There is never anything on tv at the moment. When I finish my marking, lesson planning, cleaning the kitchen, making the sandwiches and decide to relax in front of the telly to do my ironing, or my tesco order at 1130 in the evening I've missed all the good programmes.
At dinner last night with my friends, I was socially I'll-equipped to deal with a conversation about the merits of Bake-off. My babysitters tell me I would really like this. They promise me it isn't like X factor. They assure me no one is horrible. Oh and it's about cakes. How can I of all people, not watch. Next year, I say every year. But according to my book group, it's now ruined by being on BBC1. I grasped gratefully onto a discussion of The Motorway: Life in the Fast Lane http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b04hfvcr which had been repeated at midnight.
So while babysitting for my childminder last Saturday, I was thrilled to see that I had missed most of the new series of Scott and Bailey. https://www.itv.com/itvplayer/scott-and-bailey This not only meant that I had more than one episode to watch on catch up while I marked year 8 books, but also meant I didn't have to wait a whole week until the next one. I love Scott and Bailey. Since becoming a mother, or since becoming a working mother, I'm not sure, I have slightly lost my taste for long running, US 24 episode seasons. They rarely last one season, and disappoint me every last episode, and the ones I do like they stop making. (I loved FlashForward!) I have enough unresolved issues in my life. I have experienced enough horror. I need resolution before I go to sleep. So I started watching CSI. And that is just enough catharsis for sweet dreams.
But at the moment there is Scott and Bailey. This is a police drama, and in some ways follows many of the conventions of police drama. There is a central partnership - unusual for crime drama in some ways, many detectives are unable to maintain partnerships for example Rebus, but many detectives have a sidekick of some description; Sherlock needs Watson, Chandler has Miles. There is a demon of a demanding boss they have nicknamed Godzilla, there is a series arc over a number of episodes involving the personal lives of the two central characters - failing relationships, over work, response to threatening situations and so on and there is also complication, climax and resolution every episode or every other episode as the crime is solved.
Oh and they are women. the central characters. Like Cagney and Lacey. Remember them? (No, I don't either,) Suranne Jones and Lesley Sharp are amazing as contrasting characters - Janet Scott the older, more experienced detective who tries to maintain a family life despite her long work hours and Rachel Bailey, the heavy drinking, smoking, fast-tracked maverick genius who has inappropriate one night stands and sometimes struggles to keep her aggression in check. And Amelia Bullmore is Gill Murray, their boss. Amelia Bullmore. I would watch her in almost anything after seeing her play a post-natally psychotic woman in festival. She also writes some of the episodes. Oh and her line manager is Pippa Haywood: Joanna Claw from Green Wing - possibly the best programme ever on television.
So they are women, but they don't act like women. That is to say the problems they face are primarily those faced by detectives, or fictional detectives at any rate, not those faced by women. Janet's marriage breaks down which is at least partly caused by her workload, but this plot has been used by other writers to show the difficulties of male detectives, Rachel's commitment issues are explained by her mother's inadequate parenting and her dodgy taste in men. I have heard it said that Janet's quiet interview style is more realistic than the Gene Hunt table thumping and having watched 24 Hours in Police Custody http://www.channel4.com/programmes/24-hours-in-police-custody
that would seem to be true.
The names; Scott and Bailey are surnames, but also potentially male names. These characters are not defined by their gender nor restricted by it. It suggests motte and bailey - the defence of the realm or at least society, a responsibility these women are not afraid of and equal to.
Did I mention Amelia Bullmore wrote some episodes? She was also responsible for Craven - the Radio 4 drama starring the equally wonderful Maxine Peake as another single, female, tough detective http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b03vcqfb . All of these characters are detectives rather than female detectives, they are police officers rather than police women and because there are more than one of them, there is space to represent a number of different types of women - even if they are stereotypes. instead of fulfilling the one and only female character role. There are scenes where the crime is being discussed by three women in an office, or even solved. They sometimes solve collaboratively rather than competitively and when Gill was reported for drinking on the job, or Rachel found out she was asked to take on a promotion only after Janet said no, they talked about it. And carried on as friends.
