Evidently the problem with the the House of Representatives failing to pass the bill to pump $700bn into the US financial system was an issue of 'branding'. By referring to it as a 'bailout' it appeared as though typical US taxpayers were stumping up some 2000 McDonalds doughnuts each to keep the wealthy bankers in the lifestyle to which they had become accustomed. Evidently it should have been positioned as a 'financial rescue package for the global economy'. And not withstanding it was the media who continued to refer to it as a bailout, they may have a point. But as someone who earns their crust in the world of branding, it distresses me immeasurably, that my offspring's future can be threatened by a few mis-spoken words. I would have hoped, naively, that the lawmakers of the largest mostly-democratic country could see beyond words and rise to the challenge in hand...I'm glad to see they have second time round.
Now whilst we're on the subject of branding, it has become time to rebrand this diary. Before I started writing I spent weeks trying to think of a decent title, and failed miserably...clutching on to Man and Boy for the lack of anything better. And I've had enough of it. So I've decided to rename as 'Don't panic, RTFM' which refers firstly to the state of panic I found myself in for the first four years of my new found role as both mother and father to the boy, and secondly to a phrase which has been used regularly at home for the last fourteen and a half years. And to go with the new name is a new look still designed by someone who bears the same surname as me, but hopefully it's a little easier on the eye.
I was asked just recently 'Why?', 'What's it for?' Which seemed a fair question to me especially as I am very clear 'why'. Firstly, it's entirely self-indulgent...a record of many of the things that would otherwise get lost in the mists of time as the boy grows up and I grow old; secondly it's therapeutic helping resolve many things that have caused grief in recent years; and lastly I spend my life writing for other people who demand word-perfect, grammar-perfect text which once supplied, they proceed to ruin...so this is my chance to leave typos in and write just what I want when I want. I'm slowly learning the rules...if someone comments I should respond (often I don't because I don't have anything to add..just enjoy their jottings)...I follow the blogs that I really like either because they're well-written, or because they're funny, or because they strike a chord...or any combination of the above. And suspect I would enjoy a glass of wine or a bottle of beer with the authors - but only comment if there's real reason to (too often I see no need). I avoid the professional or semi-professional ones which I suspect are penned by people who having finished typing sit back with an air of smugness. So please indulge me.
Saturday, 4 October 2008
Can't read, won't read
Coming home one day this week I was greeted with "I'm dyslexic", "I'm sorry I chortled expecting some hilarious punchline to follow." But no, in all seriousness the boy said, "No, it's true I might be dyslexic". Realising I'd stumbled into quicksand on a B movie set, I sat down and asked him what he was talking about. He patiently explained that his French work was very poor, and his teacher had checked with his French teacher from last year and his House mistress, and there was a evidently a problem. Thinking quickly, I realised that being top of the class in English and History and with nothing other than good to very good grades in any of his literacy subjects, dyslexia was unlikely to be the problem. In my usual gentle fashion, better known as 'bull in a china shop' syndrome, I flushed and told him in no uncertain terms that there was no question, if there was a problem, it was certainly not dyslexia...and then backed it up with the evidence above...and just to put the genie back in the bottle, I said that the school should not under any circumstances say anything like that without tests and without speaking with me first. I said I would speak with the school in the morning.
I finally reached the headmistress ten minutes before she headed off to a meeting...and the gravity of my concerns were made clear to her when I said that I didn't want "that woman" near my child until the matter was resolved. A panicked French teacher called within minutes, and numerous telephone conversations later, it is clear that not much is clear...the teacher denies ever mentioning the 'd' word, but for certain the boy's basic work is in fact very good, although his concentration can wander and mistakes creep in...and equally, the teacher's assertion that the boy was distressed by his mistakes is not borne out by anything...at all.
