Advice for Travelling Teenagers

Once, not too long ago, I found teenagers endlessly fascinating. I enjoyed their enthusiasm and energy and appreciated the fact that they always speak loud enough to hear every word. However, if you are a travelling teenager I have some advice for you.

1. You may not want the whole aeroplane to know your travel plans.

2. If you have left Brian's handwritten itinery on the kitchen table then you shouldn't remember it out loud, including the address of your hotel.

3. If your friend is sick on the plane the following questions are not the ones you should ask before checking that they are OK:

a) Did you get it all in the bag?

b) Is it heavy?

c) I can't believe it doesn't smell. Why doesn't it smell?

d) Were there lumps in it?

4. Farting on a plane is bad form. Talking about the fact you've farted for the next hour is positively a crime.

I hope they have a great time and are not on the same flight home as me, although hearing their experience of Amsterdam could be quite enlightening.

Growing up

Normally, at this time of year I will blog about how much I hate Easter or a strop I've had during the practice for the church service. I will tell you that I hate the whole concept of celebrating the torture and final murder of someone who dared to have a different belief or about how a stupid instrument (like the piano) can be made so much worse by a key that doesn't work. I will complain about the coldness of a church with stone floors and working on my day off. 

This year, I have no desire to do any of that. I quite enjoyed the Easter Service and although working on a day off when the LSH had taken a holiday caused some initial friction, it was all perfectly fine in the end. Les Dawson was only in church for a little while, although that was caused by getting distracted by a cute toddler who was dancing around the piano, with better time-keeping abilities than some of my year 6 children and the children all sang beautifully. 

Maybe I have finally grown up and joined the rest of the world. Maybe whipping and stripping isn't so bad after all. I did chuckle when the child read,"Now the whole school will sing Lord of the Dance," and a loud whispered, "Yes," and fist-pump that rippled around the church.  Is this hymn responsible for the popularity of Fifty Shades? 

If my sudden maturing is to be believed then the next thing I think I should try to develop is poshness. When I was at Junior school there were a couple of boys who used to tease me and called me posh because I pronounced the ends of my words and so I've resisted being posh ever since but I can see that it might have some benefits. 

My friend is very posh. She conducts with her little finger sticking out, like she is drinking a cup of tea. I could try that but she conducts holding a pencil and the only time I tried that it flew from my hand, almost blinding a second violin.

Jeremy Clarkson is posh. If you are posh then you can punch and shout at subordinates and everyone still loves you. I'm not sure I'm cut out for that level of poshness either.  

David Cameron is posh. In the interview with the BBC that is currently providing columnists with an alternative to Clarkson, he sighed, smiled and said, "Oh the posh question." The journalists are very excited that Cameron ruled out a third term as Prime Minister before he's won a second term. I'm not sure he did, though. I've noticed that posh people use the word, "No," as a kind of pause in their speach. When asked if he would stand for a third term, he started with the word no but went on to say something about not all Prime Ministers going mad, that he hadn't finished the job and he still had more to do. Apart from the no word it I thought he said he was going to keep going until we noticed he's bonkers. I like the use of no as a pause. Posh people are probably trained to do that at public school so that they don't end up working for free and on their days off. I might try that one.

What is the learning outcome?

I've had a small flea in my knickers lately about education. The days when you could learn about something because it interested you seem to have disappeared. It all began when adult education centres stopped offering pottery, calligraphy and singing for pleasure and replaced it with GCSE English, Maths and a Computer Driving Test. University degrees are sold to teenagers as a way to get a better job, rather than a way to learn more about something. Primary school children are encouraged to learn only the things that will improve their levels and now that  sample questions of the baseline assesment for foundation stage have been published, the focus for pre-school children is about to shift. Soon, every 4 year old will be able to 'say parrot without the p' but will they remember how to play?

