So long Scotland, you were soup-er

Holidays leave you with strange food cravings. Sometimes you come back desperate for things you haven't eaten and other times you are not ready to give up the food you have existed on for the past week or two. 

When I was a child, we would come back from a camping holiday craving a bath but wishing we could still eat bacon sandwiches and drink cups of tea sitting outside. We had eaten meals that no one would think the height of good cooking, like 'tent goulash' (1 tin each of stewing steak, baked beans, new potatoes, chopped tomatoes, a pinch of paprika heated up in one pot over a single gas flame) but eating it outside made us miss it when we got home.

As we got older and travelled further we missed Oringina, croissants and very fresh Baguettes but we're desperate for a nice cup of tea with 'proper' milk.

When I started to go away with the Long Suffering Husband we had the Spanish/ Greek package holidays that were all the rage in the eighties. Food was terrible. We missed food. As soon as we came home we craved roast dinners, curries or anything with a vegetable. Tourist resorts, in those days, were desperate to give the English what they thought we ate. They served badly cooked chips with everything and I remember one restaurant in Kos having fried peas on the side.

Now, when we go abroad we come back craving their fresh, traditional dishes: Greek salad, tapas, haloumi, salami, olives, very fresh little fishes fried in 

batter, even some of the brilliant things the Greeks can do with a courgette.

Holidays in the United Kingdom shouldn't leave you thinking about your stomach. In theory, nothing has changed. 

We had a week, self catering in the Scottish Highlands and we had decided that as we were on holiday we would mainly be eating in pubs. The Scottish diet is notorious for being unhealthy with deep fried mars bars, whiskey and Iron Bru being their most famous food exports and pub food is well known for being mass produced Brake Bros frozen options with a side order of chips. 

We sat in one pub, sharing a table with a young couple. 

"I was hoping to find a fish restaurant, with all this water around here," the woman complained, picking at her goat's cheese panini and pushing chips around her plate.

"I think there's one in Fort William," suggested the LSH helpfully.

"Hmm. I've seen that. It looks a bit tacky."

"You wouldn't know unless you tried; it could be all deep fried frozen or there could be a chap with a stripy shirt and a lobster pot sitting on the edge of the pier catching to order." I said, hoping to crack the porcelain frown into a smile.

"Oh, Lobster," she said wistfully, "I was really hoping for clean food. I work as an acupuncturist and a client did warn me about the terrible diet of the Scottish but..." She looked into space, dreaming

 of a kale smoothie and a plate of steamed quinoa and green beans. Her partner made inappropriate jokes about wife swapping. Although she was a stuck up cow I did have some sympathy with her because I am also fussy about food. 

The LSH always feels as though he has chosen wrong when we go out to eat. He looks at everyone else's plate and wants to eat what they have chosen. He avoided that problem this time by having fish and chips for every meal; likewise my son, who had a pulled pork burger. It's surprising how different the same meal can be in other inns. Chips can be hard, cold, soggy, crispy, burnt, salty, too hot, twice cooked, triple cooked, barely cooked, served in a basket, bucket, fishing net or, God forgive, on a plate. Batter too. The fish comes on a sliding scale of freshness and who would have thought it was possible to muck up cooking frozen peas? (Once, they were microwaved on the plate without water and stuck together in hot, hard wrinkled clumps). 

After a few days I noticed that that the pubs in the Highlands were catering for a particular kind of fussy eater. They would walk into the bar like John Wayne, breathless and sweaty hand hand over a plastic bottle containing a small amount of ribinea, which the barman would dutifully top up with tap water without a word being spoken. During that time the fussy eater would have removed their helmet, propped themselves on a bar stool and the power of speach would have returned.

"Soup?" the barman asks, "We've got celeriac or spicy lentil."

Every pub had the most delicious, fresh homemade soup on the menu, with a choice of at least two that were filling, comforting and made even an unfit flabby woman like me think I could tackle those claustrophobic hills on two wheels.

Now I'm back I'm craving homemade soup but first I'll pop to the allotment to see what variety it will be. 