It's a shame it's finished now. Suggestions please for what I can record to watch next term.
Wednesday 29 October 2014
Saturday 13 September 2014
Digging for victory
Today I reached a massive milestone. I am so insanely proud of myself. As bucket lists go, this might not be up there for most people but for me...
Before I build this up too much, let me explain a little. I have no garden to speak of. Our house was some kind of business in the days when people didn't expect gardens. And they probably shared the land with the local pub to graze their geese or whatever. So we have a yard, not a yard like my aunties in Liverpool had at the back of their back-to-backs, or a "yard" like the baa baa of the family threatened to come round to when we argued, (I sense my working class credentials slipping into nonsense), but a yard. No lawn. Actually nothing but a few broken bits of staircase and some old bikes.
We do however, have a front garden. Not a yard, a garden. No grass, but no old skateboards either. And since it's south facing, and however good the weather we are still too English to consider sitting out at the front of the house, I decided to turn it into the vegetable patch. (Obviously our street isn't on an estate or we could be English enough to do that other kind of sitting out at the front of our house in our pink onesies - which just auto corrected as penises; try it; I was tempted to leave it - with a fag on, waiting for the kids to come home from school.)
So, back to the front of the house, metaphorically, whatever you might be imagining as a plot, half it. It's small. And not any shape recognised by a primary maths textbook. And in this space I have plotted. And I have toiled. And I have cultivated. And I have carted the bath water down in buckets everyday as we don't have a hose. Or an outside tap. Or a tap nearby as it's the front of the house remember.
And somehow, I have grown stuff. Enough to make strawberry jam, salad everyday. Rocket leaves on pizza, rocket leaves on everything if I'm honest, teeny tiny aubergines.
But today I have finally achieved my "Good Life" dream. Today I ate home-grown, home-made strawberry jam on toast for breakfast, home-grown,home-made leek soup, home-grown, home-made lavender shortbread and for tea it was pasta with home-grown courgettes in home-made pesto from home-grown basil.
This is not such a big deal to my friends with industrial sized allotments and perfect patches at the foot of their garden and those of you with a bent towards the practical will by now have realised that there probably aren't enough leeks in that tiny patch to see me through the winter and that very few of my tomatoes are red despite my early planting. Some of you may even be starting to echo my cynical husband who suspects I might not be recouping the cost of seeds at the moment, but to me this is the pinnacle. My children will eat the tomatoes grown in the garden because they grew them, they will even give aubergine another try, and courgette can, it would appear, be smuggled into lasagne in surprisingly high quantities. And every time I tend the tomato plants I am transported back to the greenhouse in our back garden and my Grandad, who my dad says would be proud of me.
And I'm writing this with a glass of Pimm's, savouring the last taste of summer with home-grown mint and home-grown cucumber. Message me your best courgette recipes.
Before I build this up too much, let me explain a little. I have no garden to speak of. Our house was some kind of business in the days when people didn't expect gardens. And they probably shared the land with the local pub to graze their geese or whatever. So we have a yard, not a yard like my aunties in Liverpool had at the back of their back-to-backs, or a "yard" like the baa baa of the family threatened to come round to when we argued, (I sense my working class credentials slipping into nonsense), but a yard. No lawn. Actually nothing but a few broken bits of staircase and some old bikes.
We do however, have a front garden. Not a yard, a garden. No grass, but no old skateboards either. And since it's south facing, and however good the weather we are still too English to consider sitting out at the front of the house, I decided to turn it into the vegetable patch. (Obviously our street isn't on an estate or we could be English enough to do that other kind of sitting out at the front of our house in our pink onesies - which just auto corrected as penises; try it; I was tempted to leave it - with a fag on, waiting for the kids to come home from school.)
So, back to the front of the house, metaphorically, whatever you might be imagining as a plot, half it. It's small. And not any shape recognised by a primary maths textbook. And in this space I have plotted. And I have toiled. And I have cultivated. And I have carted the bath water down in buckets everyday as we don't have a hose. Or an outside tap. Or a tap nearby as it's the front of the house remember.
And somehow, I have grown stuff. Enough to make strawberry jam, salad everyday. Rocket leaves on pizza, rocket leaves on everything if I'm honest, teeny tiny aubergines.