During my performance management interview I said to my headteacher that I would like to learn more about Dalcroze and his Eurythmics method. I asked if it could be one of my targets so that I could legitimately spend some time researching the method. She agreed but then we had to make sure there was a reason. It wasn't enough to find out about the method. "What will be the learning outcome for the children at this school?" she asked. Panicked, I thought that if I answered that I didn't know until I found out more about it I wouldn't be allowed to have this as a target, I said that I hoped it would improve the children's connection to the pulse of the music.

When I booked myself onto the Dalcroze Taster Day I wasn't worried about the learning outcomes but after a long and confusing Sunday, I might be about to change my mind.

Dalcroze Eurythmics seems to be a huge secret. 

When I arrived at the Independent school in Croydon there were no signs or posters and eventually I found an upper middle class middle aged woman with a stack of purple folders in the car park who showed me the secret back entrance. I often struggle with courses set in Independent schools because the difference in resources and class sizes breaks my heart and this one was no different, as I counted class sizes of under 20 and the most amazing forest school facilities. I start the course wondering if any of this will be applicable to a normal state school with classes of 30, hardly any resources and children popping in and out for sessions to boost their levels. 

Our day was broken into four sessions: The first was an introduction, where we were given some outdated looking books and told that Dalcroze had been a prolific composer who had discovered that his students at the conservatoire were crap (excuse the paraphrasing) and decided that they needed to feel the music in their bodies so he developed the Eurythmics system, which contains the three elements that were to form the rest of our day.

These elements were fascinating and as I try to write now my head is still spinning with all the thoughts and ideas they have given me. Another woman on my course has blogged about the day in a more succinct way than I ever could and if you are interested you can read it here. http://primarymusicmatters.blogspot.co.uk/

At the end of the day, I can't pretend I haven't been given what the course promised. It was a 'taster' of Dalcroze but now, if I want to use it can I just go ahead, or do I need to know more? The course leaders said that the next step was to take the two year foundation/certificate course, which would allow you to use Dalcroze in your own teaching. Do I really need that to get my state school primary children appreciating music in a better way? 

There seems to be an all or nothing philosophy going on here. The taster day was attended by teachers (who are already teaching) who wanted ideas to improve the musicality of their students but the way this system seems to work, is that the tutor takes the group where they are capable of going.(It's quite a hippy approach) During one exercise, someone asked, "Can young children do this?" and the answer was a very firm, "No, some of my young children in the string project can't sit in a circle!" The room suddenly felt like a let-go balloon. 

From what I have gathered, this is a very useful method for improving musicality. It should be taught in Primary schools and particularly state primary schools. The Dalcroze society are missing a trick. They should be running hundreds of thousands of courses up and down the country where they teach primary school music teachers some simple methods they can use in their classes. 

So, although I'd love to learn about Dalcroze and his Eurythmics method just for the sake of it, I don't have the time or the money and find that I am desperate for a course that has a clear learning outcome after all. 

The End of the World?

Yesterday's solar eclipse,which was marked in Essex by a cloudy day getting a bit colder and darker and some odd bird behaviour, made me think about the end of the world.

Although, I'm not superstitious or a member of some weird religious cult there is something about a rare weather or astronomical event that causes me to wonder if "this is it?"  It probably didn't help that I had spent the week reflecting on the fragility of our life, as we currently know it and that I am completely knackered.

A week ago, I attempted to break my Dad out of a stroke ward, because he was perfectly fine (and possibly the luckiest man on the planet) and as I walked along the ward I was struck by how suddenly and majorly the other patients' lives had changed: one moment they were walking the dog, talking to their family, having dinner, laughing or reading the newspaper and the next they would never be able to walk,talk, eat, smile or read again.  As I helped the confused lady in the pink nightie find the toilet (much to the embarrassment of a nurse when it was clear she wasn't my relative), I couldn't help imagining her life.  It's perfectly normal to do that, right?  You meet a stranger and before you know it they have a name, a family, hobbies, a job, pets, the whole works but all of these things are in your head; you would never actually talk to Marjorie and ask her about her life, or her real name.  Everyone does that, don't they?  Anyway, there I was guiding Marjorie towards the toilet, whilst thinking about the matinee jacket she was knitting, in pink wool, for her new granddaughter, how sad it was that it would never be finished and I wondered if she would have even bothered to start the jacket if she knew what would happen to her.