Overgrown courgette and shrivelled tomato soup, anyone?

Exam results and statistics

Statistics worry me when it comes to exam results. Somehow, they take away the individual acheivement. On A level results day someone tweeted a link "everything you need to know about this year's A level results." I clicked on it and saw stats that compared subjects, schools and gender but it didn't tell me how incredibly hard my son had worked or how disappointed he was with a mark on one of the papers. 

Today, the GCSE results came out and the director of Teach First posted this tweet.

I was confused.

Why does it matter that when you group the GCSE population by gender, girls do slightly better than boys?

I asked and he seems to think it's a huge problem and that something needs to be done about it. He might be right 

but again, I find I'm worried by statistics.

I'm always worried about any statistics that divide the population by their sexual organs. Men and women are the same species and the spread of good exam results crosses the sexual divide. If all girls got the top grades and all boys the bottom grades I would agree that there is a problem. I asked if he would be so concerned if the statistics were grouped by eye colour. I mean if they analysed the results again and discovered that blue eyed children did 10% better than brown eyed children would that be a concern? I also suggested that in this year's group the girls might have been 8% smarter than the boys.  He asked me if I thought that girls were genetically smarter than boys, which was a bit tricksy. Of course that is not what I was saying, quite the opposite, in fact. I think there is no genetic difference between boys and girls intelligence and that we need to stop pitting one gender against the other as if life is some huge male/female war. 

 Was he suggesting that blue eyed children will be 10% better because of genetics? If so, that is dangerously close to the idea of an Ayrian super race but that's a different argument. We could group children by a preference for red or green or whether they like tomatoes or if they have a tree in their back garden and one group will statistically outperform the other group because that's what happens. Not one person would suggest seperate schools for tomato eaters, as they have done to solve this 'boys underperforming' problem.

I understand the rhetoric. I've been around long enough to have heard the theory that schools are letting boys down and I agree there are boys who would learn better in an outdoor environment or benefit from starting school a year later or be removed from the temptations of the female form to a single sex establishment, where they could just bully each other to be better.

I wonder if the outrage would be as huge if the difference was the other way round?

And does it matter anyway? Girls do better in school: men get all the top jobs. Maybe girls work harder to get better exam results because they have to. If exams were weighted in favour of boys I suspect the girls would just work even harder because their opportunities are more limited without the top grades.

There is so much division of men and women in society and this happens from birth. Schooling isn't going to change much if we refuse to believe that both sexes are equal and keep using statistics to compare them.

I'm a quitter and I'm happy with that

The Ben Nevis Inn doesn't have enough outside tables for a sunny day. I suppose sunny days are rare, so normally it wouldn't matter. Cheekily, we sat on a table with a young man.

"Have you been up?" he asked.

We told him that we had but hadn't gone to the top.

"Oh dear, will you try again?" You could tell he pitied us and couldn't understand how we could be happy with our failure.

I'm not in the best shape I've ever been and knew the chance of getting to the top was slim but it wasn't going to stop me trying. I gave up first. There were huge stones to help you up the slope, which stopped me because I couldn't lift my leg high enough. I sat on a rock. My son gave up when he thought he'd seen the best view and the LSH quit when his fear of heights got the better of him and the shakes made crossing a narrow path over a river impossible.  While I waited for them I had the best few hours, sitting on a rock in the sunshine, people watching I. How often do you get to hear what people say just over a third of the way up Ben Nevis?

These are some of my favourites:

Allez- It's alright for you. I'm hot. I'm having a hot flush and I can't take my top off, like you have!

That was the second worst hour of my life. The first was Scarfel Pike.

To someone coming down: How's the cafe at the top? Anything good on the menu? - Depends what you've got in your bag.

We need to get round the corner, let the fluid in my knee get back to room temperature and we'll be alright.

About an hour and a half. Good luck. (2 very bouncy young girls on their way down)

Mum when we get home can we call the people?

Are we higher than yesterday? Not yet. 

Come on we'll be there by 2. Come on. Good pace.

Well, I've done more than my steps goal for today.