So probably a hurricane in a teacup and everything is back to normal...but of note:
I finally reached the headmistress ten minutes before she headed off to a meeting...and the gravity of my concerns were made clear to her when I said that I didn't want "that woman" near my child until the matter was resolved. A panicked French teacher called within minutes, and numerous telephone conversations later, it is clear that not much is clear...the teacher denies ever mentioning the 'd' word, but for certain the boy's basic work is in fact very good, although his concentration can wander and mistakes creep in...and equally, the teacher's assertion that the boy was distressed by his mistakes is not borne out by anything...at all.
So probably a hurricane in a teacup and everything is back to normal...but of note:
- the teacher had just been on a 'special needs awereness course' and so was probably oversensitised
- under the confident exterior of a handsome young man lies the uncertainties of a boy going through puberty
- like any mother who feels their offspring being threatened, I will lash out protectively
Wednesday, 1 October 2008
On the skids
Toilet training is one of those joys of young parenting...or do I mean parenting the young? I'm glad to claim I've never been to a dinner party and had to suffer the joys of listening to new parents talking about their new-born's toilet habits. Fortunately, the boy was an early starter.
Of course, when you get older the question, as mocked by many, is whether the seat should be left up or down. You can imagine that in our all-male household "up" is the way it goes...and you'd be partially right...in the flat by the sea, our new bathroom features a hydraulically damped lid, so there is much joy to be had in it gradually closing all by itself.
But there are other toileting issues. Drips on the rim...a long battle is fought trying to ensure that should there be a drip, it is properly cleaned up at the time. I can almost feel the women throwing their arms up and declaring "Men!", but I have to declare from experience, that women are just as guilty as us boys. And worse still, is checking whether the bowl has been fully flushed after number twos. I don't want to look at other people's skid marks or floaters, in the same way I hope they don't want to inspect mine. In the flat by the sea, this is a particular issue because a) the water pressure is low and b) if it's not flushed properly and we're then away for a fortnight the consequences on return can mean psychological counselling for years afterwards. But it's not just at home...we have a shared toilet in the office and just too often I have to adopt the role of janitor. Pooey
Of course, when you get older the question, as mocked by many, is whether the seat should be left up or down. You can imagine that in our all-male household "up" is the way it goes...and you'd be partially right...in the flat by the sea, our new bathroom features a hydraulically damped lid, so there is much joy to be had in it gradually closing all by itself.
But there are other toileting issues. Drips on the rim...a long battle is fought trying to ensure that should there be a drip, it is properly cleaned up at the time. I can almost feel the women throwing their arms up and declaring "Men!", but I have to declare from experience, that women are just as guilty as us boys. And worse still, is checking whether the bowl has been fully flushed after number twos. I don't want to look at other people's skid marks or floaters, in the same way I hope they don't want to inspect mine. In the flat by the sea, this is a particular issue because a) the water pressure is low and b) if it's not flushed properly and we're then away for a fortnight the consequences on return can mean psychological counselling for years afterwards. But it's not just at home...we have a shared toilet in the office and just too often I have to adopt the role of janitor. Pooey
Monday, 29 September 2008
School disco
I had a sad e-mail at the end of last week from an old school friend: "In process of joining the massed ranks of the divorced - keen to hear how to date in London without catching anything!!!"My reply, I hoped was suitably supportive, but elicited the following response, which I found quite shocking, "Yes a shame, no real reason, just end of!!! Now back to the best places to meet younger women in central London (without looking like an old git out of water)". And this from a mid-Forties man, married for nigh-on two decades with three children. Recognising there's a degree of bravado here, it still seems wrong that a marriage could be dismissed so easily.
I remember being shocked about marriage twice before... a sixty something next door neighbour split up from her now-revealed alcoholic husband. It occured to me that at that age, you really should be able to relax with your partner, and not have to go through the trauma of break-up. The second was a friend who lived with her American boyfriend and was pressurised into tieing the knot. Which she duly did at a glorious ceremony in the south of France. A few weeks later, she had changed job and met the man of her dreams. Clearly the decision of a lifetime commitment had been taken for the wrong reasons - I'm glad to say she is still with THE ONE and they have two terrific if somewhat boisterous young lads.
