It's bad enough a grown man being still obsessed with Doctor Who. But a grown woman? I'm not the only one. I'm not really obsessed. I can't quite work out why it's almost ok, whereas I would mercilessly mock my male friends for their Star Wars / Star Trek interest. (I spent long enough with my male cousins and male best friends to develop a working knowledge which secured my ability to date as many geeks as I liked - and I did like.)
So I have spent a week watching Doctor Who warm up programmes, all in preparation for "The Day of the Doctor" tomorrow - 50 years of a television programme for goodness sake, although as I am always telling my students; that is a very high proportion of the history of the medium.
I think Dr. Who had an acceptable appeal to women even before the "eye candy" days of David Tennant (or for me- Christopher Eccleston.) Having watched a particularly well-done drama- last night, brilliantly acted by Filch from the Harry Potter films - David Bradley "An Adventure in Space and Time", I was very drawn to Verity Lambert who became a very young and very female producer of the new Doctor Who programme. Maybe it was her influence, or Waris Hussein or Peter Bryant that developed the character as a maverick with a strong political message but that slightly rebelled against authority and the status quo.
There may never be a female doctor, I don't know if I would welcome it or not. The predominantly female companions have been presented as strong, wife-like in some cases and perhaps unfortunately, increasingly glamorous. They may have been screaming banshees (Peri) from time to time, and occasionally wore far too few clothes for any decent feminist to approve of (Leela) but there were some powerful companions. I got Sophie Aldred's autograph. She inspired me. Lately they have even been quite heroic themselves. Donna and Clara have pretty much saved the Doctor. At least the old ones never snogged the Doctor though. And in some cases it would have been down right inappropriate. The more recent Doctors have been closer to their companions' ages, it's been less disturbing but it creates a different dynamic.
Now the Doctor seems to need his companions to give him some humanity or to teach and educate him. It is a partnership of almost equals. The burden of being a Time-Lord is not an easy one and seems to come with few of the benefits of a super hero. And just recently River Song has brought a powerful breath of fresh air; someone who knows more than the Doctor; turns up, calls everyone sweetie, is strong, sexy and (hooray) older. The new Doctor is not threatening to his female companions or audience in the same way that he is not threatening to pale teenage boys. He is not strong and heroic, he runs away. And thinks. About science. Captain Jack loves him. And as I am just watching (right now!) my other heroine Caitlin Moran claim that Russell T. Davies was partly responsible for the legalisation of gay marriage. A girl can trust him when she's alone in the TARDIS.
I am partially refusing to feel guilty about being so excited about tomorrow. Well done Doctor Who. I think you may have made it ok for women to like sci-fi and even feminists may find some very positive role models in a programme suitable for young girls.
Friday 22 November 2013
Thursday 7 November 2013
There is a light.
Last night, a woman died. A lovely, lovely woman who has two young children at primary school with my children.
The playground after school was a sombre affair. Standing, waiting, I watched as mother after mother approached a friend and gently touched her arm. I watched as the mother smiled a hello then within a minute her hand would be snatched to her open mouth and her eyes filled with tears. And all of us, all of us then wrapped our children up in our arms and buried our wet cheeks into their shoulders so that they would see our smiles by the time we put them down.
The closest friends wept openly or wore sunglasses but the rest of us who were passing acquaintances, or like me, had had a few lively nights out hid our emotions, not wishing to seem like hangers on. It leaves all of us terrified by our mortality, wondering how on earth our husbands would get our children to school, or brush their hair. Do any of them know what time swimming lessons are? Or ballet? Would they eat fruit again?
Dan and I hugged for an hour when we got home. However bad our life seems now we have another day together, with our children tomorrow. We are the luckiest people in the world.
Good night. Sleep tight.
The playground after school was a sombre affair. Standing, waiting, I watched as mother after mother approached a friend and gently touched her arm. I watched as the mother smiled a hello then within a minute her hand would be snatched to her open mouth and her eyes filled with tears. And all of us, all of us then wrapped our children up in our arms and buried our wet cheeks into their shoulders so that they would see our smiles by the time we put them down.
The closest friends wept openly or wore sunglasses but the rest of us who were passing acquaintances, or like me, had had a few lively nights out hid our emotions, not wishing to seem like hangers on. It leaves all of us terrified by our mortality, wondering how on earth our husbands would get our children to school, or brush their hair. Do any of them know what time swimming lessons are? Or ballet? Would they eat fruit again?