But today I have finally achieved my "Good Life" dream. Today I ate home-grown, home-made strawberry jam on toast for breakfast, home-grown,home-made leek soup, home-grown, home-made lavender shortbread and for tea it was pasta with home-grown courgettes in home-made pesto from home-grown basil.
This is not such a big deal to my friends with industrial sized allotments and perfect patches at the foot of their garden and those of you with a bent towards the practical will by now have realised that there probably aren't enough leeks in that tiny patch to see me through the winter and that very few of my tomatoes are red despite my early planting. Some of you may even be starting to echo my cynical husband who suspects I might not be recouping the cost of seeds at the moment, but to me this is the pinnacle. My children will eat the tomatoes grown in the garden because they grew them, they will even give aubergine another try, and courgette can, it would appear, be smuggled into lasagne in surprisingly high quantities. And every time I tend the tomato plants I am transported back to the greenhouse in our back garden and my Grandad, who my dad says would be proud of me.
And I'm writing this with a glass of Pimm's, savouring the last taste of summer with home-grown mint and home-grown cucumber. Message me your best courgette recipes.
Sunday 31 August 2014
This Woman's Work
My husband is the best, most amazing man in the whole entire world. I knew this anyway, but let me explain why.
A few months ago; Kate Bush announced that she was doing a series of concerts. I would like to say that I have been waiting 35 years for this but I was 4 in 1979 and I hadn't heard of Kate Bush until I was about 8 and I didn't like "Running up that Hill". I may not have been 8, my encyclopedic knowledge of her back catalogue is no longer at the very forefront of my mind.
Many of my friends who I hadn't spoken to in years messaged me on Facebook. Even people I have only met recently posted the link. My obsession is more well known than I believed. Or perhaps,more worryingly, I look like the kind of person who would be a Kate Bush fan.
So, the day arrives. I have already given up hope.I am at work. At 9 o clock I look at my watch. I pace the room. I tell my year 13s what is the matter. I play them a clip. They are still none the wiser. I sigh and return to Chaucer.
The next day is Saturday. The weekend of mothering Sunday. There is a huge box from Thorntons delivered. Neither of us have mentioned the tickets. I can't help but feel a building anticipation about my Mother's day gift. The tension is too great to bear. The one amazing surprise present my husband has managed and I have to spoil it. I had to know. "No," he says. "I'm sorry. I had 3 browsers open, the tickets sold out in 15 minutes." I understand, of course.I head back downstairs. But less than 5 minutes later he is confessing, he did it. He got me tickets. The single most important event of my life. After my wedding, and the birth of our children. He is the most remarkable man. And he tried to do it just for me.
The first track I heard of Kate Bush that had resonance for me was "The Sensual World". On the strength of the track I bought the album; on vinyl, the 12" picture of her in black and white striking on the cover. At the time,I wasn't aware that the lyrics were based on Molly Bloom 's rapture from the end of Ulysses, but the lyrics were compelling. "He loosened it so if it slipped between my breasts, he'd rescue it" I had never heard anything so erotic,it was beautiful.
My boyfriend lent me the greatest hits album and from then on I was hooked. Throughout sixth form I trawled second hand record shops and record fairs to collect all the 7" singles, the blue Russian flexi disc of "Babooshka" and a marbled cassette of "Hounds of Love".
I seem to remember that Take That were famous at the time. I hadn't heard anything by them and I was experimenting with skinny black jeans, lace tops and back combed hair (still purple though) at the time. I later wore lots of stripey trousers and army style boots, (but definitely not Dr. Martens - everyone had them). Somehow Kate Bush remained consistent with all these other passions. "Wuthering Heights" was gothic enough to fit in with "Severina" and "Temple of Love", "The handsome Cabin boy" followed a folk tradition that The Levellers and The Tansads would have understood.
And she was on her own. For other girls like me who were on their own, hanging around with groups of boys. I couldn't follow a crowd of other girls screaming at Take That, and the subjects of her songs challenged standard topics - narratives of poisoning, gay lovers, dressing as a rocket,dancing with Hitler and very rarely falling in love . Many of her women were strong and independent and she seemed strong and independent too, she produced her own music and dictated her own terms.