This way Jess. Not that way. Up. Up here. That'll do, that'll do nicely. (Jess is a dog),

They scheduled it in. It's the only way they can do it.

Have you got any popcorn?

We're not going to stop for another....what's the time now? Seriously, no stopping.

Poppy you can have my sticks. Poppy I'm not using them - you should.

So, why am I following you? - Good question Jude.

We've not rested yet. You've got up to go an we've just got here.

Down's not so bad, it's just up.

Where's the lift?

Look there's a downhill part. Don't do that downhill part. Not yet.

Oh Dan don't lean on her

It just hurts when you get rocks on your hands

It's the last little bit. We're nearly at the bottom now.

(Kid trips) You okay. Of course. Good. No whinging no whining.

Mostly, people didn't sound as they were enjoying themselves anywhere as much as I was.

Wildlife spotting

When we booked this holiday we were expecting rain. The Lochs wouldn't be quite so full if it didn't rain a lot. We weren't expecting to see quite so much wildlife.

We've seen an unidentifiable enormous gull, red squirrels, an eagle, swallows, a yellow furry caterpillar, a chicken that crossed the road, a seal (or was it Nessie?), bats, shrews and cows sitting on the footpaths. This is quite amazing in just a couple of days.

We saw the most interesting collection of wildlife today at Glenfinnan. This is a beautiful, quite special place looked after by the National Trust of Scotland. They manage a tower monument on the edge of  Loch Sheil, where Bonnie Prince Charlie rose his flag in 1745 and tried to claim back the throne of England and Ireland before losing at the battle of Cullodan and running away to Rome. 

If you climb up the path to get a better view you can see an impressive viaduct on the other side, over which the Jacobean steam train runs twice a day at 10am and 3pm.

Just before the train arrived there was a sudden influx of rare and exotic wildlife.  They all had different calls, often brightly coloured but one sound was commonly heard. They filled edge of the cliffs, sat in trees, braved the boggy mud and called to each other with the phrase, "Harry Potter."

Fridge of sighs (blog takeover)

I'm glad they brought me with them on their holiday........really, I am.......I hate it when they get the cases out.....it usually means they are going to leave me....

The big girl hardly ever comes home anymore......but that's okay because she never let me lick her ears anyway......the boy left last week and I got scared that he wouldn't come back (like the girl)......so I cried ...... and sat in his room looking at his bed.....but it was fine because he came back smelling of vodka and happy......

This time when the cases came out I got really scared because the LSH's and Her clothes went in, as well as the boy's.....She might leave me......I don't even like it when she goes in the bath or goes to work.....

But then my stuff went in the car and we drove for two days..........They kept saying I was going back to my roots  but I think Cambridge is closer.....

Like I said, I'm really glad they brought me on holiday with them .....but holidays are terrifying. .... And Scotland is even more scary than the canal boat was.

Scotland is full of monsters.......It's my job to protect them....but there are so many more than the odd fly or pigeon we get at home........when we arrived it was exciting to see such a big garden.......the house was nice with big windows and they oohed and ahhed at how pretty it was.....She even smiled......

The I realised that it was my job to protect them....and there was so much more......

I paced around the room....saw off a few flies......then a wasp came in.......in the distance on the springy grass was the biggest seagull I've ever seen........it was a long way away and it still seemed huge but it was still in our garden......She took pictures, "It's an Icelandic Gull or maybe a Glaucus Gull, " she said........I thought she should just let me out to chase it away........

They took me for a walk to the edge of the water....I knew there were monsters in there.......even a little dog like me has heard of the Loch Ness Monster........the monster in this loch threw its water at my feet and I scuttled sideways and growled to show I wasn't scared......even though I was.

The shoreline was dotted with shiny, invisible jellyfish to sting paws if you were concentrating on the monster...or tongue if you tried to eat them.......little sand hoppers jumped up my nose when she turned over a pile of bladder wrack with her foot........she talked about lifting a big rock to see if there were crabs underneath......thank God she didn't......I had to chase crabs in Solva and they run funny.....