Dan and I hugged for an hour when we got home. However bad our life seems now we have another day together, with our children tomorrow. We are the luckiest people in the world.
Good night. Sleep tight.
Friday 25 October 2013
Don't get drunk at the school disco
Tonight I watched my daughter walk home from a big night out. She was staggering down the street in front of me, swigging from a bottle in knee high boots and a skirt so short it almost made her dad cry. Her tights were abandoned,as she was "Too warm" and she was giggling and shrieking with the thrills of the night.
She is 5. It was her first school family disco. Family in this case being me, Max, Rex and her. Even the thought of it was all too much for Daddy, after a week that has included Ofsted and the Playstation crashing.
I wasn't the only one, although there was a very impressive turn out of enthusiastic fathers huddled in corners or checking their phones at table, there were many mummies like me, quietly nursing a plastic cup full of wine and being upstaged by the Omnimothers of the PTA simultaneously showing the girls how to do the Macarena, cleaning up Fruit Shoot spills and serving hot dogs and penny sweets.
It was marvellous, actually. Fascinating to watch the children having such a fantastic time with so little self-consciousness. Maybe it's because we live somewhere fairly quiet, but there was also a pleasing lack of mini-mileys, which, innocent or not, I always find a bit disturbing on MBFGypsy Wedding.
I even managed to resist the temptation to stop her dancing to Thicke. Can't promise I'll be doing that again.
I must have another few years of that before the first scene becomes more sinister. Ten? Eight maybe? I'm going to make sure I go to every school disco from now on.
She is 5. It was her first school family disco. Family in this case being me, Max, Rex and her. Even the thought of it was all too much for Daddy, after a week that has included Ofsted and the Playstation crashing.
I wasn't the only one, although there was a very impressive turn out of enthusiastic fathers huddled in corners or checking their phones at table, there were many mummies like me, quietly nursing a plastic cup full of wine and being upstaged by the Omnimothers of the PTA simultaneously showing the girls how to do the Macarena, cleaning up Fruit Shoot spills and serving hot dogs and penny sweets.
It was marvellous, actually. Fascinating to watch the children having such a fantastic time with so little self-consciousness. Maybe it's because we live somewhere fairly quiet, but there was also a pleasing lack of mini-mileys, which, innocent or not, I always find a bit disturbing on MBFGypsy Wedding.
I even managed to resist the temptation to stop her dancing to Thicke. Can't promise I'll be doing that again.
I must have another few years of that before the first scene becomes more sinister. Ten? Eight maybe? I'm going to make sure I go to every school disco from now on.
Monday 14 October 2013
G - too much T and A
I may have reached rock bottom. I needed to pay a cheque into the bank today. I couldn't afford the stamp to post it, or the petrol to drive there.
I then the spent the evening watching Dan apparently shagging some skanky tart. Of course it wasn't really him, it was his nasty little character on a rather violent computer game. Still, all a bit weird don't you think? And is it offensive for me to call a computer image either skanky or a tart? It also helps to make sense of the complete lack of empathy my year 10 boys feel towards Curley's wife. "Well, she's a ho Miss. A slapper. A tart. She deserves it. She shouldn't be playing around."
I know, it seems very wrong to blame video games for violent attitudes. I don't believe that. Fundamentally violence has been around as long as...well...survival, surely. That makes sense. And I know there will always those people who use "Catcher in the Rye" or "Natural Born Killers" as the inspiration for some horrendous crime. That does not represent the majority of the people.
But I feel very uncomfortable watching those games, the average 35 year old gamer using these extreme games to escape from the daily grind, the responsibility of life. The average 15 year old who is playing these 18-rated game has nothing to escape from. They already have no responsibility. Their attitude to crime, to women, to life is formed partly by what is represented from these games.
It is not merely the scantily clad women, designed by men who rarely come into contact with real women in real life, it is also the lack of any positive representations of women. I saw one woman in a low cut suit and glasses demonstrating that women can be clever too, boys. I could go on about the one black character I saw committing a range of violent crime.
I'm going to complain. To someone. I'm not sure who. As soon as I've finished ironing this shirt.