As someone said on tv the other night, after the rave reviews of the first night, I think it was the former drummer of the Sex Pistols, she wasn't part of a movement, she had a fan base all of her own. I felt special being a fan. I was part of something bigger - I went to a convention and it was slightly scarier than a Morrissey gig. No one else was a fan. Actually that's not quite true, everyone was a fan of something by Kate Bush. But they weren't a fan. Not like me. Eventually I did meet some fans but after a few bizarre encounters I has to break off contact with most of them.
Oh, and she played the piano. You don't need even a band when you play the piano. As proved later by Tori Amos, but that's a whole new blog. I had been learning the piano for ten years and knew I would never be a pop star. I was too snobby to be a "keyboard" player, based on my experience of 80s two finger moochers at the back of the group. But I could be an artist. Or artiste. Or performer, or any of those things Kate Bush was.
She was a positive role model for a teenager, the independent woman I wanted to be. She even had children late and so we ended up almost as contemporaries. I will try and fit in a blog before I go, but I may be too busy being excited.
A few months ago; Kate Bush announced that she was doing a series of concerts. I would like to say that I have been waiting 35 years for this but I was 4 in 1979 and I hadn't heard of Kate Bush until I was about 8 and I didn't like "Running up that Hill". I may not have been 8, my encyclopedic knowledge of her back catalogue is no longer at the very forefront of my mind.
Many of my friends who I hadn't spoken to in years messaged me on Facebook. Even people I have only met recently posted the link. My obsession is more well known than I believed. Or perhaps,more worryingly, I look like the kind of person who would be a Kate Bush fan.
So, the day arrives. I have already given up hope.I am at work. At 9 o clock I look at my watch. I pace the room. I tell my year 13s what is the matter. I play them a clip. They are still none the wiser. I sigh and return to Chaucer.
The next day is Saturday. The weekend of mothering Sunday. There is a huge box from Thorntons delivered. Neither of us have mentioned the tickets. I can't help but feel a building anticipation about my Mother's day gift. The tension is too great to bear. The one amazing surprise present my husband has managed and I have to spoil it. I had to know. "No," he says. "I'm sorry. I had 3 browsers open, the tickets sold out in 15 minutes." I understand, of course.I head back downstairs. But less than 5 minutes later he is confessing, he did it. He got me tickets. The single most important event of my life. After my wedding, and the birth of our children. He is the most remarkable man. And he tried to do it just for me.
The first track I heard of Kate Bush that had resonance for me was "The Sensual World". On the strength of the track I bought the album; on vinyl, the 12" picture of her in black and white striking on the cover. At the time,I wasn't aware that the lyrics were based on Molly Bloom 's rapture from the end of Ulysses, but the lyrics were compelling. "He loosened it so if it slipped between my breasts, he'd rescue it" I had never heard anything so erotic,it was beautiful.
My boyfriend lent me the greatest hits album and from then on I was hooked. Throughout sixth form I trawled second hand record shops and record fairs to collect all the 7" singles, the blue Russian flexi disc of "Babooshka" and a marbled cassette of "Hounds of Love".
I seem to remember that Take That were famous at the time. I hadn't heard anything by them and I was experimenting with skinny black jeans, lace tops and back combed hair (still purple though) at the time. I later wore lots of stripey trousers and army style boots, (but definitely not Dr. Martens - everyone had them). Somehow Kate Bush remained consistent with all these other passions. "Wuthering Heights" was gothic enough to fit in with "Severina" and "Temple of Love", "The handsome Cabin boy" followed a folk tradition that The Levellers and The Tansads would have understood.
And she was on her own. For other girls like me who were on their own, hanging around with groups of boys. I couldn't follow a crowd of other girls screaming at Take That, and the subjects of her songs challenged standard topics - narratives of poisoning, gay lovers, dressing as a rocket,dancing with Hitler and very rarely falling in love . Many of her women were strong and independent and she seemed strong and independent too, she produced her own music and dictated her own terms.