Back in the house and little tiny birds flitted around the windows...they watched, discussing whether they were house martins or swallows.......I tried to stay calm but they keep throwing themselves at the side of the house.....I might have hurt my leg a bit jumping from them...I looked out of the window and saw the dragon let out a big breath of smoke.

Then it was bedtime......I always sleep in my cage and they cover me up, so I'm safe and nothing can get me. My cage was in the living room......they went to bed.....but I could hear the monsters .....

I cried.....

Come and save me......there are monsters......I don't want to be on my own......

The LSH came out at 1am......he took me out......thought I needed a wee....I checked......there were smells.....all sorts of foreign monsters...causing danger.

I went back to bed.....but I couldn't settle....I tossed and turned....I smelt monsters and I could hear things......

I cried......

And cried.....

She got up and took me out....I didn't need to go out...I just wanted her to tell me it would be all right.

There were so many beasties outside....I could smell them....I put my nose under the rhododendron bush and a little one scuttled out....I chased it to the bins.....she told me to slow down because she didn't really want to be running round on the wet grass in her pjs at 3am but I couldn't.......it might escape. .....she shined her torch on it.......it was a wee timorous beastie.......probably a vole or a shrew, she said......

She let me check the whole of the garden.......we came back, damp and exhausted an hour or so later.....but I was shaking and didn't want to be left on my own again...She sat with me....I really do love her......and stroked my ears......

Bats threw themselves at the windows....she said it was alright....moths fluttered around the light on the porch and she said they couldn't hurt us......we sat.....calm....

Then it started again.......

Normally, I like a fridge.....they have good things in.....Sunday carrots.....dropped cheese shavings......and if I'm really lucky a curly bit of salami.......This fridge has a problem, though.......it takes ten short breaths in and then sighs......I pressed myself up against her leg to stop myself shaking and we listened together......it sighed.....I shook......it sighed.....then it stopped....suddenly....the fridge stopped breathing.....the fridge had died.....can you imagine what would happen if the fridge dies?????? No Sunday carrots.....I cried.......

She moved my cage into her room.....we slept, dreaming of monsters, timorous beasties, and the fridge of sighs.

Tonight, they have put my cage in the boy's room. I might be able to persuade him to sleep with the light on.

The Blue Lead is in the Car

I've become a cliche. This is a very bad thing for a writer. Cliches are to be avoided at all costs; whole days can be wasted looking at something and trying to describe it in a unique way.

This has snuck up on me when I wasn't looking. In the third year juniors I was rather fond of the Jenny Joseph poem about wearing purple and eating three pounds of sausages in one go and I vowed not to become a grumpy old lady who shouted at children on buses. I wasn't going to die my hair blue or pink, drag my worldly possessions round in a shopping trolley or have a poodle that produced white poos. But times change and the stereotypical old lady of my youth would be unique and quite funky now. That poem changed a whole generation of old folk; it gave them an alternative and now they're all wearing satin sandals and running their stick along public railings. You might have read the local news story about the pensioner who was caught by a speed camera doing 134 mph on his mobility scooter. Well, that is just what a good poem can lead to. What we need is a poem to help prevent fifty year old menopausal empty nesters becoming a cliche because although desperate to avoid it, it becomes a crushing inevitability.

There was no way I was going to become one of 'those' women, who fell apart when their children grew up. I had too much life to live; my own thoughts and feelings and the very idea of being bothered by a couple of teenagers not living at home anymore was ridiculous. And then my lady bits headed south, the hormones started to have a private party with rules I don't understand, my blood dumped it's iron like an anti-popeye and my bladder became allergic to trampolines making the resolution impossible to keep.  This is how on the morning after my son's A level results I came to be sitting on the edge of the bed doing the ugly sobbing thing.

The Long Suffering Husband looked at me sympathetically and said, "Well I'm not sure what to say. I don't know how to fix it."

"You.....*sob*...can't fix it.....*sob*......I'm broken and that's all there is to it....*sob*....I'm not a bloody car .... an oil change isn't going to do a sodding thing."

"I'm sorry. I was just trying to help."