In both cases, it caused me to re-evaluate the concept of marriage...not that either one stopped me doing what I still regard as extraordinarily romantic...I met and married in 99 days. We were divorced five years and five days later. Some sort of perfect symmetry.
So for the boy, I hope he meets and chooses the right person, and when they get to know each other properly, they live happily ever after. As they do in all the best fairy tales.
Equally I despair of my schoolfriend who thinks that dating in mid-life is the same as going to the school disco and grabbing the best-looking girl for a sweaty-clinch for the slow dance at the end of the night. Oh those were the days!
I remember being shocked about marriage twice before... a sixty something next door neighbour split up from her now-revealed alcoholic husband. It occured to me that at that age, you really should be able to relax with your partner, and not have to go through the trauma of break-up. The second was a friend who lived with her American boyfriend and was pressurised into tieing the knot. Which she duly did at a glorious ceremony in the south of France. A few weeks later, she had changed job and met the man of her dreams. Clearly the decision of a lifetime commitment had been taken for the wrong reasons - I'm glad to say she is still with THE ONE and they have two terrific if somewhat boisterous young lads.
In both cases, it caused me to re-evaluate the concept of marriage...not that either one stopped me doing what I still regard as extraordinarily romantic...I met and married in 99 days. We were divorced five years and five days later. Some sort of perfect symmetry.
So for the boy, I hope he meets and chooses the right person, and when they get to know each other properly, they live happily ever after. As they do in all the best fairy tales.
Equally I despair of my schoolfriend who thinks that dating in mid-life is the same as going to the school disco and grabbing the best-looking girl for a sweaty-clinch for the slow dance at the end of the night. Oh those were the days!
Saturday, 27 September 2008
White van man
This weekend we are mostly driving a rented Transit. Trannies are a favourite mode of transport because you look down on people, they come off the traffic lights faster than a Porsche and they're big enough that people move out of the way. No, actually they are fun...you do sit up higher than a Chelsea Tractor, so you get to see things that you'd normally miss (there's a great view into London along the Thames when you go over the bridge), they're surprisingly comfortable and come with a fine sounding stereo...on the way to Brighton we played the new King of Leons album which went down exceptionally well. The only downsides are having to be careful when manouvering round tight corners...the previous driver and caused a random indentation along both sides where he had forgotten the can was twice the length of his usual car...and also having to do without a rearview mirror - blind spots in the wing mirrors mean it's easy to cut someone up no matter how attentive you're being.
We're shifting furniture around - one of the flats needs furniture for the new tenants...so we've taken the beds and dining table out of the garage which will be mixed with a wardrobe currently residing by the seaside and the final touch will be some drawers from Ikea. The boy, initially a reluctant helper, soon became much enthused when chemsitry homework became somewhat tedious. We should have packed the van to the dulcet tones of Bernard Cribbins singing Right Said Fred which would have amused the passing neighbours who gave us curious glances, not quite daring to ask if we were moving. We'll leave them in suspense for a day or so.
So far only one disaster...in his enthusiasm, the boy decided to show me he could make the van bounce up and down by jumping on the rear step. This caused a piece of the bed that was propped up on the side to topple over, smashing an indicator lamp on the Vespa. I saw tears...but how could I possibly be annoyed...after all he was doing what children do best - making something fun out something quite dreary. Have you ever noticed children never walk down a street...they run,they skip, they go round in circles..so much better than putting one foot in front of the other in a monotonous routine. Heart in the right place, head somewhat distant was how I describe it. I'm so glad he hasn't yet grown into grown up ways.
We're shifting furniture around - one of the flats needs furniture for the new tenants...so we've taken the beds and dining table out of the garage which will be mixed with a wardrobe currently residing by the seaside and the final touch will be some drawers from Ikea. The boy, initially a reluctant helper, soon became much enthused when chemsitry homework became somewhat tedious. We should have packed the van to the dulcet tones of Bernard Cribbins singing Right Said Fred which would have amused the passing neighbours who gave us curious glances, not quite daring to ask if we were moving. We'll leave them in suspense for a day or so.