A colleague fell down the stairs this week and broke a bone in her foot and that has made me reflect on how easy it is to have a silly accident that stops you doing what you had planned.  I fell down the stairs this week too but I was lucky and only bruised my bum and fractured a glass. As I was bumping down the stairs all the things that I had to do next week flashed through my mind.  I couldn't land awkwardly and be unable to drive.  I would be mortified if anyone else had to do my job next week and saw the state I'd left my desk in.  I wondered if my colleague had thought the same, although I doubt it because she is Ms Super-organised-superwoman.

When I finally got home the boys were watching a Zombie film. It had been a very long day, which included leaning absent-mindedly on the tombola enjoying the gentle swaying motion, while selling raffle tickets at the school fete, "You looked like you were only a short step away from rocking quietly in the corner," observed a colleague.

"We've decided that we'd be hopeless in the face of a Zombie Apocalypse," said the Long Suffering Husband, "We'd just have to give up and die."   It would be a situation where you could predict the probable end of your life as you knew it. "What about you?" they asked.

As a teacher, I know a little bit about how I behave at the end of things.  At the end of term, some teachers relax a bit but I am one of those who go a little manic.  I squeeze in extra lessons, exams, courses, shows, church services, quizzes, games and things that show me what the children know without them guessing that I'm testing them.   I'd like to think that if a Zombie were to knock on my door I would maintain my humanity and give up like my son and LSH but I know that I would be there, bashing heads in, shouting, "Oh, no you don't, I've got things to do!"

Educating Rita

At the weekend I saw an excellent production of Educating Rita at The Mercury Theatre.

It was the first time I'd seen the play and loved every moment of it. The film had a profound effect on me when I was a teenager. I saw it as a statement that Education could empower women. It made me think that knowing stuff could give me choices. Now I'm older I still want all that. I want to know stuff and I don't care if it gives me choices. I want to read books and poetry with understanding. I want to write a brilliant two hander play. I want to own the study of the set, with floor to ceiling books, although I probably don't need to hide the bottles of Scotch.

Sunday was International Women's Day and Twitter celebrated in its usual eclectic way. There was a great many tweets about making sure girls all over the world were in school and I thought, "Yes, let's educate all the Ritas and give them choice." The comedian Richard Herring spent the day reminding stupid men that there is also an International Men's day, so they could stop being silly (although I wouldn't do any breath holding on that one). I was beginning to despair and then I saw this picture:

In the thirty years between seeing the film and watching the play I wondered what had really changed for women and then I saw  what the Sun have done to a female leader of a political party and I can only sigh and go back to my books. 

Unsolicited Advice

"You have been very grumpy lately," said the Long Suffering Husband helpfully as I issued a string of expletives about the latest person who had upset me, "They're probably just trying to be nice."

It's true I have been grumpy and I'm sure they were trying to be nice but the last thing a grumpy old woman wants to deal with is nice - especially unsolicited nice.  

I can just about cope with a friendly smile or a wave, or even a caring, "How are you, today?" but when I reply that I'm perfectly fine, I find that all the helpful suggestions that are supposed to fix me make me think about turning to violence.  I'm sure it's all part of this peri-menopause thing but I'm often getting the urge to punch perfectly nice people.