"I know it's just that I'm so........*sob*....lonely and I'm useless. What's the point of me now? I can't even make a jelly without spilling it all over the fridge.....or make bunting without breaking the sewing machine."

"Can I just say?," he interrupted, "Did you break the sewing machine?"

"Well no but that's not the point. Other people can do things."

"How do you know? They might break the sewing machine or spill jelly in the fridge, you just don't know about it."

"Why would they do that?... *sob* None of the people I know are as useless as me. I ........*sob* ........just *sob* .......     can't believe ............ *huge choking sob*....... I think I might be premenstrual."

The ridiculousness of the situation suddenly struck me. Do you remember the last time you laughed and cried at the same time? For me, before then, it was when I was bored in the school summer holidays and watching a Shirley Temple film. I remember it because of the pain. Your body stabs you in the throat as it struggles to cope with conflicting emotions.

The LSH laughed and said, "Yeah, you think? The problem is you've been premenstrual for two years." He ducked quickly but big fat silent sad tears had taken over and I didn't even have the energy to throw something.

"It's why I've got no friends.....and now with both children gone I'll have nobody."

"You've got me," he said.

"Oh, but you're really annoying me. You keep saying things. You think you're being funny but ........"

"Sorry. You should say."

I protested that it would be cruel to tell him everytime he annoyed me, as, if I'm honest, it really isn't his fault.

He suggested a code word and then he would know I was irritated but it wouldn't feel like nagging.

I pulled myself together and started handing things to the LSH, for him to use his engineering skills to pack the car, filling every tiny space. (Warning: holiday blogs coming up). He kept wittering on about a blue dog lead, which was irritating me because I didn't think we had a blue dog lead. If only we'd agreed on a code word.

He burst back into the house, flushed with joy and said, "The blue lead is in the car."

That was it. Why have a word when you can have a phrase? 

It worked too. A six hour car drive can  give rise to many moments of irritation but if you respond to each one with, "the blue lead is in the car," the situation becomes something to have a chuckle over.

It's worse for parents.

There is a narrative that is currently circulating on social media about exam results: that it is worse for parents.

I don't know if it is true but I do know that I feel sick.  Actually, physically, violently sick.  I could vomit right now.  I was the same four years ago when my daughter was expecting her results. I've looked up the places available on clearing and checked the grade boundaries that were published today.  Not that any of this helps because I really don't know much about it.

I've been trying to work out if it is worse for parents or if it's just worse.

Things were certainly different when I got my A level results.  Well, they were for me.  I was temping in London when they came out and our results came by post.  I remember sitting on the train home with my friend who was working in the same place (as a tea lady - I was a cleaner), discussing the option of not going home to the envelope.  We were nervous but we pretended not to care. We were less prepared than our children are.  Now, our kids know what they are likely to get.  They know that their grades will be similar to the grades they got for their AS levels.  My results were a complete surprise.   Mine was the last year when how many questions you got right didn't determine the grade.you got but rather grades were awarded to show who did the best (ie the top 10% got an A). We didn't get articles in the press by smug journalists who had managed a sneaky peak at the result statistics suggesting that this was the 'worst ever year for boys' or that this year's good grades make a 'mockery of the system.', or maybe we did and it has just taken me until being a parent before I regularly read the Guardian. Even though it was the eighties and we had been told in every assembly that none of us would get jobs and have to retire by the time we were 50 (Oh how we wish!) most of my year group didn't go to university.  They got jobs. These days it appears you need a degree to work a photocopier or change a bedpan.

"Oh, my son is super relaxed," I say to anyone I meet in the street who asks but in truth he emerges from his bedroom every now and then moaning, "Oh, tomorrow," like a zombie before scuttling back in with a plate of food. We both feel sick. When someone wished him luck earlier he grimaced and said, "It's fine, I don't need it." adding, "Oh Jesus," under his breath.  "It's just because of the high grades you need for the Uni you've chosen, you'll go somewhere, " I reassured.  He agreed and told me that one of his friend's parents had asked what he needed and replied with, "Fuck me," before clapping his hands over his mouth and apologising.