So far only one disaster...in his enthusiasm, the boy decided to show me he could make the van bounce up and down by jumping on the rear step. This caused a piece of the bed that was propped up on the side to topple over, smashing an indicator lamp on the Vespa. I saw tears...but how could I possibly be annoyed...after all he was doing what children do best - making something fun out something quite dreary. Have you ever noticed children never walk down a street...they run,they skip, they go round in circles..so much better than putting one foot in front of the other in a monotonous routine. Heart in the right place, head somewhat distant was how I describe it. I'm so glad he hasn't yet grown into grown up ways.
Thursday, 25 September 2008
Do as I say
"If you can't be responsible to look after these things, then you will have to go without" I thundered having discovered the boy's bank card in the garage, and when it then took him half an hour to find the Oyster Card that lets him travel on buses gratis. of course, no bank card meant no pocket money, which meant no tuckshop treats at school this week. He was less than impressed...after all he had known exactly where the bank card was, he just didn't see that there was a problem keeping it on the shelf in the garage. The Oyster Card had, he said, been put in a drawer for safe keeping so was never lost. He's always been good at putting things away safely - as a two year old, he kindly took my house keys and put them in a compartment of a little plastic tricycle for safe keeping one morning. I searched high and low, but it was only when I thought to (gently) ask him if he knew where they were that he instantly trotted off to the sitting room and pulled them out for me.
By comparison, last night I took my Vespa Scooter into Soho and parked it up so I could go along to a glamorous media luvvy event. When I returned a couple of hours later, there in the lock of the top box were the keys for all to see and anyone to take.
Tuesday, 23 September 2008
Love is a many splendored thing
Yesterday, evidently, it was exactly a year ago that the boy 'asked out' the girlfriend. I'm not really sure what going out with someone means these days at the age of thirteen. It certainly doesn't mean the back row of the cinema every Saturday, as I think you can count the number of times they've been out on one hand. It may mean a fumble behind the bike shed...but I hope not and in my naivity, I think not. It does for certain mean hundreds of texts at all hours of the day and into the night. So the adage that you can only understand a relationship if you are part of it, and then it's not guaranteed, is true for sure.
I can't say that I think dating at thirteen is a good thing...after all he's got a lifetime of trying to figure out the opposite sex. But in the smoky haze of romance, I think a childhood sweetheart is a great thing...even if at some stage a heart will be broken.
The boy definitely needs a female in his life...four and a half years ago he lost his mother, four years ago he effectively lost touch with his sister and eighteen months ago when we moved to the Forest he stopped seeing so much of doting Irish Nanny. He still sees the nanny when he can fit her into his busy schedule...and she is wise to the thoughts of teenage boys, not to press him too much, inspite of the fact that she I am sure misses him almost as much as her own son who died of Aids a decade or so ago.
I can't say too much about the sister as it breaks my heart that she moved to live with her father and has never once made the effort to keep in touch with her little brother. In the early months of the separation I tried my hardest (perhaps too hard) to keep them close...it was so, so touching to see them together (when the boy's mother and I separated, I never really got to see them both)...but her indifference encouraged I strongly suspect by her father, has meant that a day or so ago he threw away the comment that he didn't really have a sister.
On the romance stakes I am a poor teacher (aren't all parents?). In the last few years he's seen a few girlfriends of mine..that is the semi-permanent ones that have lasted a year or more. But as I've not been truly, madly, deeply in love, they have all eventually been added to the list of ones that got away. Usually when they do go, I'm in deep trouble with the boy as another potential mother-figure has been lost, but I do sit down with him and explain...the last one was terrific but wanted children and that is not on my agenda. So on the long list of things that I am not competent to guide him on, girls and romance is right up there with trigonomics...
I can't say that I think dating at thirteen is a good thing...after all he's got a lifetime of trying to figure out the opposite sex. But in the smoky haze of romance, I think a childhood sweetheart is a great thing...even if at some stage a heart will be broken.