As someone said on tv the other night, after the rave reviews of the first night, I think it was the former drummer of the Sex Pistols, she wasn't part of a movement, she had a fan base all of her own. I felt special being a fan. I was part of something bigger - I went to a convention and it was slightly scarier than a Morrissey gig. No one else was a fan. Actually that's not quite true, everyone was a fan of something by Kate Bush. But they weren't a fan. Not like me. Eventually I did meet some fans but after a few bizarre encounters I has to break off contact with most of them.
Oh, and she played the piano. You don't need even a band when you play the piano. As proved later by Tori Amos, but that's a whole new blog. I had been learning the piano for ten years and knew I would never be a pop star. I was too snobby to be a "keyboard" player, based on my experience of 80s two finger moochers at the back of the group. But I could be an artist. Or artiste. Or performer, or any of those things Kate Bush was.
She was a positive role model for a teenager, the independent woman I wanted to be. She even had children late and so we ended up almost as contemporaries. I will try and fit in a blog before I go, but I may be too busy being excited.
Sunday 10 August 2014
The eye of the storm
I wrote a song once called "Katy the hurricane". Bit of oversharing really; I wrote songs, I called it "Katy" because of a girl I was in awe of called Katy who I thought my boyfriend might prefer, but mostly because I had just been reading Cixous. I couldn't believe I had never noticed before that hurricanes and natural disasters tended to be named after women.
I won't share the whole song with you, I couldn't cope with the awkward silence and feet shuffling that usually results from one of my songs/poems/readings, but the gist was that she was "turning/turning the whole world upside down...buildings and institutions come tumbling down" I'm squirming a bit just writing that actually, a bit like reading my teenage diary. I really admire Caitlin Moran for writing "How to be a woman" (Read it now...right now, if you haven't already..
http://www.amazon.co.uk/How-Be-Woman-Caitlin-Moran-ebook/dp/B0052CK5PQ/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1407682461&sr=1-2&keywords=caitlin+moran+books). I couldn't possibly be so reflective or use my young life to provide any insight into the state of the world.
Anyway, back to the point - I will explain the reason for my disjointed train of thought shortly. I'm not sure what bothers me about the practice of using female names,and I don't think it's done any more, it could be the accusation of random destruction, the repeated association of femininity with nature as opposed to the more civilised masculine/culture link, or perhaps it's that the power granted femininity is only "natural" or innate. What's caused is caused by accident.
All of which brings me to my distracted mind. Bertha, or whatever the tropical storm is called has caused very strong winds and rain making the children bubble over like cherry Pepsi max and so I am here, a generic soft play warehouse,with the car packed full of a tent, sleeping bags and gas stove, seriously impeding my fuel efficiency.
I once made one of my friends come to one of these places, she doesn't have any children and I don't suppose she'd go to one again. It was purely for my own sanity that I invited her. Parenting law dictates that you can, if alone,strike up conversation with another lone parent, as long as you are in one of the more middle class areas. And not a father, fathers must remain unmolested by their own and other children and adults, this is signified by a broadsheet newspaper raised in front of the face, a tablet; held up rather than rested on the table, or in emergencies,a phone. A new development I have only noticed today us headphones. This obscures screams and the usual panicked reaction to a cry of "mummy!" Before you realise it's not for you and lapse back into concentration.
So instead of reading a book, as I used to, I am typing on my new Kindle for the first time.it's nor easy. See?
I won't share the whole song with you, I couldn't cope with the awkward silence and feet shuffling that usually results from one of my songs/poems/readings, but the gist was that she was "turning/turning the whole world upside down...buildings and institutions come tumbling down" I'm squirming a bit just writing that actually, a bit like reading my teenage diary. I really admire Caitlin Moran for writing "How to be a woman" (Read it now...right now, if you haven't already..
http://www.amazon.co.uk/How-Be-Woman-Caitlin-Moran-ebook/dp/B0052CK5PQ/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1407682461&sr=1-2&keywords=caitlin+moran+books). I couldn't possibly be so reflective or use my young life to provide any insight into the state of the world.
