I take it all back - teachers are angels and deserve their 12 weeks off, and more besides. I know I have had a slight turnaround on my previous views, but with good reason. Last week I graciously offered my services as Classroom Assistant in my 5 year old's class, thinking it would be a pleasant change from my normal daily grind - oh, how wrong could I be!
If I thought it was hard enough coping with one five year old, I was little prepared for a whole class of them, all talking and asking me questions and wanting my attention and being irritating - all at once. The apparently 12 year old teacher just breezed through it all, while I was left wondering at what point I thought being a primary school teacher was comparable with being a food-taster for Marks and Spencers. The idea of getting paid for something so easy, such fun! But now I know better, and I am a big enough person to admit when I am wrong (just ask my partner - actually, don't). I know when my opinions are misguided or slightly off balance. And so I take it all back. They deserve their holidays and their training days - they deserve them all. They are saints, they really are. And I expect the valium helps too.....
Monday 30 November 2009
Wednesday 4 November 2009
Enough Already
That’s it! I’ve had enough, I’m downing tools and going on strike. Why? Well why not?
Ok, if you want a reason, I’ll give you a reason.
It’s the teachers; well perhaps not necessarily the teachers themselves as such, but the unions, the government or whoever the bloody hell decided that 12 weeks paid holiday is just not enough. I know I’m ranting and not being my usual clear and concise self, but I’m just so angry. I can hardly string my pumpkin lights up, let alone a sentence.
Oh those poor overworked and undervalued teachers. Six week summer holidays are not enough, give them another week off to recover from the last six weeks. Oh, but hang on, we need to train them so they’ll able to teach our offspring even better. Give them another day off and add it on to the half-term holiday – no-one will notice. Oh and while we’re at it, give them another few weeks off in December and a day or two in January – we’ll call it the Christmas holiday – we’ll all be too busy watching telly and shopping and cooking and eating and looking after our kids to catch on. Tag another day on for good measure, they can call it a special team-building/ training/ educational/ new government initiative. We’re bound to swallow it. What? What’s that I hear them say? You want us have our staff parties during the holidays? Stop it right now. How dare you imply that we’re onto a good thing, that we’re taking the proverbial? Don’t we deserve a little bit of time off? To recharge our batteries so we can give our ‘all’, to your precious darlings? Surely you don’t begrudge us that? Too bloody right, I do.
Enough’s enough, I say. Parents unite, I urge you all. It’s time to say no. Let them have their 12 week holidays if they must, but that’s all they’re getting, that is more than enough. I, for one am exhausted with it all. I think I’ll go on strike for a day, just so I can put my feet up. Perhaps I’ll sit by the computer and pretend to look busy while I google rug clearance sales in the Outer Hebrides? Or perhaps I’ll just have a training day – now that does sound like a plan …..
Ok, if you want a reason, I’ll give you a reason.
It’s the teachers; well perhaps not necessarily the teachers themselves as such, but the unions, the government or whoever the bloody hell decided that 12 weeks paid holiday is just not enough. I know I’m ranting and not being my usual clear and concise self, but I’m just so angry. I can hardly string my pumpkin lights up, let alone a sentence.
Oh those poor overworked and undervalued teachers. Six week summer holidays are not enough, give them another week off to recover from the last six weeks. Oh, but hang on, we need to train them so they’ll able to teach our offspring even better. Give them another day off and add it on to the half-term holiday – no-one will notice. Oh and while we’re at it, give them another few weeks off in December and a day or two in January – we’ll call it the Christmas holiday – we’ll all be too busy watching telly and shopping and cooking and eating and looking after our kids to catch on. Tag another day on for good measure, they can call it a special team-building/ training/ educational/ new government initiative. We’re bound to swallow it. What? What’s that I hear them say? You want us have our staff parties during the holidays? Stop it right now. How dare you imply that we’re onto a good thing, that we’re taking the proverbial? Don’t we deserve a little bit of time off? To recharge our batteries so we can give our ‘all’, to your precious darlings? Surely you don’t begrudge us that? Too bloody right, I do.