The boy definitely needs a female in his life...four and a half years ago he lost his mother, four years ago he effectively lost touch with his sister and eighteen months ago when we moved to the Forest he stopped seeing so much of doting Irish Nanny. He still sees the nanny when he can fit her into his busy schedule...and she is wise to the thoughts of teenage boys, not to press him too much, inspite of the fact that she I am sure misses him almost as much as her own son who died of Aids a decade or so ago.
I can't say too much about the sister as it breaks my heart that she moved to live with her father and has never once made the effort to keep in touch with her little brother. In the early months of the separation I tried my hardest (perhaps too hard) to keep them close...it was so, so touching to see them together (when the boy's mother and I separated, I never really got to see them both)...but her indifference encouraged I strongly suspect by her father, has meant that a day or so ago he threw away the comment that he didn't really have a sister.
On the romance stakes I am a poor teacher (aren't all parents?). In the last few years he's seen a few girlfriends of mine..that is the semi-permanent ones that have lasted a year or more. But as I've not been truly, madly, deeply in love, they have all eventually been added to the list of ones that got away. Usually when they do go, I'm in deep trouble with the boy as another potential mother-figure has been lost, but I do sit down with him and explain...the last one was terrific but wanted children and that is not on my agenda. So on the long list of things that I am not competent to guide him on, girls and romance is right up there with trigonomics...
Sunday, 21 September 2008
Me, me , me
Monday 8.30 a.m. at school: "Hey, how was your weekend?" "Brilliant party Saturday night eh? Loved the music, great cake an' all...shame it finished at 10.00. Good to chill with the lads all Saturday afternoon too....I know I said I'd only be an hour, but hey ho. In the morning I knocked around a football, spent time on MSN. It was cool. Sunday was a bit of a bummer Dad was really grumpy. Don't know why. We were planning to go to the Boat Show, but when I got home from the party I said I had too much homework. He said something about waiting around for me all Saturday and now he'd have a wasted Sunday too. Don't know what he was talking about."
Monday 9.00 in the office "Hi, how was your weekend?" "Complete rubbish" "How come, thought you were going to the boat show?" "Sore point, I spent Saturday doing the housework and ironing, giving the boy a lift to his friend's party, and even washing the car to give us the day free on Sunday. The boy, arsed around Friday pm and all Saturday and then announced that he was too busy with homework on Sunday to go to the boatshow. That left me bereft of things to do other than more tidying up. I was not happy. He never thinks of anyone but himself, and expects me just to run around after him...he never considers me at all." "He's thirteen, what do you expect?" "Let's talk about the clients".
Monday 9.00 in the office "Hi, how was your weekend?" "Complete rubbish" "How come, thought you were going to the boat show?" "Sore point, I spent Saturday doing the housework and ironing, giving the boy a lift to his friend's party, and even washing the car to give us the day free on Sunday. The boy, arsed around Friday pm and all Saturday and then announced that he was too busy with homework on Sunday to go to the boatshow. That left me bereft of things to do other than more tidying up. I was not happy. He never thinks of anyone but himself, and expects me just to run around after him...he never considers me at all." "He's thirteen, what do you expect?" "Let's talk about the clients".
Wednesday, 17 September 2008
Men at Arms
The boy announced this week that he is going to joining the school army cadet force much to my horror. I practice utter respect for the professionalism of our armed forces, but cannot understand why anyone would (potentially) lay their life down for a dusty corner of a godforesaken corner of the globe fighting poeple who will never have the ability to launch attacks with just 40 minutes warning.
Young boys all seem to have a fascination with weapons of any sort and the boy is no different. I've never really known how to deal with this...when he was younger I let him play with cheap and nasty toys of war in the hope that if they broke quickly (which they did) he would lose interest (which he didn't). No doubt his enthusiasm is fuelled by any number of Playstation games that involve death and violence to an unnecessary degree.