We feel sick because there is nothing we can do.  We are capable of nothing.  We try to focus on things but it is no use; our brains keep turning back to the thought of 'Thursday' being tomorrow.
We try singing "Que Sera Sera,"

This morning I was discussing the situation with my mum.
"It was different for me, mine came by post." I reminded her.
"Oh, yes, that was terrible.  Waiting for the post to arrive."
"But I was at work.  I had to wait until I got home to open them."
"Really?"
"Yes, I was working in that solicitors office next to St Pauls, where all the solicitors had been to Oxford and wore pink striped shirts and braces under their suits and the other cleaning ladies and tea ladies were called Ada and Ivy."
"I wonder if I steamed them open?  I wouldn't have been able to wait."
"Maybe it was worse for you then because I remember you waiting for me to open them and me being very nonchalant about it, shrugging my shoulders and saying, 'Biology's not bad.'"

I remembered as soon as I put the phone down.  I knew.  I had taken one look at the envelope and I knew.  I noticed a small crinkled feel to the envelope and could see the steam mark from the kettle on the back.  I remember thinking that they knew how I'd done and were pretending not to know.  I remember trying to work out my grades from their body language.  I remember being nonchalant on purpose and I never, ever let on that I knew, not even to myself.  Being relaxed about my A level results is a lie I've told myself for over thrity years just to annoy my parents.

This weekend the Sunday Telegraph published a guide for parents on how to act at this time, maybe I should read it, or it could be too late already because I doubt that blogging that you feel sick is on the list of things to do.

People watching

I'm beginning to think that I'm taking my hobby too far.

Most people I know like a spot of people watching. They sit in pubs and cafes with their friends and discuss the people around them. "Look at that woman sitting over there with the dog and the notebook," they say, "have you seen her fingernails? You'd have thought she grew that salad herself." What they probably don't know is some of the people they are watching are watching them. They might even be writing down everything they say. 

This is where I think I might have tipped from normal, sane, everyday kind of people watching to, well, I think it can only be called stalking. I blame the fact that I'm spending some time every day in this holiday writing fiction and I keep getting stuck (probably because I'm not very good at it and it's really hard).  When I get stuck, I leave the house. I walk, sit in cafes and listen. It's good to hear subtle differences in speech patterns and the boring inconsequential things that make up people's everyday lives. 

The other day, I was watching someone complain about how her life, since retiring, had become a huge social whirl. "I just can't keep up with it all," she beamed at her friend. The friend said nothing (because she couldn't get a word in edgeways) but I was feeling really jealous on her behalf. I had assumed that the friend was on a rare day out and probably didn't want to be thought of as another social inconvenience. I happened to follow this gadabout to the loo. She was checking her lipstick in the mirror when she received a text. I washed my hands and had to stand behind her to use the dryer.

"Hi Margot and George

When you and the children come over later we will have a fantastic time. 

Will you bring wine? Maybe you should bring cakes instead, as they are just toddlers.

Looking forward to it already. X"

I felt even more jealous. Two social events in one day. No wonder she was getting tired of it. Then I saw her reply.

"Who are Margot and George?"

I still felt jealous. "I've never had a misdirected text," I thought, "it's not fair."

I think it's time to get a life. 

The Alternative Inbetweeners

As a feminist who is passionate about equality I am always wary of stereotypes. "Men and Women are different" is the sort of stereotype that can be used as an excuse for not giving people equal opportunities. The truth is that people are different. Women are different, men are different, dogs are different, even courgettes are different. (Yes it is courgette season again and my book 1001 things to do with a courgette is coming along nicely - anyone fancy courgette cake?)

But stereotypes are fun. Comedy is based on spotting the thing that most people can identify with and exploiting it. For example, when Harry Enfield did his Kevin and Perry characters parents of teenage boys nodded sagely and consoled each other with, "just like my boy." It was such a good stereotype and fitted with so many parent's experience that it became an expected right of passage. Parents of girls who behaved like Kevin were a little ashamed to admit it but to have a male Kevin gave parental bragging rights that were worthy of an Olympic gold medal.