I then the spent the evening watching Dan apparently shagging some skanky tart. Of course it wasn't really him, it was his nasty little character on a rather violent computer game. Still, all a bit weird don't you think? And is it offensive for me to call a computer image either skanky or a tart? It also helps to make sense of the complete lack of empathy my year 10 boys feel towards Curley's wife. "Well, she's a ho Miss. A slapper. A tart. She deserves it. She shouldn't be playing around."
I know, it seems very wrong to blame video games for violent attitudes. I don't believe that. Fundamentally violence has been around as long as...well...survival, surely. That makes sense. And I know there will always those people who use "Catcher in the Rye" or "Natural Born Killers" as the inspiration for some horrendous crime. That does not represent the majority of the people.
But I feel very uncomfortable watching those games, the average 35 year old gamer using these extreme games to escape from the daily grind, the responsibility of life. The average 15 year old who is playing these 18-rated game has nothing to escape from. They already have no responsibility. Their attitude to crime, to women, to life is formed partly by what is represented from these games.
It is not merely the scantily clad women, designed by men who rarely come into contact with real women in real life, it is also the lack of any positive representations of women. I saw one woman in a low cut suit and glasses demonstrating that women can be clever too, boys. I could go on about the one black character I saw committing a range of violent crime.
I'm going to complain. To someone. I'm not sure who. As soon as I've finished ironing this shirt.
Tuesday 8 October 2013
I don't want to be an MP.
I heard someone on Woman's Hour http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b007qlvb today assert a statistic about female politicians in the UK. I have just tried to look it up but all I could find was a figure implying that between 1977 and 1986; 40% of women MPS had children. (Women and Politics Worldwide ed Barbara J Nelson).
Obviously this discussion was taking place against the background of the cabinet and shadow cabinet re shuffles last night and this morning. The suggestion seems to be that young women / women with children are under represented, and that those discussing issues that may affect them are inexperienced in the areas that could be siginificant, for example - childcare; although some of us would like to think that there is more to our lives than this. (They are, of course, wrong.)
How could we get more women into politics? Louise Bagshawe couldn't handle it, and although Cherie and Samantha, Sarah and Miriam seem to have coped, I imagine they had some help. I am interested in politics but the way parliament is run seems ludicrous. The hours worked are ridiculous, the London-centric focus impractical and the demands that I imagine are made on these people impossible.
Depressed, Anxious and Neurotic husband arrived back by 7 0 clock this evening. We were late eating dinner, so we still ate together although it then took 2 hours to get the children into bed and since the dishwasher is broken, I did not leave the kitchen until 10:30pm. Seven doesn't seem unreasonable although Dan's father still cannot understand why he doesn't pick up the phone at 3:35 since "He only works til 3 doesn't he?"
A few years ago I tried to finish my work at school before I left for home. They kicked you out at 6 but it was usually possible. I have single/childless/married to normal people friends who still do the same. Nowadays I leave with the school buses - more or less - in order to race back and collect my children from the childminder's before I have to pay another £15. After all I work a 0.75 timetable so I only have to work 75% of the evenings right? That is also possible. (Take note Mr Gove; if you're going to penalise me for racing out of the gate at 3:40 you can weigh the bag I carry home.)
In other words, there are other ways to work. It isn't about tweaking things to make it possible for young mums to "fit in" to the pre-existing system. There may be a better way to do it. Even the Daily Mail admits that "The poll also found that 55 per cent of the teachers quizzed said they regularly did 56 hours a week during term time - and even taking account of ‘holiday time’, the average amount of hours teachers do each week is 48.3."
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2159173/70-teachers-nighter-prepare-lessons-according-survey-teaching-magazine-concludes-hours-rest-us.html
And when you hear about the hours that those young city boys and girls work, moving straight from the office to the bar and back to the office to make high-pressured decisions, it does seem that something is wrong.
That does not support family time or mothers or children and explains why women are often faced with very difficult choices when it comes to employment. What I can't figure out is why men are not faced with those same choices.
As far as I can tell, it is no more acceptable for fathers to be working those hours either. We shouldn't be changing the system to be supporting women, we should be changing this system to support families. Women can't compete with their male counterparts working silly hours to suggest it is necessary to do so.