Anyway, back to the point - I will explain the reason for my disjointed train of thought shortly. I'm not sure what bothers me about the practice of using female names,and I don't think it's done any more, it could be the accusation of random destruction, the repeated association of femininity with nature as opposed to the more civilised masculine/culture link, or perhaps it's that the power granted femininity is only "natural" or innate. What's caused is caused by accident.
All of which brings me to my distracted mind. Bertha, or whatever the tropical storm is called has caused very strong winds and rain making the children bubble over like cherry Pepsi max and so I am here, a generic soft play warehouse,with the car packed full of a tent, sleeping bags and gas stove, seriously impeding my fuel efficiency.
I once made one of my friends come to one of these places, she doesn't have any children and I don't suppose she'd go to one again. It was purely for my own sanity that I invited her. Parenting law dictates that you can, if alone,strike up conversation with another lone parent, as long as you are in one of the more middle class areas. And not a father, fathers must remain unmolested by their own and other children and adults, this is signified by a broadsheet newspaper raised in front of the face, a tablet; held up rather than rested on the table, or in emergencies,a phone. A new development I have only noticed today us headphones. This obscures screams and the usual panicked reaction to a cry of "mummy!" Before you realise it's not for you and lapse back into concentration.
So instead of reading a book, as I used to, I am typing on my new Kindle for the first time.it's nor easy. See?
Friday 8 August 2014
I've been waiting all year for this.
Six weeks! It's that time of year again! What all teachers have been waiting for...
I've planned to go camping on Sunday. According to BBC weather; the only forecast I trust; there is "yellow rain" alert on the day I intend to go and it will rain for the rest of the week. Don't get me wrong, much of my camping life has been spent in the rain, most of it was in the Lake District; I once walked the Pennine Way, taking 19 days and it rained on every single day. Bar one. But the idea of putting the tent up in the rain, battling the remnants of a former hurricane, seems to be setting myself for failure. We will see.
So far the holiday has been delightful. I have successfully vacuumed one floor properly for the first time in three weeks in a post- marking blitz but strangely I feel like I am working harder then before. All I want is a cup of coffee, watching "Homes Under the Hammer" with everyone back at work. However, now Depressed Aggressive Neurotic husband is working from home I can't see that ever happening again.
I miss my Tuesday lunch time, my one day off - it's like my pub night. I haven't yet done enough work and I am so anxious about it that I haven't yet summoned up the courage to check my email. Any of my emails. There could be a whole load of unspent Pizza Express vouchers in there. Not quite sure when the relaxation begins.
Once again I have only myself to blame. What's wrong with me? I worked 5 days a week, Dan worked 3 before July. I did all the bedtimes, packed lunches and dinners, now it's the "holidays" and I am still doing all the bedtimes, all the dinners and, oh yes, the packed lunches! How are all these cheerful people so happy about not making cream cheese sandwiches, chopping up carrot sticks and wrapping oat biscuits in foil? We seem to be picknicking (Not sure about that verb...) every day. And these picnics seem more difficult than your standard packed lunch. (Actually, that is mostly my fault. I want salad which is more fiddly.) We have crisps. Crisps! And biscuits. And for some reason, we have plates. All of which creates more washing up and substantially more work.
I am rubbish at this. I should probably go back to work.
I've planned to go camping on Sunday. According to BBC weather; the only forecast I trust; there is "yellow rain" alert on the day I intend to go and it will rain for the rest of the week. Don't get me wrong, much of my camping life has been spent in the rain, most of it was in the Lake District; I once walked the Pennine Way, taking 19 days and it rained on every single day. Bar one. But the idea of putting the tent up in the rain, battling the remnants of a former hurricane, seems to be setting myself for failure. We will see.
So far the holiday has been delightful. I have successfully vacuumed one floor properly for the first time in three weeks in a post- marking blitz but strangely I feel like I am working harder then before. All I want is a cup of coffee, watching "Homes Under the Hammer" with everyone back at work. However, now Depressed Aggressive Neurotic husband is working from home I can't see that ever happening again.
I miss my Tuesday lunch time, my one day off - it's like my pub night. I haven't yet done enough work and I am so anxious about it that I haven't yet summoned up the courage to check my email. Any of my emails. There could be a whole load of unspent Pizza Express vouchers in there. Not quite sure when the relaxation begins.