Inbetweeners was another comedy classic that focused on stereotypical British boys. It worked because we could identify. We had all known a Will, Jay, Simon or Neil. Instead of a binary choice we were given more of an archetypal study of the teenage male but there were still 'truths' that could only be applied to boys. 

When I was at college a piece of research was published that said men think about sex every seven seconds. We sat in the bar discussing it. Laughing. The blokes putting their hand up everytime they thought about sex. The women didn't join in and kept our lusty thoughts to ourselves but I'm sure I wasn't the only one whose thoughts became X-rated every time one of the blokes raised their hand. There were some in the group who hardly raised their hand at all but we ignored them because it didn't fit our stereotype. That was the night we invented VOMit: vodka, orange, martini and tonic water (it). It was nice and after ten did exactly what it said on the tin. 

The Inbetweeners movie was a typical right-of-passage-post-A-level holiday, set on a Greek island. It was the kind of holiday my daughter had; clubbing, drinking, kissing and getting sunburnt.

However, for every four stereotypical post A level  holiday there will be one that doesn't conform. It might be hiking up Ben Nevis, volunteering in a refugee camp in Calais, sitting in a tent, stoned at Croprody or walking around every city you can get to on public transport catching Pokemon. My son has gone on one this morning. He and four friends have flown to Warsaw airport, where they will be met by their school friend and taken to his Grandad's farm. I like to think this alternative Inbetweeners will include rights of passage that would still make wonderful comedy. I imagine them sitting round a fire drinking Polish vodka, discussing the meaning of life of an evening and being set farm related challenges during the day. Whatever they do I hope they have a wonderful time before the reality of exam results day kicks in.

Meeting Teachers out of school

Guess what? Teachers are real people. 

I know. Shocking isn't it?

But really there is a good chance that you have one living in your street. You won't necessarily know he is a teacher because he's not your, or your child's teacher but teachers are everywhere.

When my daughter was little she liked to say "hello" to her teachers if she bumped into them during the holidays. I would follow this up with a polite, "Are you having a nice holiday?" , which was followed by a circular "yes, and you?", a nod and an awkward smile. My son never recognised his teachers so we only spoke to the ones I knew and he thought they were my friends. For his sake, we pretended they weren't acquainted.

Teachers, in my experience, rarely want to discuss a child's progress or genii tendencies in the holidays and any attempt to do so will embarrass both teacher and child.

In the Supermarket a child shouting, "Miss Smith," at the top of their voice causes a smile but when it comes from a parent watch lovely Miss Smith dive into the freezer with the frozen peas. 

The exception to this rule is very drunk teachers. This is fine because very drunk teachers won't remember the conversation anyway but beware because they could be brutally honest.

Many years ago in a bar with a friend during a Christmas holiday we met one of our daughters' teachers. He was merry and slightly wobbly on his feet. We watched him being overly friendly 

with the bar staff and chuckled quietly to ourselves discussing the rude parnsips that I had brought my friends as Christmas presents from the allotment. Then he spotted us. He lurched across the bar and flung an arm around my friend, breathing beer fumes into her face he pointed at me but kept his face very close to hers. "I bloody love teaching her daughter but not yours. She can't spell for toffee!"

I'll be honest. This holiday I'm thinking of taking up drinking.

All that's gold doesn't glitter.

If I could time travel I'd go back and have a look at what life was like in the supposed glorious Victorian age.  Never one to believe the hype about how great the past was,  (I grew up in the seventies and eighties and despite what others my age say, I know it was mostly a bit rubbish) I do think the Victorian Era might have been a bit special.

Researching my family history, I know it was a good time for lots of people.  The railways and shipping brought prosperity to many who hadn't had it before.  There were new, exciting foods and ideas and life seemed hopeful.

One of the main reasons that I'd like to go back, though, it to take photographs.  

I want to photograph everything metal thing that is now painted black.  I want to see what is underneath all that black.

