School Holidays

 Sometimes I write a blog to remove the splinters from my bum. If there's an issue that's doing the social media rounds and I find that I can't join either side then I'm on the fence and that's never a comfortable place to sit. So, I do a Boris Johnson and write about it to get some perspective. Obviously, whatever side I come down on I'm not going to write it on a bus and try to convince you to feel the same way and I urge you to ignore everything I write if you wish.

It is summer holiday booking season. A very stressful time. Especially, if, like me, you find making decisions impossible. This stress has pushed a barrage of social media posts about how children should be allowed to take a holiday in term time in front of my eyes and I'm not sure how I feel about it.

The pressure to take an annual trip abroad is huge and I remember when our children were young the financial burden was almost crippling.  Even if you opt for a break within the UK, during the school summer holidays the prices are 50% higher. Sometimes, companies charging so much more at these times feels criminal but it is a simple economic decision of supply and demand and the fact that the world is set up to benefit the rich and penalise the poor should never be a surprise.  The government has a petitions scheme, whereby if 100,000 people sign online they will 'consider the issue for debate.' There is currently a petition that has over 150,000 signatures with another 5 months to run. I think this means that the government will respond in a few days, rather than waiting until the petition closes.

Just because they have to respond does not mean that they have to debate it. There was a petition in 2015 and another in 2017 that got the required numbers quickly but it wasn't taken to a house of commons debate. The government, instead responded with details about why they wouldn’t change the policy, which included lost test cases at the Supreme Court.

Fining parents for poor school attendance isn’t new. I have been transcribing my local court records from 1901 this week and there are several parents brought to our courts by the school attendance officer, Mr Ainger. These parents were just as cross that they couldn’t keep their kids at home to help in the bakery or at the blacksmith shop, arguing that they were getting a better ‘education’ from that. They may have been right but a school education is supposed to widen the opportunities. 

The current argument is that a holiday is a widening opportunity, which could also be true. Seeing the pyramids close up, or kayaking down the Zambezi river might be an educational experience but if we are honest, for most kids, watching their parents get drunk round the pool on all inclusive pina coladas is probably less useful than a week in school when they are learning to tell the time.  

As I work in a school I am very aware of how much is packed into a curriculum. There is so much that children are supposed to ‘know’ by the time they leave primary school that there is not enough time to catch up those who have missed a week.  This is a problem in itself because without time for practice, knowledge can never fully embed into a small brain but that is probably an argument for another blog. 

The argument that missing two weeks of school is insignificant is not backed up by studies that show educational outcomes (ie exams passed) are lower the less someone is in school and that starts from the moment they begin. These studies also show that as little as a two week holiday appears to make a difference. This is why there is such a push for 100% attendance, making schools a Petri dish of live germs. (Again, a subject for another blog)

So far, it sounds as though I’m against holidays in term time and you are wondering why I needed a blog on the subject. However, there is more to children and families than exam results. If a  holiday in Ibiza is going to create a happier home life then that could have a greater impact on their ability to learn. 

From my lofty position of being able to afford a holiday in one of the 12 weeks we are not in school, I probably do think that children should take holidays during that time. Apart from anything else, it really breaks up that long 6 weeks. 

However, I’m not sure fines are the way to stop it.

A fine is such a blunt weapon. Does it ever change a person’s behaviour? Am I more likely to drive slower in residential areas because I’ve seen the advert where the creepy looking child dies or because I might get a fine? Wouldn’t it be best for the school to explain exactly what their child would be missing that won’t be repeated? Also, fines seem to me to always make a problem, caused by poverty, worse. 

I have seen several comments on the petition link where people are suggesting that this is just a money making exercise for schools or that teachers can take time off for strikes or non pupil days or close the school if the building falls down, so why is it worse for the parent to decide to keep their child out?

I was shocked at the venom that was being shot towards teachers, as if any of this was in their control.

The decision about whether to allow time off remains with the headteacher. They are ‘allowed’ to authorise time off for a holiday (in exceptional circumstances) but when Ofsted comes in, the school will be rated ‘inadequate’ and the head’s ability to make further decisions will be removed.  It is also the headteacher’s decision to refer the parent to the local authority who will then issue a ‘fixed penalty notice’ (fine). The school I work in rarely does this, as far as I’m aware, preferring to work with parents. Large academy trusts, however, are likely to have a system where the referral is automatically triggered by the code that, by law, has to be put on the register. Schools are now expected to run as businesses and for most schools the way to save money is to have all admin tasks done remotely and work in large groups, who can share costs. The personal, decision making touch is lost.

As far as I know, the school will see none of this fine money. All money from fines goes into the government’s ‘consolidated fund’ - their general bank account. 

The other problem that worries me is that this fine of £80 is encouraging some people to book a holiday in term time. People who can afford a vacation in the holiday period are working out that £80 is a small price to pay for the saving they get on their holiday. 

If you are the person that angrily wrote that your child’s school was closed due to crumbling concrete and you had to take time off work but then you aren’t allowed a holiday then I’m thinking you are angry at the wrong thing. Your child's teacher didn't make the decision that your child should stay at home. Schools shouldn’t be falling about around your children’s ears. Burst water pipes, broken heating, staff having nervous breakdowns  the lack of glue sticks are all due to chronic underfunding that has been going on since 2010. This is what deserves our attention and fury. 