Enough’s enough, I say. Parents unite, I urge you all. It’s time to say no. Let them have their 12 week holidays if they must, but that’s all they’re getting, that is more than enough. I, for one am exhausted with it all. I think I’ll go on strike for a day, just so I can put my feet up. Perhaps I’ll sit by the computer and pretend to look busy while I google rug clearance sales in the Outer Hebrides? Or perhaps I’ll just have a training day – now that does sound like a plan …..
Wednesday 30 September 2009
Diary of A Desperate Mother of A Teenage Son
Yes, I have adopted a new title this week. Sounds a little over the top? A bit dramatic? Perhaps. And yet true. So true ..... I just don't understand how my lovely, sweet and caring little boy has turned into a glaring, moody, overly sensitive, snotty, rude, obnoxious teenager overnight. Did I blink and miss something? Certainly there was nothing about this developmental stage in the "What to expect when you're expecting" book. I'm sure I would have remembered if there was. No, this stage was definitely not mentioned in any books I read. So what do I do? As a jewish mother my natural instinct is to feed him. And perhaps this will show him that in spite of his hormonal mood swings and muttering complaints that I am 'the bitch-mother from hell for not letting him spend 6 hours a day flitting between Play Station and MSN', that I still love him and know that deep down, buried beneath the raging hormones and witch hazel spot treatement, is that lovely, sweet and caring man/boy who is yet to emerge, like the butterfly who emerges from its chrysalis, no longer the repugnant, hairy caterpillar .... but something magnificent and magical (who makes it's own bed, smiles without being told to and doesn't leave rotting bananas in it's school bag with any luck)
Wednesday 16 September 2009
Diary of A Norfolk Broad (or Chow Mein and Chappatis)
Inspired by "Julie and Julia", the new film in which Julie Powell sets herself the challenge to cook all 524 recipes from the French cookery book by Julia Child in just one year, I have decided to go one step further.
Whilst perusing my chinese takeaway menu last night, I was thrilled to discover that including the chef's specials, there are 169 dishes. However, add the 260 on the indian takeaway menu which do not include the recommended Chef's special set meals, nor the lamb tikka passanda which I found very disappointing, but does allow for the sundries, and my goodness, we are up to 429!
Therefore, it would be possible to have one takeaway dish per day for an entire year, plus 64 to spare unless its a Leap Year, which is good, because, let's face it, a dish of crispy seaweed (which technically isn't seaweed at all but deep-fried shredded cabbage) is not going to make a very substantial meal at all. So with those 64 spare dishes to choose from to supplement numbers 1-17 in the appetisers section particularly (I do hope you are still following, or have you given up the will to live yet?) I should be alright. Phew.
You can see where all this is going, can't you? Absolutely - right on my already ample buttocks. Now, I wonder who's going to want to make a film about that?......
Whilst perusing my chinese takeaway menu last night, I was thrilled to discover that including the chef's specials, there are 169 dishes. However, add the 260 on the indian takeaway menu which do not include the recommended Chef's special set meals, nor the lamb tikka passanda which I found very disappointing, but does allow for the sundries, and my goodness, we are up to 429!
Therefore, it would be possible to have one takeaway dish per day for an entire year, plus 64 to spare unless its a Leap Year, which is good, because, let's face it, a dish of crispy seaweed (which technically isn't seaweed at all but deep-fried shredded cabbage) is not going to make a very substantial meal at all. So with those 64 spare dishes to choose from to supplement numbers 1-17 in the appetisers section particularly (I do hope you are still following, or have you given up the will to live yet?) I should be alright. Phew.
You can see where all this is going, can't you? Absolutely - right on my already ample buttocks. Now, I wonder who's going to want to make a film about that?......
Thursday 13 August 2009
The New 'Man' In My Life Part Two
Of course, like any new relationship it wasn’t all plain sailing. He clearly felt that he wasn’t getting all the attention he deserved, and would peck my ear to tell me so, and in return I wasn’t altogether comfortable with him pooing on my shoulder, but after several weeks we reached that point where we were just happy in each other’s company, albeit in the confines of the garden shed. But in spite of our mutual affection, I knew that it was just a summer romance and inevitably could never be anything more than just that.