I don't think that as women, or feminists, we should be asking for better childcare provision for our jobs, we should be expecting anyone who has children to put the hours in at home.
Until our expectations of men improve, we can't expect equality of opportunity, or expect comprehensive representation in parliament.
Obviously this discussion was taking place against the background of the cabinet and shadow cabinet re shuffles last night and this morning. The suggestion seems to be that young women / women with children are under represented, and that those discussing issues that may affect them are inexperienced in the areas that could be siginificant, for example - childcare; although some of us would like to think that there is more to our lives than this. (They are, of course, wrong.)
How could we get more women into politics? Louise Bagshawe couldn't handle it, and although Cherie and Samantha, Sarah and Miriam seem to have coped, I imagine they had some help. I am interested in politics but the way parliament is run seems ludicrous. The hours worked are ridiculous, the London-centric focus impractical and the demands that I imagine are made on these people impossible.
Depressed, Anxious and Neurotic husband arrived back by 7 0 clock this evening. We were late eating dinner, so we still ate together although it then took 2 hours to get the children into bed and since the dishwasher is broken, I did not leave the kitchen until 10:30pm. Seven doesn't seem unreasonable although Dan's father still cannot understand why he doesn't pick up the phone at 3:35 since "He only works til 3 doesn't he?"
A few years ago I tried to finish my work at school before I left for home. They kicked you out at 6 but it was usually possible. I have single/childless/married to normal people friends who still do the same. Nowadays I leave with the school buses - more or less - in order to race back and collect my children from the childminder's before I have to pay another £15. After all I work a 0.75 timetable so I only have to work 75% of the evenings right? That is also possible. (Take note Mr Gove; if you're going to penalise me for racing out of the gate at 3:40 you can weigh the bag I carry home.)
In other words, there are other ways to work. It isn't about tweaking things to make it possible for young mums to "fit in" to the pre-existing system. There may be a better way to do it. Even the Daily Mail admits that "The poll also found that 55 per cent of the teachers quizzed said they regularly did 56 hours a week during term time - and even taking account of ‘holiday time’, the average amount of hours teachers do each week is 48.3."
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2159173/70-teachers-nighter-prepare-lessons-according-survey-teaching-magazine-concludes-hours-rest-us.html
And when you hear about the hours that those young city boys and girls work, moving straight from the office to the bar and back to the office to make high-pressured decisions, it does seem that something is wrong.
That does not support family time or mothers or children and explains why women are often faced with very difficult choices when it comes to employment. What I can't figure out is why men are not faced with those same choices.
As far as I can tell, it is no more acceptable for fathers to be working those hours either. We shouldn't be changing the system to be supporting women, we should be changing this system to support families. Women can't compete with their male counterparts working silly hours to suggest it is necessary to do so.
I don't think that as women, or feminists, we should be asking for better childcare provision for our jobs, we should be expecting anyone who has children to put the hours in at home.
Until our expectations of men improve, we can't expect equality of opportunity, or expect comprehensive representation in parliament.
Friday 20 September 2013
What have I done wrong today?
The day started badly. Youngest son; Rex - the King of the household woke me up at 2 minutes before my alarm was due to go off. At the moment "I need a wee" and "I did a wee in my bed" sound more or less the same so I race downstairs to check on the bed. It is damp. Fortunately the duvet is safe and I didn't actually need to get up straight away this morning. As I spent the hours between 2am and 3am persuading Rex that it was night time I think I might doze for another 45 minutes. Rex has to come with me, I try to put him in Pip's bed without waking her. He starts to scream. Before whole household is woken I threaten him with the garden if he makes a noise and sneak him into my bed.
I say "my bed". During the six week break, I got used to thinking of it as "my bed" as Depressed Aggressive and Neurotic husband played computer games and watched films until 5 o clock in the morning then fell asleep on the sofa. Every night. So I had almost forgotten that I needed to inform anyone or ask permission when I carry smallest child into our room.
Rex is not inclined to sleep anymore. "It's morning" he announces and then snuggles into his Daddy's back to get him to turn around and kiss him.