Of course, there is a large degree of hypocrisy on my part, as I too was in the Cadets, albeit air focused rather than ground focused. My argument that in those days we were never at war with anyone, doesn't wash with me let alone him. I could simply say no, but that seems equally unreasonable...but any thoughts of a career in her majesty's forces would be severely frowned on. I think I'm over-reacting...after all, most of what they do seems to be little more than an extended outward-bound course...in fact the outdoor skills, the discipline that they teach are pretty useful...and (selfishly) the camps will occasionally give me a nice little break.
So into uniform he will go, hopefully playing nothing more than toy soldiers as boys (and indeed girls) do. But woe be tide if he takes it too seriously.
Young boys all seem to have a fascination with weapons of any sort and the boy is no different. I've never really known how to deal with this...when he was younger I let him play with cheap and nasty toys of war in the hope that if they broke quickly (which they did) he would lose interest (which he didn't). No doubt his enthusiasm is fuelled by any number of Playstation games that involve death and violence to an unnecessary degree.
Of course, there is a large degree of hypocrisy on my part, as I too was in the Cadets, albeit air focused rather than ground focused. My argument that in those days we were never at war with anyone, doesn't wash with me let alone him. I could simply say no, but that seems equally unreasonable...but any thoughts of a career in her majesty's forces would be severely frowned on. I think I'm over-reacting...after all, most of what they do seems to be little more than an extended outward-bound course...in fact the outdoor skills, the discipline that they teach are pretty useful...and (selfishly) the camps will occasionally give me a nice little break.
So into uniform he will go, hopefully playing nothing more than toy soldiers as boys (and indeed girls) do. But woe be tide if he takes it too seriously.
Monday, 15 September 2008
Splish, splash, vroom, vroom
Hoorah!
It was finally sunny for the first time this summer in Brighton at the weekend. With nothing planned, it meant that on Saturday we dusted off the kayaks which we keep at Brighton Watersports and went for a paddle.
The kayaks were bought some four years ago when I had my arm twisted by the boy and was emotionally blackmailed by The Wicked Witch of the West (aka Grandma in Wales)..."the money's here, it would be a shame if he didn't get one, etc etc". We'd been to the Boat Show, and he'd got all excited...naturally enough...five minute wonders are like that. The problem was that living in a top floor flat, there was no where for the kayaks. Fortunately, if you're down on Brighton beach the watersports shop that will rent out kayaks to passing punters will also store those belonging to people daft enough to buy but not be able to look after their craft.
We have had some fun in them over the years...my favourite was catching a fish....it is a soft fluffy one which was a pier prize that had been cast aside...I still have it. You also get great views of Brighton, and the West Pier that you wouldn't otherwise - if I could work out how to safely take my camera out to sea without the danger of it getting wet, or find itself in Davey Jones locker I'd take a picture or two. I've always been the strongest paddler, but this weekend showed that the boy now has arm muscles that a tennis player would be proud of...so most of the two hours was spent with me huffing and puffing trying to keep up with him.
Sunday and it was time for Brighton to be overwhelmed with motorbikes...it was the annual (I think) Ace Cafe Reunion/Brighton Burn up. So once roused from our slumbers by a friend who gave us just half an hour to get up and meet her for a coffee on the sea front (we didn't make it) we stumbled down to Madeira Drive to gape open mouthed at all the different machinery on display. I think initial enthusiam turned into a degree of boredom after five hours of walking up and down the Drive in the unexpected heat...which is good news because much as I like bikes and I want one (to supercede my much-loved Vespa), I don't want the boy having one before he's at least thirty five...I've told him so on many an occasion, but I suspect it's falling on deaf ears. So I'm hoping that if he gets bored, then he'll decide that once he's seventeen, a nice little Fiat will do him...nicely...
Friday, 12 September 2008
Keeping secrets
We all have secrets from our parents. Some are simply there because there's no reason to tell Mum and Dad everything, some because they're embarassing so best avoided...and for some people I guess there are deep, dark secrets that nobody should know about. I suspect we all have at least one of those.
So it was with a certain sense of nervousness that I decided to let the boy's grandmother be privy to this little blog. So "Hello Mum" as they say on TV.
I do also occassionally let the boy have a read too...selectively though.