Once again I have only myself to blame. What's wrong with me? I worked 5 days a week, Dan worked 3 before July. I did all the bedtimes, packed lunches and dinners, now it's the "holidays" and I am still doing all the bedtimes, all the dinners and, oh yes, the packed lunches! How are all these cheerful people so happy about not making cream cheese sandwiches, chopping up carrot sticks and wrapping oat biscuits in foil? We seem to be picknicking (Not sure about that verb...) every day. And these picnics seem more difficult than your standard packed lunch. (Actually, that is mostly my fault. I want salad which is more fiddly.) We have crisps. Crisps! And biscuits. And for some reason, we have plates. All of which creates more washing up and substantially more work.
I am rubbish at this. I should probably go back to work.
Wednesday 26 March 2014
Why striking is hitting me where it hurts
Today I am striking. I am not going into school and I am sitting at home, writing this and contemplating catching up on my marking.
According to the NUT; these are the reasons we are striking;
- Excessive workload and bureaucracy
- Performance related pay
- Unfair pension changes
- http://www.teachers.org.uk/campaigns/protect-teachers
I love my job. I love my school. I love (most of) the children I teach and I am absolutely committed to getting them the grades that they deserve. The issues about which I am striking are preventing me from doing my job. The job I love. Anecdotally, many teachers at my school have told me that today they are striking when they didn't last time because they have so much work to catch up on. No, really. The irony is not lost.
Do we have too much work? I am part time and am seriously contemplating reducing my hours next year so I have time to do my job. Each additional class I take on involves not only the 4 hours a week, but the 4 hours or so preparation time for those lessons, the additional 4 hours or so marking, an additional parents' evening, another set of reports and so on. At the moment I can just about get my own children in bed by about 8 pm, after which I return downstairs to wash up, make sandwiches, clean the kitchen and settle down to work at about 9 pm. I work on the evenings I work, the evenings on the days before I work, holidays, Sundays and a few Saturdays and Fridays. I can usually finish by midnight. That's not so bad. But my children are getting older and Max only finishes cubs at 8:30; what do I do then?
I'm part time btw. I mentioned that.
Does this excessive workload mean that we don't do a good job? Not really, because each one of those hours, those books, to us represents an individual student. At half midnight, when we have just 3 books left to mark, having put the scruffiest one to the bottom of the pile, then the most hard-working one, then one-most-likely-to-be-absent; we can't bear the look on the face of little Leonie who asks plaintively; "Why haven't you marked my book Miss?" Anyway, so much of what we do depends on giving the students the opportunity to respond to our marking and set themselves targets based on that, that marking is often only the start of the lesson planning. So tonight it's a 1am finish.
So what about Performance Related Pay? Should we get paid for what we do? What we achieve for the students? What they achieve for us? What about my friend Linda? Every year she took the bottom set, we offered to swap, she didn't have to do it, but she was good with them. Almost all demotivated boys, or girls that could hardly string a sentence together. The option subjects couldn't cope. They were a health and safety risk for science. Mitchell would have been banned from PE after the javelin incident. The German teacher would refuse to teach Shayne after the "sandwich" incident. But they had to do English, and on the days when they weren't in some kind of Pupil Referral Unit, anger management course or bricklaying day at college, Linda dragged each of them through persuasive letter writing in some kind of vocational course; before they were forbidden; so each of these boys left school with something, a real life qualification or GCSE grade G.
Would Linda pass her Performance Management? Before Callum threatened his sister with a kitchen knife, he was targeted a C grade based on his year 6 SATS level. That target stands. That's what most of his peer group would get, if they weren't in care. So who wants to teach that group now?
And when they fail Linda, put her on capability and get her out quick, because she's a bit expensive, you could get a young, inexperienced teacher in to teach that group at half the price. And when that teacher goes off long term sick with stress, you can always get a non-qualified teacher in on instructor's rates because you can't afford a proper teacher and that group, well they're not worth it are they?
And breathe.
I love my job. I want to do it well. I love being a parent. I would quite like the time to do that well, too. I want my children to matter as much to their teachers as my students matter to me. And since some of them are your children, or soon likely to be, I hope you understand the reason why I am striking.