And so all hell breaks loose. 06:45 is apparently the time at which Dan's alarm is set. Anytime before that is not acceptable. He has to get to school and run a department. "So do I..." I venture quietly, which is a mistake. His department's bigger than my department. His school is rougher than my school. His head is much more unreasonable and power hungry than my head. Rex and I run downstairs and I get breakfast for everyone, make lunches, empty the dishwasher, discover it has broken, handwash everything, empty the washing machine and put another wash in before the economy seven time runs out, dress the toddler, make coffee, and then, as I am just about to run upstairs to drink coffee while I straighten my hair I am summoned unceremoniously to the top floor.
I am once again in disgrace. "Where is my shirt?"
"Which shirt?"
"Any shirt!"
"In the ironing pile?" I venture. This is the wrong answer, and two minutes later, still in my pyjamas with fluffy hair, I am ironing three shirts. It looks like I am now going to start ironing twice a week.
I wonder how it gets this way for me and many other women. For me I think it started with maternity leave - it may have been early but I struggle to remember my life before then. On maternity leave it suddenly makes sense, we were both working full time, now I am at home. Then eventually I am back, but only part time. So it falls to me to vacuum, to cook dinner, to iron, to wash, to load the dishwasher.
Even when we both reduced our timetables to 80%, I still took the lion's share. I was not the one with responsibility. Or not the right kind of responsibility.
And then it's too late... I cannot simply rejoin my career, may as well have another baby. And until biology changes I can't see an easy way out.
I say "my bed". During the six week break, I got used to thinking of it as "my bed" as Depressed Aggressive and Neurotic husband played computer games and watched films until 5 o clock in the morning then fell asleep on the sofa. Every night. So I had almost forgotten that I needed to inform anyone or ask permission when I carry smallest child into our room.
Rex is not inclined to sleep anymore. "It's morning" he announces and then snuggles into his Daddy's back to get him to turn around and kiss him.
And so all hell breaks loose. 06:45 is apparently the time at which Dan's alarm is set. Anytime before that is not acceptable. He has to get to school and run a department. "So do I..." I venture quietly, which is a mistake. His department's bigger than my department. His school is rougher than my school. His head is much more unreasonable and power hungry than my head. Rex and I run downstairs and I get breakfast for everyone, make lunches, empty the dishwasher, discover it has broken, handwash everything, empty the washing machine and put another wash in before the economy seven time runs out, dress the toddler, make coffee, and then, as I am just about to run upstairs to drink coffee while I straighten my hair I am summoned unceremoniously to the top floor.
I am once again in disgrace. "Where is my shirt?"
"Which shirt?"
"Any shirt!"
"In the ironing pile?" I venture. This is the wrong answer, and two minutes later, still in my pyjamas with fluffy hair, I am ironing three shirts. It looks like I am now going to start ironing twice a week.
I wonder how it gets this way for me and many other women. For me I think it started with maternity leave - it may have been early but I struggle to remember my life before then. On maternity leave it suddenly makes sense, we were both working full time, now I am at home. Then eventually I am back, but only part time. So it falls to me to vacuum, to cook dinner, to iron, to wash, to load the dishwasher.
Even when we both reduced our timetables to 80%, I still took the lion's share. I was not the one with responsibility. Or not the right kind of responsibility.
And then it's too late... I cannot simply rejoin my career, may as well have another baby. And until biology changes I can't see an easy way out.
Thursday 12 September 2013
Numquam dormienti maritus titillare
It is 01:43. I was going to have an early night and go to bed at 23:15. Then I realised I still had a year 11 lesson to plan. It took a while. Then I remembered that Precociously Intelligent Princess; Pip; has a party on Sunday and I have no present. I have no money, no credit on any credit card, so I am limited to shopping at Next or Argos as I have store cards that I have not yet exhausted. It's only a matter of time.
Shopping proved impossible, it could be the late hour but either I or the website has had enough and I decide to go to bed. I fetched a glass of water from the kitchen and left the room, turning the lights off as I did.
The light switch didn't work. No, not now, it's late. I want to go to bed. I don't want to continue spending £200 a month on our fuel bill. I try it again, just to be sure. It definitely doesn't work. In a desperate act, I look around the kitchen as if expecting another light switch about whose existence I had forgotten to appear. No such thing happens.
In a completely irrational move I then stand at the light switch and repeatedly turn it off and on again as if it will "catch" or suddenly work. Nothing.
I am close to tears and no closer to going to bed. I start to lean towards the cupboard and wonder how many fuses I would have to turn off before finding the correct one and what else would also disconnect.