Grandma in Cyprus as she is now known (as opposed to Grandma in Wales) moved to sunnier climes eighteen months ago with step father and two Jack Russell terriers. The planning for the move took long enough that for about a year she was known as 'Grandma not in Cyprus'. She's 76 and since moving, they've got a nice little business going taxiing holiday makers from the airport to their hotels and villas, and also a little car rental business. All done with ex-pat friends. Impressively enough, they've just bought a scooter to buzz around on when a car isn't needed.
We speak often enough, but phone calls tend to be relatively time-limited, so hopefully Man and Boy will add some colour and flavour to our conversations and bridge the geographic distance. And equally, should anything so incredibly embarassing be worth recording here, Grandma will avert her eyes.
Wednesday, 10 September 2008
Food for thought
Last night we had a minor meal disaster. On the menu was pork steaks in a mustard and honey sauce, new potatoes, and broccoli tips. The sauce, by the way, was out of a tub from Waitrose. We were running late as I'd finally decided I couldn't avoid the supermarket trip any longer...I'd love to have the weekly shop delivered, but have always found the task of making the online shopping list just too much...so £150 out of pocket, we were aiming to eat by 9ish.
At the witching hour, a quick prod with the fork...and disappointingly the 'tats hadn't even started to cook. A return match ten minutes later revealed a soggy lump of disintegrated potato at the bottom of the saucepan. Somewhat deflated, I scooped it onto the plate and then went to add the pork. err the near raw pork. So we ate French style - vegetables first, meat half an hour later (I don't believe I've ever come across a French person that does this...but I was told once upon a time so it must be true.
Cooking has been a constant challenge over the last four years...too often a dry piece of meat and a couple of soggy veg have been my best attempt...inspite of in the distant past being able to tackle student favourites like chilli con carne, pizza (from scratch I must add defensively) and so on. Most recently we've been buying sauces to liven up otherwise dull meals and have made a concerted effort to broaden our culinary horizons...but I guess there'll always be the occasional set-back.
My biggest worry is that come university, the boy will not even be able to reach the heady peaks of cheese on toast....it's a shame his mother is not here to help him along...she was rather clever in the kitchen turning out any number of delicious dishes, although sometimes I wondered whether she was right in trying to turn all and every left over into soup.
At the witching hour, a quick prod with the fork...and disappointingly the 'tats hadn't even started to cook. A return match ten minutes later revealed a soggy lump of disintegrated potato at the bottom of the saucepan. Somewhat deflated, I scooped it onto the plate and then went to add the pork. err the near raw pork. So we ate French style - vegetables first, meat half an hour later (I don't believe I've ever come across a French person that does this...but I was told once upon a time so it must be true.
Cooking has been a constant challenge over the last four years...too often a dry piece of meat and a couple of soggy veg have been my best attempt...inspite of in the distant past being able to tackle student favourites like chilli con carne, pizza (from scratch I must add defensively) and so on. Most recently we've been buying sauces to liven up otherwise dull meals and have made a concerted effort to broaden our culinary horizons...but I guess there'll always be the occasional set-back.
My biggest worry is that come university, the boy will not even be able to reach the heady peaks of cheese on toast....it's a shame his mother is not here to help him along...she was rather clever in the kitchen turning out any number of delicious dishes, although sometimes I wondered whether she was right in trying to turn all and every left over into soup.
Monday, 8 September 2008
The honeymoon is over, over
Last week saw the return to school...I'm not sure why it was last week, as the rest of the private schools didn't return until this week...in fact neither did most of the state schools as they enjoyed the benefit of inset days (I prefer to think of them as insect days as the boy used to refer to them when he was knee-high to a grass hopper).
But after much excited anticipation, it seems we are currently being educationally-challenged. He returned after day one with a VERY GLUM look...his decision to plump for music as one of his options was a 'mistake' and he didn't know why he'd done it. He done it because he loves playing the guitar, so music was a wise choice. And the alternative was electronics which would have involved the use of maths. Which is not a strength, It would have been a poor choice. My offer to ring the school and try and make a change was dismissed out of hand. YOU CANT CHANGE NOW.