Jack was a free spirit, and as much as I could see the affection in his little beady eyes, I loved him too much to keep him a prisoner. It was never going to be easy, letting go, but in the end it was the right thing to do.
There will always be a special place in my heart for Jack, but he is now with a new woman; Diane. It is her shoulder on which Jack will poo for the next few months, her ear he will nibble affectionately, and from her aviary that he will eventually fly to freedom, and live the life of the magnificent Jackdaw that he surely is.
The End
Jack was a free spirit, and as much as I could see the affection in his little beady eyes, I loved him too much to keep him a prisoner. It was never going to be easy, letting go, but in the end it was the right thing to do.
There will always be a special place in my heart for Jack, but he is now with a new woman; Diane. It is her shoulder on which Jack will poo for the next few months, her ear he will nibble affectionately, and from her aviary that he will eventually fly to freedom, and live the life of the magnificent Jackdaw that he surely is.
The End
Friday 10 July 2009
The new man in my life.
Just when you're least expecting it, and certainly when you're not even looking for it, love can just plop into your life like a gift from above. Actually, it did literally plop into my life from above - the day Jack fell down the chimney. One minute I was quietly sitting at the kitchen table eating a cheese and pickle sandwich, and the next I was rather perturbed to hear a quiet rustling sound from the chimney above the woodburner. My first thought was that I had imagined it, my second was interrupted by the caw of a baby jackdaw. My third I cannot actually write - there are too many rude words in it.
Initially I tried to ignore it; the sound of a bird scuttling around the chimney, the intermittent pitiful squawk, but worst of all were the quiet bits in between when I wondered if perhaps my uninvited guest had croaked it. After hours of silence, convinced that he had more than likely dragged himself up to the top of the chimney and was pleasantly relaxing in his nest, whilst singing a fabulous duet with Amy Winehouse on the radio - me, not the bird (I actually think I was a little more in tune than she was, but that's beside the point), there it was again; the scuttling, followed by the pathetic, "I am still here you know, waiting patiently but getting a tiny bit pissed off, if you know what I mean", type of squawk. It was then I knew there was just one thing to do - get the Artist quick. Of course there are many things that women can manage on their own without a man's help (even the scientists agree on this point - we don't even need you for making babies any more), yet there is one job which is still a 'Man's Job' - rescuing possibly mangled birds out of chimneys.
And so it was, that after much shifting of chimney covers and large avalanches of dust, grit and soot, Jack came into my life.
Initially I tried to ignore it; the sound of a bird scuttling around the chimney, the intermittent pitiful squawk, but worst of all were the quiet bits in between when I wondered if perhaps my uninvited guest had croaked it. After hours of silence, convinced that he had more than likely dragged himself up to the top of the chimney and was pleasantly relaxing in his nest, whilst singing a fabulous duet with Amy Winehouse on the radio - me, not the bird (I actually think I was a little more in tune than she was, but that's beside the point), there it was again; the scuttling, followed by the pathetic, "I am still here you know, waiting patiently but getting a tiny bit pissed off, if you know what I mean", type of squawk. It was then I knew there was just one thing to do - get the Artist quick. Of course there are many things that women can manage on their own without a man's help (even the scientists agree on this point - we don't even need you for making babies any more), yet there is one job which is still a 'Man's Job' - rescuing possibly mangled birds out of chimneys.
And so it was, that after much shifting of chimney covers and large avalanches of dust, grit and soot, Jack came into my life.
Wednesday 29 April 2009
Here Comes the Sun
In the midst of a recession there is always one thing that is guaranteed to either add to the misery or uplift even the grumpiest of moods - the good old British weather.
However, the trouble with a little bit of sunshine and temperatures which creep marginally beyond freezing point is the amount of bare flesh we are suddenly and often unwillingly subjected to. Now there may be some who do not mind this phenomenon, or worse, perhaps even welcome this unveiling of white, lumpy, pasty flesh, but personally speaking, it offends me to see my own white, lumpy, pasty flesh on a daily basis, so why on earth should I want to see anybody else's wobbly bits trying to make an escape for freedom?