There is only one thing left to do, and it is usually the first solution I turn to. Wake up Dan.
Dan has been asleep on the sofa now for seven hours on and off, and the last thing he muttered as I told him that I was going upstairs was that he might do that too, but now he is snoring loudly, his head thrown back in an attitude of total abandon.
I know better than this. I could leave him to sleep and let him discover it for himself when he wakes up and staggers upstairs at 3am. The swearing would probably wake me up, but at least then it would be only the light switch and the universe's fault and not mine.
I think better of it and shake him gently awake. Not too awake, just awake enough for him to remember that I have woken him in the morning when |I remind him of it.
"I'm going to bed. Andthelightwon'tswitchoff night."
I run up to bed, and hide under the covers.
The next morning the light is off in the kitchen. I am too scared to switch it back on. I dare to remind Dan of what happened the previous night.
"How did you turn the light off?"
"....I switched the switch."
I spend the rest of the day in the dark.
Shopping proved impossible, it could be the late hour but either I or the website has had enough and I decide to go to bed. I fetched a glass of water from the kitchen and left the room, turning the lights off as I did.
The light switch didn't work. No, not now, it's late. I want to go to bed. I don't want to continue spending £200 a month on our fuel bill. I try it again, just to be sure. It definitely doesn't work. In a desperate act, I look around the kitchen as if expecting another light switch about whose existence I had forgotten to appear. No such thing happens.
In a completely irrational move I then stand at the light switch and repeatedly turn it off and on again as if it will "catch" or suddenly work. Nothing.
I am close to tears and no closer to going to bed. I start to lean towards the cupboard and wonder how many fuses I would have to turn off before finding the correct one and what else would also disconnect.
There is only one thing left to do, and it is usually the first solution I turn to. Wake up Dan.
Dan has been asleep on the sofa now for seven hours on and off, and the last thing he muttered as I told him that I was going upstairs was that he might do that too, but now he is snoring loudly, his head thrown back in an attitude of total abandon.
I know better than this. I could leave him to sleep and let him discover it for himself when he wakes up and staggers upstairs at 3am. The swearing would probably wake me up, but at least then it would be only the light switch and the universe's fault and not mine.
I think better of it and shake him gently awake. Not too awake, just awake enough for him to remember that I have woken him in the morning when |I remind him of it.
"I'm going to bed. Andthelightwon'tswitchoff night."
I run up to bed, and hide under the covers.
The next morning the light is off in the kitchen. I am too scared to switch it back on. I dare to remind Dan of what happened the previous night.
"How did you turn the light off?"
"....I switched the switch."
I spend the rest of the day in the dark.
Tuesday 10 September 2013
What's so bad about political correctness?
Clearly, the Trust must be replaced – though not, God forbid, by that nest of politically correct Blairites, Ofcom
Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/debate/article-2416410/DAILY-MAIL-COMMENT-Good-work-dont-crow-Mr-Osborne.html#ixzz2eTtEap8i
Follow us: @MailOnline on Twitter | DailyMail on Facebook
I love the BBC. I'm supposed to be ashamed of this I know, but I can't help it. Recent amazingly good US drama may have made me much more relaxed about the future of quality programming, but websites like http://www.the-specials.com/ remind you that not every group of people is represented fairly in the British media and I like the idea that there exists a trust with a commitment to "embrace diversity" http://www.bbc.co.uk/commissioning/tv/pitching-ideas/how-it-works.shtml that we all contribute towards. And I believe it's good value for money. Channel 4 is great too and I wonder how many of us would actively seek out some of their more unusual offerings if they were on some obscure specialist channel rather than a general, all-purpose broadcaster.
I also know I am supposed to hate Tony Blair, but I still cannot forget that weird excitement in the air the morning after Labour deposed the Conservative government and the sinking feeling I felt after the last election. I suppose we should be grateful that the Daily Mail website has a "Femail" section especially for us women. Today it's telling me about Miranda Kerr(who?) covering up after her last fashion faux pas and Natalie Portman drawing attention away from her husband who was supposed to be getting attention. In its defence it is also equally critical of Jude Law for going bald. (How dare he?)
At the moment then I'll stick with Ofcom and even the BBC.
Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/debate/article-2416410/DAILY-MAIL-COMMENT-Good-work-dont-crow-Mr-Osborne.html#ixzz2eTtEap8i
Follow us: @MailOnline on Twitter | DailyMail on Facebook
I love the BBC. I'm supposed to be ashamed of this I know, but I can't help it. Recent amazingly good US drama may have made me much more relaxed about the future of quality programming, but websites like http://www.the-specials.com/ remind you that not every group of people is represented fairly in the British media and I like the idea that there exists a trust with a commitment to "embrace diversity" http://www.bbc.co.uk/commissioning/tv/pitching-ideas/how-it-works.shtml that we all contribute towards. And I believe it's good value for money. Channel 4 is great too and I wonder how many of us would actively seek out some of their more unusual offerings if they were on some obscure specialist channel rather than a general, all-purpose broadcaster.
I also know I am supposed to hate Tony Blair, but I still cannot forget that weird excitement in the air the morning after Labour deposed the Conservative government and the sinking feeling I felt after the last election. I suppose we should be grateful that the Daily Mail website has a "Femail" section especially for us women. Today it's telling me about Miranda Kerr(who?) covering up after her last fashion faux pas and Natalie Portman drawing attention away from her husband who was supposed to be getting attention. In its defence it is also equally critical of Jude Law for going bald. (How dare he?)
At the moment then I'll stick with Ofcom and even the BBC.
Saturday 7 September 2013
Week 1 - The gentle introduction
Husband Dan (Depressed Anxious Neurotic) is barely speaking to me. This is not unusual, given his state of mind and there are extenuating circumstances. I do appear to have systematically trashed the already untidy house in the course of the last six weeks, we have no money and no means of getting any for another month and we go back to work in a matter of days.
Once again I wonder how I have spent the last few weeks. I don't appear to have been working which will explain the absolute panic and anxiety dreams which have started already. If it had been the start of a half term break I would have thrilled and excited but as we only had 1/6th of our time left it makes it almost impossible to enjoy the last week.
Mildly Autistic and Exasperating Son (Max) has become increasingly unsettled and is shouting at me for asking him to do unreasonable tasks (such as load the dishwasher and pick up his clothes) interspersed with bursting into tears of remorse.
I am, actually, making increasingly unreasonable demands on my children. I keep expecting them to be able to answer questions like; "What is the matter with you?" and "Why did I put you on the stairs?" I am dreading going to back to work and equally thrilled that when I am at work I am entitled to 4 periods of PPA a week. That sort of time is not incorporated into a week on holiday. At home I do not have any access to planning, or preparation time. When I suggest that I go into school for half a day to prepare, Dan is extremely unwilling to lose his final catch up time with series 4 of "Dexter". His willingness to support me fully in my career does not extend as far as actual, practical help.
Once again I wonder how I have spent the last few weeks. I don't appear to have been working which will explain the absolute panic and anxiety dreams which have started already. If it had been the start of a half term break I would have thrilled and excited but as we only had 1/6th of our time left it makes it almost impossible to enjoy the last week.
Mildly Autistic and Exasperating Son (Max) has become increasingly unsettled and is shouting at me for asking him to do unreasonable tasks (such as load the dishwasher and pick up his clothes) interspersed with bursting into tears of remorse.
I am, actually, making increasingly unreasonable demands on my children. I keep expecting them to be able to answer questions like; "What is the matter with you?" and "Why did I put you on the stairs?" I am dreading going to back to work and equally thrilled that when I am at work I am entitled to 4 periods of PPA a week. That sort of time is not incorporated into a week on holiday. At home I do not have any access to planning, or preparation time. When I suggest that I go into school for half a day to prepare, Dan is extremely unwilling to lose his final catch up time with series 4 of "Dexter". His willingness to support me fully in my career does not extend as far as actual, practical help.
Thursday 29 August 2013
Summer helliday
It's nearly over. My long break. The six weeks of the year when I can lie-in, go to bed late, catch up on all the programmes I have recorded over the last year and go shopping. I can go to the gym, go swimming, go for long walks and bike rides....
Except, of course, it is also the children's holiday. And since I am apparently incapable of entertaining them in the house without the television being on permanently, we are out everyday.
I have also apparently turned into my father and obsessively check the weather forecast, making the picnics and car journeys depend on the wisdom of Tomasz Schafernaker and Zeb Soames.