And now EVERYTHING is wrong...even having the history teacher who thinks he walks on water is bad because ...errr...err because. I swear she has a crush on him...but as she often brings her girlfriend to events...I don't worry. And there's a substitute teacher for another subject and she's horrible. But the proper teacher (who he's never been taught by) would be excellent. And he's not (yet) in this year's rugby team inspite of expensive new boots 'because I'm not good enough'. And he's got lots of homework.
There's an unwritten agenda here which will no doubt pop out.....soon(ish)
But after much excited anticipation, it seems we are currently being educationally-challenged. He returned after day one with a VERY GLUM look...his decision to plump for music as one of his options was a 'mistake' and he didn't know why he'd done it. He done it because he loves playing the guitar, so music was a wise choice. And the alternative was electronics which would have involved the use of maths. Which is not a strength, It would have been a poor choice. My offer to ring the school and try and make a change was dismissed out of hand. YOU CANT CHANGE NOW.
And now EVERYTHING is wrong...even having the history teacher who thinks he walks on water is bad because ...errr...err because. I swear she has a crush on him...but as she often brings her girlfriend to events...I don't worry. And there's a substitute teacher for another subject and she's horrible. But the proper teacher (who he's never been taught by) would be excellent. And he's not (yet) in this year's rugby team inspite of expensive new boots 'because I'm not good enough'. And he's got lots of homework.
There's an unwritten agenda here which will no doubt pop out.....soon(ish)
Traditional sports
This week we indulged in some traditional sports. I know many people feel that these should be banned, and are completely inappropriate in a modern civilised society, but my view is that they've been around for centuries, and British society is built on tradition...abandon that, and the Ravens will flee the tower. Further, traditional sports are a humane way of controlling something that otherwise would be a nuisance and I think there are enough aggravations without adding to them.
The traditional sport we chose this weekend was hair cut baiting. This involved weeks of saying 'your hair needs trimming' whilst the boy did his best to avoid the inevitable. He did well, managing to out fox me all summer long...often going to ground when I thought I was closing in on the final cut. But his resistance couldn't last forever, and on Saturday I managed to corner him in the Turkish? Greek? Cypriot? barbers in Hove. His resistance was short-lived and he emerged with his hair cropped to a 'sensible' length.
Unlike fox hunting though, that was not the end of the matter and I was given a fair degree of grief for the rest of the weekend. The cut was far too short and everyone at school would laugh at him. It was my fault. It's always my fault because I always tell the hair dresser to chop off more than the boy says. There wasn't much point in me saying that the reason people notice he gets his hair choppped is because he leaves it too long between trims. How unreasonable of me. Of course, this is the boy that took his hair paste (not wax, not gel) camping even though the need for a shower necver seemed paramount.
And this is the father who grew up in the days when long-haired rockers such as Led Zep, Slade and The Sweet ruled.
The traditional sport we chose this weekend was hair cut baiting. This involved weeks of saying 'your hair needs trimming' whilst the boy did his best to avoid the inevitable. He did well, managing to out fox me all summer long...often going to ground when I thought I was closing in on the final cut. But his resistance couldn't last forever, and on Saturday I managed to corner him in the Turkish? Greek? Cypriot? barbers in Hove. His resistance was short-lived and he emerged with his hair cropped to a 'sensible' length.
Unlike fox hunting though, that was not the end of the matter and I was given a fair degree of grief for the rest of the weekend. The cut was far too short and everyone at school would laugh at him. It was my fault. It's always my fault because I always tell the hair dresser to chop off more than the boy says. There wasn't much point in me saying that the reason people notice he gets his hair choppped is because he leaves it too long between trims. How unreasonable of me. Of course, this is the boy that took his hair paste (not wax, not gel) camping even though the need for a shower necver seemed paramount.
And this is the father who grew up in the days when long-haired rockers such as Led Zep, Slade and The Sweet ruled.
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