I will keep watching the government website and if they do debate the issue and make any changes, I will let you know. However, I am reminded of the joke that is also doing the rounds on TeacherTok at the moment.

Genie appears and asks teacher what their one wish to make their job better would be. Teacher replies, "A dragon." The genie is confused. The teacher explains, "Yes, it could come out on playground duty, keep me warm, chase round the children who won't line up. The kids will love it. I could train it to do my marking and it's just cool." The genie says, "No, Seriously. I'm not giving you a dragon. What else would you like?" Teacher replies, "A class set of glue sticks that last all year."

The genie asks the teacher what colour dragon they'd like.

Arse-achingly grumpy

 I’m reading too many miserable books. I’ve come to realise that absolutely nobody is happy. I mean, how very dare people write about happiness, that’s so last century.

If you need an uplifting story then beware. Anything labelled as such will have someone dying of cancer who unbelievably has the energy to skydive in the day before their death. 

Want to read about a wedding then the husband to be will be having a secret affair. Babies. Babies are safe. Everyone loves a baby. Nope. Absolutely not. They cry and puke and wail. Mothers have PND, fathers are t carrying their share of the mental load and everyone is unhappy.

Bookshops are currently full of dystopia. What’s the worst thing you can imagine? Don’t worry there’s worse in your bookshop. Even books that are supposed to be funny with a sweary grandmother and a child excluded from school are thinly veiled references to child neglect and then, of course, the grandmother dies. 

Murder is the only genre that’s cosy at the moment. Unless you are reading murder by younger writers and then it’s filled with shame, bad dates and rape. 

All this reading is making me grumpy. So much so that I’ve developed a pain in my left hip that extends to my bum. 

I am, literally, arse-achingly grumpy and it’s the fault of literature. 

The myth

 'I won't buy any more books until I've made a good dent in the TBR collection on top of the bookshelf,' I promised.

'Except the book-club book,' he reminded me, winking.

'Of course. That goes without saying. Of course I'll buy the book-club book.'

'And anything that comes out that you can't live without?'

'Well, obviously.'

'What about the books that people have recommended?'

'No. I'm definitely going to hold back on those.'

I was doing well. Honestly! The pile might not have shrunk much but it wasn't growing. I was reading more than I was adding to the stack. Not buying recommended books but noting them on my phone meant that the mental load of books I might not live long enough to read was expanding but at least they weren't threatening to topple the bookshelf. Over the Easter holidays, I spent a good couple of hours putting all these lists into one place. Some books had been recommended several times and were on more than one list but one book appeared on eleven lists. 

I told myself that it was a sign and that if I saw it in a bookshop I would buy it. For some people that might take a long time but as a bookshop is my safe haven; the place I go to breathe when I'm out and world is overwhelming, I was expecting it to be a day or two. The scent of books and a gentle caress of their perfect spines brings me back to a place I can cope with. Obviously, if I'm having a really bad day, the angst of there not being enough time to read all the books can make even a bookshop feel unsafe but this is rare. So, as I go into a book shop most days I didn't think it would be long before the most recommended on my list was in my grubby little mitts but it was never there.

On Thursday, I started a book from the pile. one I had bought in 2019 when it was on the Women's prize list. Circe. It was one I had picked up and put down more times than seemed reasonable. The feminist retelling of Greek myths is a relatively new genre that has excited the book world. It is something I should have been interested in but I held back. 

Greek myths push my buttons for two reasons.

The first is that they are inherently misogynistic. They are written to keep women in their place. Cautionary tales about what happens to you if you tell the truth, talk about anything or dare to be more intelligent than the men. They are designed to make women fearful. The idea that we can embrace these stories to make feminist literature grates.

My second problem comes from posh people. Don’t they wang on about Greek myths? The way they talk, you’d think they believe they were actually real, rather than stories about the most dysfunctional families you can imagine. And then they laugh at you if you mispronounce the names, which often are a collection of random vowels.  

It all started when I was skipping PE lessons to hide in the library. I was flicking through the Beano, which is true literary genius but I felt the guilt. If I wasn’t going to run round a field and have my shins bashed in by a vindictive hockey teacher then at least I should be using my brain, so I picked up the Iliad and I quite liked it. As a war story it wasn’t quite as good as Sharpe, which I’d borrowed from my dad but it did have some bonkers gods and the poetic nature of it was something I enjoyed. The bloody gore of eye gouging on the battlefield was worse than any X-rated film that I was still banned from watching. However, it did start with a woman being sold into sex slavery and after a plague caused her to be swapped for another woman, we were supposed to believe that that one (that I called Brian’s - because pronunciation) liked it. The pages and pages of names were also a bit of a turn-off.  

Armed with my new knowledge I went to play (and by play, I mean, to lie on a bed and sing into a hairbrush while OMD played in the background) with a friend who I had met through playing the flute. They had a huge house and bookshelves to die for. It wasn’t quite the stack of Reader’s Digest we had in our bathroom and they had a whole set of the Encyclopaedia Brittanica. I read along the spines. 