So this holiday I have been "Supermum" as defined by television advertising. It goes like this;
Scene 1: SUPERMUM is woken from pristine white bedding by two (never three) gorgeous children, one boy and one girl, ideally under 11, gently patting her face with soft teddy bears (not screaming "Mummy,I want a wee!" from their bedrooms. They are excited about the day ahead. They do not know what it will involve exactly but SUPERMUM has planned it so it will be good. SUPERMUM is happy, smiling and stretching, looking fresh-faced. Next to her in bed, a clean-shaven dad buries his head under the pillow, but probably gets up and makes her a cup of tea.
Scene 2: SUPERMUM is making sandwiches, loaded with salad on wholemeal bread while gorgeous children eat a healthy, balanced breakfast cereal in an open-plan kitchen. (There is a t.v. but it is not on.) The work surface is clean and tidy and SUPERMUM is reassured that germs have been banished as ther children spill milk on the table.
Scene 3: SUPERMUM is driving a mid range family car to somewhere exciting. Gorgeous children are, in fact, so excited that they forget to pinch each other throughout the journey, complain about not staying at home to play on the XStation, or attempt to draw their mother into involved conversations that distract her from "Woman's Hour".
Scene 4: A short scene. SUPERMUM and children on some fairground ride, looking into an aquarium tank, splashing in the sea together (SUPERMUM is not on the beach, fully clothed and shivering, but fully involved, up to her average bosom), gazing in awe, open mouthed / holding hands / pointing at some large dead animal suspended from a ceiling. All scenarios accommodate SUPERMUM and both children who are willing participants and are easily contained within a standard ride vehicle.
Scene 5: Exhausted gorgeous children are tucked in by a smiling SUPERMUM, who then joins husband for a medium sized glass of red, a home-cooked meal and no television, facebook or phones.
But now, it's over. At a normal half term I would be celebrating the week ahead, but now I am moaning about the fact I have only 1/6th left. And somehow, I didn't do anything I needed to.
Except, of course, it is also the children's holiday. And since I am apparently incapable of entertaining them in the house without the television being on permanently, we are out everyday.
I have also apparently turned into my father and obsessively check the weather forecast, making the picnics and car journeys depend on the wisdom of Tomasz Schafernaker and Zeb Soames.
So this holiday I have been "Supermum" as defined by television advertising. It goes like this;
Scene 1: SUPERMUM is woken from pristine white bedding by two (never three) gorgeous children, one boy and one girl, ideally under 11, gently patting her face with soft teddy bears (not screaming "Mummy,I want a wee!" from their bedrooms. They are excited about the day ahead. They do not know what it will involve exactly but SUPERMUM has planned it so it will be good. SUPERMUM is happy, smiling and stretching, looking fresh-faced. Next to her in bed, a clean-shaven dad buries his head under the pillow, but probably gets up and makes her a cup of tea.
Scene 2: SUPERMUM is making sandwiches, loaded with salad on wholemeal bread while gorgeous children eat a healthy, balanced breakfast cereal in an open-plan kitchen. (There is a t.v. but it is not on.) The work surface is clean and tidy and SUPERMUM is reassured that germs have been banished as ther children spill milk on the table.
Scene 3: SUPERMUM is driving a mid range family car to somewhere exciting. Gorgeous children are, in fact, so excited that they forget to pinch each other throughout the journey, complain about not staying at home to play on the XStation, or attempt to draw their mother into involved conversations that distract her from "Woman's Hour".
Scene 4: A short scene. SUPERMUM and children on some fairground ride, looking into an aquarium tank, splashing in the sea together (SUPERMUM is not on the beach, fully clothed and shivering, but fully involved, up to her average bosom), gazing in awe, open mouthed / holding hands / pointing at some large dead animal suspended from a ceiling. All scenarios accommodate SUPERMUM and both children who are willing participants and are easily contained within a standard ride vehicle.
Scene 5: Exhausted gorgeous children are tucked in by a smiling SUPERMUM, who then joins husband for a medium sized glass of red, a home-cooked meal and no television, facebook or phones.
But now, it's over. At a normal half term I would be celebrating the week ahead, but now I am moaning about the fact I have only 1/6th left. And somehow, I didn't do anything I needed to.
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