christmas the Aunts used to try to kiss the children a lot.  It would go something like, "Come here and give me a kiss," and you, as the child, would try to duck the sharp claws and slobbering lips.  If they did catch you then a painted wet mouth would bear down on you, while you wriggled and screamed for your life.  Everyone would be laughing, the other cousins displaying immense schadenfreude.  I laughed when it wasn't me too, relief washing over me.  Then a wet sloppy kiss would be planted on your cheek, which you would spend the next 2 hours trying to rub off, making gagging noises.  I'm not saying that I was traumatised or anything but I would be much happier if a greeting kiss had never made it's way over the English Channel.  I would even consider voting UKIP if they would send it back.

If you are a cousin of mine who I have avoided at the end of a party, ducking an air kiss, holding a hug at arms length or contorting my neck to avoid a cheek brush then I apologise.  If you are not even a relative then I'm warning you now.  BACK OFF. Kissing cousins is acceptable but friends and strangers and I'm afraid it's just not happening.  Everyone is supposedly somewhere on the spectrum and I'm admitting to my place.

Slough

There are some places that are treated unfairly and I suspected that Slough was one of those. It's the home of the Office and Jimmy Carr and is the butt of many jokes. Sir John Betjeman wrote this famous poem in 1937, as a protest to the concrete way it was being developed..

Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a cow.
Swarm over, Death!

Come, bombs and blow to smithereens
Those air -conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans,
Tinned minds, tinned breath.

Mess up the mess they call a town-
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week a half a crown
For twenty years. 

And get that man with double chin
Who'll always cheat and always win,
Who washes his repulsive skin
In women's tears:

And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
And make him yell.

But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It's not their fault that they are mad,
They've tasted Hell.

It's not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It's not their fault they often go
To Maidenhead

And talk of sport and makes of cars
In various bogus-Tudor bars
And daren't look up and see the stars
But belch instead.

In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails.

Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales. 

The Nazis obliged, a few years later, with not so friendly bombs and I suspect that Betjeman regretted publishing the poem, which lead to such ridicule of a place he loved. When I have observed something funny in my town or at work I find I am thrown into a quandary.  I want to write about it but I don't want other people to think there is something wrong with the places I love.

We stopped in Slough (which has the biggest Tesco I've ever seen) on the way back from Wales to walk round and stretch our legs and although I'm reluctant to add to Slough's troubles I must tell you about a funny observation.

A strange thing has happened to this town. All the dogs have been abducted. There's not a dog to be seen, anywhere. Not one single fury canine companion. The people of Slough were frightened and confused by the sight of our dog. As we walked down the stairs of the car park, people backed away into corners, small children cried or, if they were braver, pointed quizzically. 

In the town centre it was the same story. A group of teenage boys walking behind us started to discuss what they were seeing.

"What is that, blud?"

"It's a cow, innit?"

"Nah, it's not a dog. It might be a cat. Hey cat, what's your name?"

The dog looked at me, looked at the boy and we both smiled.

"See I told you it wasn't a dog. It didn't tell me it's name when I asked. If it was a dog it would have told me, wouldn't it, Bruv? I think you're right. It's not a dog."

Dog, Cat or Cow?

She's leaving home

If I had to pick a favourite Beatles song it would be She's Leaving Home.  It is arranged so brilliantly, with the harp chords, mellow cello counter melody, smooth strings and it's amazingly clever narrative lyrics.  It's a bit like Eleanor Rigby in that respect, which I also love but She's Leaving Home always touched a nerve with me.  Even as a child I found the song left me with mixed emotions.  It is full of conflict.

People love to analyse Beatles songs and they are often afforded transformative powers. The AQA exam board recently added three songs from the Sargent Pepper Album to the GCSE music syllabus. She's leaving home isn't one of them and I'm actually quite glad. Having to learn what an exam board thinks is the correct answer can suck all the fun and creativity from a song.

I have read articles that claim that the song is Paul McCartney commenting on the generation gap that existed in the sixties. They say that the parents have stifled the girl with their conservative pious attitude, which is represented by the close harmonies in the chorus making it sound like church. They paint the story as older people not understanding the needs of their liberated sixties children.

I never heard it like that. Paul McCartney was brilliant at spotting a story and any good story has conflict and can be seen from different angles. This was based on a newspaper cutting from the Daily Mail about Melanie Cole,17, who had gone missing. He used some of the parents quotes in the song but I don't think he missed the conflict of the girl or the parents. I thought it was terribly sad that the girl had to leave a note that she hoped would say more because parents who had given her most of their lives and sacrificed most of their lives would have been only to help her find what she was looking for.

Teenagers are notoriously self obsessed, so that they can make decisions about their life and future, while parents always want the best for their children. 

This song has been stuck in my head recently and I admit to some conflict. I am amazingly proud of my daughter who has finished her degree and landed herself a really nice job. However, I am also sad. She won't be coming home and will instead make a life for herself eighty miles away. When your child goes to University you feel some of this sadness but you know they will be back with piles of washing, a craving for roast dinner and unusual sleep patterns every holiday. Secretly, you hope that they will find a job close to home and maybe they could live with you until they are established (even though you know they would drive you absolutely mad.). It's quite a conflict but I'm trying to be wise and say nothing (whoops too late).

I will just say to the LSH in the words of the song, "Daddy our baby's gone," but not before we finish rushing round helping her to buy a car and find somewhere to live and I'm certain we will always worry.

Follow Your Dreams

I haven't written a blog in a little while,  mainly because I've been on holiday to Pembrokeshire, which might be my favourite 'get away from it all' place.  I go, with my family and eat, walk, drink diet coke, play cards or backgammon and read.  Writing is something I do in the kitchen before everyone is up but as there is no internet or phone signal I don't post blogs.  Instead, I have been working on my story about the woman who kills her husband by pushing him in an Amsterdam canal and the Long Suffering Husband has been vary wary of me as we stand at the top of mountains.

I thought that when I got back all the ideas I'd had for blogs would be fighting their way out of me, arguing about who goes first but they prefer to hide.  They are pretending to be shy, afraid of what people might think of them, worried that they might be judged and found lacking. This surprises me, as my blogs (it turns out) have been about me finding a writing voice and even I have been surprised at how intrepid it has been.  It is not daunted by difficult subjects or rude words, so it seems odd that after a small break it's checking over it's shoulder pleading to be liked and cowed into silence.

In my phase of devouring self-help books that I went through in my unhappy and self-obsessed twenties I remember reading that you should do what you think about doing when you are relaxed and on holiday.  Follow your dreams. I would but my dreams are only about eating, reading,sleeping and murdering husbands.

Is that man's wife just behind him about to give him a big push?

I think reality might be safer, so this blog is an attempt to force the writing voice back into action and return from the holiday, where it dreamed of being silent and popular.