Some people think that when Prince Albert died and Queen Victoria went into mourning, good loyal subjects painted their green, brown, and purple railings black.  Others think that they were painted black when Victoria died.  Then there is the theory that they were all painted black in the 1950s when quick drying black paint was invented.  Whatever the reason, I would like to see all the colourful railings.

Our town clock is painted in this thick black paint.  I have often wondered if it was always that colour.  At the weekend I was told that there is a suspicion that before Victoria died it was gilt covered: a shiny golden clock, chiming on the quarter hour and glinting in the sun.

I would have liked to have seen that.

I went!

If you read the VIP blog then you will have been wondering.  Did she chicken out or did she go?  Did she wear jeans or get a new frock? Did she behave or was she asked to leave? Or you have a life and didn't care if I bottled it at the last minute or not.

I went. I wore a dress and I didn't behave but wasn't asked to leave.

I can see the appeal, if you are that sort of person.  Really, I can.  I can see that sitting in a room of like-minded people, eating, drinking, and agreeing would be a lovely way to spend an afternoon.

This is what I enjoyed:

1. People watching.
2. The food
3. Being referred to as a 'young person'
4. Making snide comments that no one seemed to notice.
5. Thumping the Long Suffering Husband on the leg under the table instead of actually punching anyone.
6. Pulling faces.
7. Watching the carnival (I always do)
8. Taking photos
9. Visiting Moot Hall and waving at children (children always look up) from the balcony
10. The sunshine

This is what I didn't.

1. Shaking hands and dodging kisses.
2. Listening to conversations about 'Council business'
3. The council members referring to themselves as 'the great and the good'
4. Having my hand/arm stroked by the octogenarian triathlete every time he spoke to me.
5.  Listening to the outrage about Independent councillors.
6. The LSH thinking he'd done something wrong everytime I thumped him.
7.  Self-congratulatory Brexit discussions.
8.  Seeing the carnival from an unusual angle.
9.  Watching the LSH use the tablewear to help everyone visualise the  councillor's plan for turning          the White Horse Car Park into a multi-story.
10.  The suggestion that I should join the council.

Four Weeks

"I'm bored!"
"You can't be.  Not yet. There's still four weeks to go."
"But I am.  I'm bored."
"What about all those things you were going to do in the holidays?"
"They're boring."
"No, they're not boring.  You were really looking forward to doing them."
"Was I?"
"Yes."
"Well, now I'm bored and I can't even remember what they were."
"Why don't you read a book?"
"I've read eleven."
"Eleven?  How have you had time to read eleven?"
"I don't know.  I just have.  Sometimes I've been reading two at once."
"It's a lovely day.  You could sit in the hammock and read another one."
"I could...... but I'm bored."
"Okay. You're bored. I get it.  Why don't you do something creative?"
"Like what?"
"Oh I don't know.  You could write a story."
"Yeah.  I've written 5,000  words of my story but I think I'll stop because it's boring. I don't think anyone would want to read it."
"What about some knitting?"
"Yeah, I could carry on with the knitting.  I'm three quarters of the way through a baby jumper but I've got one and a bit sleeves to do and sleeves are..."
"Let me guess?  Boring?"
"Yeah."
"What about making some bunting?"
"I could but the sewing machine is upstairs and I'm too bored to go and get it."
"Well, what about cleaning out those cupboards?"
"Oh, BORING!"
"Yes, I agree but you did say that you couldn't wait until you had time to do it."
"I know but.... cupboards,,,,,, they're just.....boring."
"You could watch the TV."
"But I've watched all of House of Cards now."
"All of it?  All 52 episodes?"
"Yeah."
"No wonder you are bored."
"Yeah, you know I'm thinking I really quite like going to school."
"I'll remind you of that when you are sobbing into your cornflakes crying, 'Don't make me go,' in September."
"Okay.  But I think I miss people. You know, real people who talk to you and stuff."

*Doorbell rings*

"What are you doing?"
"Hiding."
"I thought you said you missed people."
"Yeah but ....."   *picks up book, studies knitting and opens word document* "I'm not ready for real people yet."