Saturday 8 February 2014
It's all my fault
Dan is slightly less depressed, aggressive and neurotic. He has left work. The consequences of this include me becoming increasingly more depressed, anxious and neurotic.
To celebrate, he went out drinking last weekend. All last weekend. From Friday night to Monday morning. And although he has been slightly home this weekend, there is a fairly similar pattern of behaviour.
I cancelled our celebration dinner on Sunday night after I came home after swimming on Sunday morning with the three children who hadn't seen him since Friday afternoon to find him (I thought) having a bath and a coffee to sober up. I was wrong, he was merely brushing his teeth before going back to the pub for the rest of the afternoon.
I am incredibly cross, I am so cross I nearly rang my mother-in-law. I have no idea what good that would have done, he hasn't done what she has said since 1982. I had a bit of a whinge to my latte friends in the week and they all said the same thing; don't put up with it, don't know how you stand it, my (insert status here) wouldn't get away with that.
I really do not know what that means. I don't know what my alternative is, I don't deal with conflict well and have never had much success with arguing in general. And I have realised it is all my fault.I have cause this entire situation and I suspect I am not the only one.
This is because I, like many women, cope. We get on with it. We manage. Husband tells you he's left his job? You cope. Life-threatening illness? Move on. Run out of money on the 10th of the month? Feed a family of 5 on a £10 Sainsbury's voucher you earned from a survey website. My husband is a competent, sensible, intelligent man and is perfectly capable of managing the family in the event of my death but he doesn't need to. I have encouraged and supported that ... well that lack of support.
How did it happen? I didn't mean it to, I am not sure how I got here and I am not sure how to get out of it. What would he do if I just didn't come back from the pub on a Friday night instead of being back at ten prompt to pay the babysitter and do the ironing? He will never know. It will never happen. He can stay out all day because he knows our children will be dressed, fed, delivered to ballet, parties, school. Their home work will be supervised and their lunch will be made. Their sheets will be clean, their beds will be made, their school uniform will be ironed, named and in their drawer ready. For that matter, so will his.
I'm too competent. I am brilliant. I am supermum. It's all my fault.
To celebrate, he went out drinking last weekend. All last weekend. From Friday night to Monday morning. And although he has been slightly home this weekend, there is a fairly similar pattern of behaviour.
I cancelled our celebration dinner on Sunday night after I came home after swimming on Sunday morning with the three children who hadn't seen him since Friday afternoon to find him (I thought) having a bath and a coffee to sober up. I was wrong, he was merely brushing his teeth before going back to the pub for the rest of the afternoon.
I am incredibly cross, I am so cross I nearly rang my mother-in-law. I have no idea what good that would have done, he hasn't done what she has said since 1982. I had a bit of a whinge to my latte friends in the week and they all said the same thing; don't put up with it, don't know how you stand it, my (insert status here) wouldn't get away with that.
I really do not know what that means. I don't know what my alternative is, I don't deal with conflict well and have never had much success with arguing in general. And I have realised it is all my fault.I have cause this entire situation and I suspect I am not the only one.
This is because I, like many women, cope. We get on with it. We manage. Husband tells you he's left his job? You cope. Life-threatening illness? Move on. Run out of money on the 10th of the month? Feed a family of 5 on a £10 Sainsbury's voucher you earned from a survey website. My husband is a competent, sensible, intelligent man and is perfectly capable of managing the family in the event of my death but he doesn't need to. I have encouraged and supported that ... well that lack of support.
How did it happen? I didn't mean it to, I am not sure how I got here and I am not sure how to get out of it. What would he do if I just didn't come back from the pub on a Friday night instead of being back at ten prompt to pay the babysitter and do the ironing? He will never know. It will never happen. He can stay out all day because he knows our children will be dressed, fed, delivered to ballet, parties, school. Their home work will be supervised and their lunch will be made. Their sheets will be clean, their beds will be made, their school uniform will be ironed, named and in their drawer ready. For that matter, so will his.
I'm too competent. I am brilliant. I am supermum. It's all my fault.
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