If you know me and you would like to avoid my fist landing on you then here are some helpful suggestions of things to avoid saying to me:

  

1.  Go to the doctor.

2.  HRT is the best thing ever.

3.  I've had a coil fitted, you should do that.

4.  I swear by the pill, I've been on it since I was 16 and never had a single problem.

5.  You look terrible.

6. You are very pale.

7.  You should take a B vitamin.

8.  You need iron tablets.

9. A hysterectomy isn't that bad.

10. Brown rice, nuts seed and organic fruit and vegetables, that will sort you out.

11.  Take a good isofloflavone, that will regulate your hormones.

12.  You should take up yoga

13.  You're probably not drinking enough water.

14.  Don't eat nuts and seeds.

15. Go and see my friend Marian, she's very nice, she could help you.

14. These painkillers are the best.

15.  Let me tell you about my aunty Maureen and what she went through.

16.  Maybe you'd feel better if you made a bit of an effort; some nice lipstick, that sort of thing.

I'm sure there are others but these will do for now.  

You are allowed to say:

1.  Looking perfectly fine, today

2. Pull yourself together

3. Stop being such a wimp.

I'm sorry if you are one of the nice people and I've just upset you.  The problem is you don't know what I might be doing already and some things are not easily fixed, except (hopefully) by time.

Furious

Today I'm furious; incandescent with boiling, simmering, seething rage and the only way to deal with my ire is to write a ranting blog. Sorry.

The front page of today's Telegraph newspaper runs with the headline, "Jail for those who ignore child abuse." The sub heading lets us know that 'those' are social workers, teachers and local councillors. 

Wow!

Did someone sit in their plush office, surrounded by luxury before they popped off to their country estate for the weekend and think, "Oh dear, this child sex abuse might be a problem now that it's in my constituency, better find someone to blame before the general election." ?

What complete and utter crap! (Sorry, I did warn you I was angry). It's bollocks.

Society has just noticed that something awful happens to certain vulnerable teenage girls (occasionally boys too) in that they become easy targets for men who want to have sex with very young women (or men). This isn't particularly new but society has noticed an is outraged. I say it's not new because I remember a girl called Clare at school, who was picked up by her 35 year old boyfriend, Simon in his car. Many girls were impressed and asked Clare if Simon had any friends, which he was more than happy to provide. All the girls who met these men were sort of happy. They didn't really remember the sex because they were too drunk but they were convinced that they were loved, often for the first time. As a listener, I knew this was wrong. I knew they were being exploited and as someone who had been loved unconditionally by parents who gave me books I knew that this wasn't love. Did I report it? Of course not. Should I have gone to jail? Actually, that's irrelevant because I wasn't a social worker, teacher or local councillor at the time. 

Social workers are working with vulnerable children and their, often manipulative, parents in conditions where they often don't have time to pee. They are paid quite a small salary. They spend their working hours talking to children and their weekends and evenings writing up reports, documenting every horrific thing that was said to them. They want to help but are chronically under-resourced, tired and unsupported. If they do get enough evidence to go to court then some fancy lawyer gets Simon off on a technicality because he has a flash car and lots of money and is able to argue that Clare was more than happy with the situation. (Clare by this point is hooked on heroin and is pregnant with a child she won't know how to love). 

Teachers work with all sorts of children to try to make them learn stuff in conditions where they hardly have any time to pee. They are paid quite a small salary. They teach them all day and write reports  in the evening and at weekends. They want to help but they are chronically under resourced, tired and unsupported. If a child tells them something they are not happy with it will go through the beaurocracy of child protection and it might end up in court, where Simon's fancy lawyer will argue that Clare was more than happy with the situation.

Local councillors rarely see children. They have a day job in something completely unrelated and give up their evenings and weekends to attend boring meeting and write long reports. They are not paid.

I'm seeing a pattern and many of these professionals are women.

For Gods sake!!! How about we send Simon to jail? How about we send the Prime Minister to jail for allowing these professionals to work in conditions where they are under resourced, tired and unsupported? Stop picking on the wrong people.

The worst of it is that any teacher or social worker I know who missed something that lead to a child being harmed would never forgive themselves. Aren't  they suffering enough already?