The Feud of Diomedes and Aphrodite jumped out at me. 

‘The fee-ud of Deeo-meds and A- fro-dight, I read about that in the Iliad,’ I said excitedly.

The family erupted. The dad snorted his tea through his nose. The mum placed three dainty fingers to her lips and hiccoughed. My friend’s brother said, ‘Don’t they teach you anything at that school?’ My friend, quietly whispered the correct pronunciation but the damage was done. I felt stupid; put in my place. So, I decided that Greek myths weren’t for me. 

Recently, however, I listened to Natalie Hayne’s Stoneblind on audio at the same time as I read the proof copy I had been given but never read. I thought it was brilliant and having the audio at the same time helped me not worry about the names. It was the first time I didn’t feel that someone who liked Greek myths was ‘up-themselves’.

Circe, Seer-say not circle with the l missing, was not as enjoyable, even with audio help. I spent the whole time wondering if I could stop. I was reminded of braying poshos and wondered why the ‘tele’ is said differently for Telegonus and Telemachus. It hasn’t cured me of my dislike of Greek mythology. 

I fell into the bookshop, feeling the panic of a book I hadn’t enjoyed. The panic of knowing I was too stupid, too poor, too uneducated to understand these ‘very important’ works. The myth that a bookshop would comfort me was the only one that mattered.

It is the only myth that is true. They had the recommended book that was on eleven lists. Of course I bought it. It was meant to be. My reward for slogging all the way to the end.

A successful long marriage

 When my parents were my age, I was still young. ‘Well, obviously!’ you say, not unreasonably but the point is, I’m still young. In my head I haven’t become the old person I thought my parents were at my age. However, the signs are there.

I have noticed that a long successful marriage settles into something that looks a little like thanking each other for doing domestic chores, asking each other what you want for dinner and sexual innuendo.

‘Thanks for doing the washing up.’

‘What shall we have for tea?’

‘Oh, I don’t mind, you choose.’

‘I chose last night but we have got those sausages.’

‘Have we. I don’t remember buying sausages.’

Goes to fridge. Finds keys.

‘Oh my. Look at the size of those. That’s a mighty fine sausage you have there.’

Spends all of dinner time being asked, ‘Fancy a bite of my huge sausage?’

I notice that the viral clip of the male gorilla tweaking his partner’s nipple and getting a slap for it, is doing the rounds again, with women sharing it with a caption that it perfectly describes a long marriage. If they showed it to their partners then the men would be irritated. ‘Is that how you see me? I’m not…’ but they are and it is with affection that their wives are pointing it out. There is something comforting in the familiarity.

I remember a year when my mum bought my dad an anniversary card with an old couple on the front. The woman had bent down to pick up her glasses and the man was saying, ‘While you’re down there!’ I must have been a grown up with my own children at the time but I remember being mortified. These old people might still be at it and were worse still, putting it on their mantelpiece. 

I was never going to become that embarrassing old person but here I am, blogging about the phenomenon before going to ask the LSH what we’ve got for tea tonight. 

It’s been a while

Write every day.

That’s what they tell you. 

I don’t know who they are but I think there should be some sort of punishment for them because this is what happens.

1. You write every day. In a journal, notebook or pages that you never show anyone. It’s fun. You can write things you’d never say aloud. It feels good.

2. Your child decides they want to write for a living and so to encourage them you write rubbish publicly. It’s ok. The world doesn’t open up and swallow you. If you can’t be a good example you can, at least, be a terrible warning. 

3. They read your public ramblings and say, ‘Have you ever thought of writing a novel?’ You think, ‘That’s a novel idea.’ You laugh at your own wit. 

4. It’s not the first time you’ve done this. A few words on a page every day and you get a story. People emerge from your head and talk to you. Life is a little less lonely but because you’ve never shown anyone it still feels good. You can nod along sagely when men (and it’s always men) say things like, ‘Oh, everyone thinks they can write a novel but it does take a special kind of person to make it.’ Weirdly, they always think they are that special kind of person. 

5. This time, though, it feels different. Buoyed by people having read your words before you decide to edit the thing until you can’t read it anymore. You let a few other people read it and then, really stupidly, you send it to 7 literary agents.

6. The first symbolic dream in years appears. Your male dog is going to have puppies. There are 6 or 7 but two slip out as you are crossing a zebra crossing. You try to pick them up but they squash in your hands. You wake in a cold sweat and wonder what on earth you’ve done.

7. You wander, lost and lonely, reminding yourself that 1% of books that get written are published and asking yourself, ‘What were you thinking? Who do you think you are anyway?’

8. You feel a bit sick. You wish you hadn’t done it and you are missing something. You are not writing everyday.

9. You go back to writing rubbish publicly but you really don’t have anything to say. You want to apologise to anyone reading it but you can’t help it, writing appears to be an illness. I blame ‘them’: the people who say, ‘just write every day.’

10. You console yourself with the fact that Liz Truss has written a book, with less self-awareness than a lettuce and she can’t even hold it up the right way.