Worse still, in the desperate attempt to absorb the watery rays of sunshine, watching the white dumpling-like offerings become incandescent, angry red dumpling-like offerings is even more repulsive. Now, had I the toned, lithe, golden body of my dreams, perhaps we'd be taking a different approach here? Maybe I too would be willing to get 'em out - I'm talking about legs here, what did you think I meant?
If we lived in a much promised but failing miserably to materialise, globally-warmed, sunny Mediterranean climate perhaps it would be another story altogether? But we don't.
If and when Cromer Pier becomes known as Cromer-Sur-Mer, playground for the rich and famous, and the Promenade a palm tree/ seafood restaurant/ open air bar-lined boulevard, then and only then will I whip off my Khaftan and Flip Flops in public.
You have been warned.
However, the trouble with a little bit of sunshine and temperatures which creep marginally beyond freezing point is the amount of bare flesh we are suddenly and often unwillingly subjected to. Now there may be some who do not mind this phenomenon, or worse, perhaps even welcome this unveiling of white, lumpy, pasty flesh, but personally speaking, it offends me to see my own white, lumpy, pasty flesh on a daily basis, so why on earth should I want to see anybody else's wobbly bits trying to make an escape for freedom?
Worse still, in the desperate attempt to absorb the watery rays of sunshine, watching the white dumpling-like offerings become incandescent, angry red dumpling-like offerings is even more repulsive. Now, had I the toned, lithe, golden body of my dreams, perhaps we'd be taking a different approach here? Maybe I too would be willing to get 'em out - I'm talking about legs here, what did you think I meant?
If we lived in a much promised but failing miserably to materialise, globally-warmed, sunny Mediterranean climate perhaps it would be another story altogether? But we don't.
If and when Cromer Pier becomes known as Cromer-Sur-Mer, playground for the rich and famous, and the Promenade a palm tree/ seafood restaurant/ open air bar-lined boulevard, then and only then will I whip off my Khaftan and Flip Flops in public.
You have been warned.
Tuesday 10 March 2009
Revenge is a Dish best served cold, Mr Blumenthal
It is not sour grapes. Just because he happened to be on the selection committee who rejected, yes REJECTED my Hot Smoked Salmon and Cream Cheese offering for the new Walkers Crisp flavour, is nothing to do with my less than sympathetic feelings towards Heston Blumenthal and his Fat Duck mystery lurgy crisis. Not really.
But if I was the malicious type, you might wonder if I was the sort of person who would think, "Serves you bloody right for choosing cajun bloody squirrel in the first place".
Of course, I'm NOT that type of person at all.
Poor Heston, I am sorry for you, I really am - and folks ...... I mean that most sincerely.
But if I was the malicious type, you might wonder if I was the sort of person who would think, "Serves you bloody right for choosing cajun bloody squirrel in the first place".
Of course, I'm NOT that type of person at all.
Poor Heston, I am sorry for you, I really am - and folks ...... I mean that most sincerely.
Tuesday 6 January 2009
A New Year's Revolution
I have just made my New Year's resolution - I would have made more but we're in a recession don't ya know, so I thought I'd better cut back.
So here it is - my resolution.
To only make friends with people poorer or fatter than me.
I completely understand how shallow this may sound, but when you think about it, it makes a lot of sense. By this simple act, my self esteem will soar. And with greater self esteem comes greater confidence. With greater confidence, I will be more eager and receptive to embracing new opportunities. And hopefully, with these new opportunities will come the wealth and pert buttocks I failed to achieve last year (or ever).
And then, being so utterly contented, I will share my happiness and help my poor, fat friends get rich and skinny too. A win, win situation, don't you agree?
I think I may have just started something - but you don't have to thank me. Just pay me.
So here it is - my resolution.
To only make friends with people poorer or fatter than me.
I completely understand how shallow this may sound, but when you think about it, it makes a lot of sense. By this simple act, my self esteem will soar. And with greater self esteem comes greater confidence. With greater confidence, I will be more eager and receptive to embracing new opportunities. And hopefully, with these new opportunities will come the wealth and pert buttocks I failed to achieve last year (or ever).
And then, being so utterly contented, I will share my happiness and help my poor, fat friends get rich and skinny too. A win, win situation, don't you agree?
I think I may have just started something - but you don't have to thank me. Just pay me.
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