And they wonder why...
Mar 9, 2008
Yesterday Scotland beat England at rugby, at Murrayfield, 15-9. We beat them. The former World Champions, with Mr Johnny "highest-whatever-record-he-has-passed" Wilkinson, beaten by a team which had lost all three of its previous 6 Nations games. Beaten not by tries, not by sensational play, but by sheer thrawn determination and aggression, by a refusal to let any English player breathe comfortably, never mind move anywhere; as shown best by big Jason White, who drove one English player back some fair distance to the try line. We won; Scotland won.
And yet, this victory by a country that is still part of the U.K., and therefore is (or should be) served by the national media, was barely dealt with by that same media. Yes, the Scottish press paid attention; but the BBC news? Hardly a mention. Search online for any news of the victory, and the big broadsheet papers (take a bow, Daily Mail) are grudging at best, or virtually silent on the Scottish aspect of the game.
And then they wonder why we don't get behind England when they play a foreign team.
 Discuss this entry
- 1 reply
- Latest reply: Mar 9, 2008
"Parents’ Night" (’cos there’s MORE THAN ONE...)
Feb 20, 2008
So, the progress reports to parents go out, hopefully before Parents' Night, and hopefully the ones who have read them, understood them, translated the "Teacherspeak", and have appropriately relayed their feelings to their offspring/charges, make an appointment via their offspring/charges to see you.
Note the word: "hopefully."
What is the reality, people? Least likely scenario: a pupil makes an appointment with no awareness or knowledge of the amount of smelly brown stuff coming their parents' way (and then immediately, in terror, cancels.) Likeliest scenario: the pupils whose parents you really want to see "forget" to make an appointment, or the pupils clinging to your positive comments, with no real reason to make an appointment beyond self-validation/self-preservation, fill up every available space.
Cynical? Moi?
It's one of the oldest forms of cabaret going, Parents' Night. And every teacher on the planet goes through it at least once a year. Usually midweek. Usually for over two hours. At night time. In winter.
We meet the gene pool our pupils come from ( and the gene pool is a wondrous, fractured, varietal thing these days) and either smirk in collaborative glee as the poor souls are made to face their inadequacies or, worse, their talents, or recoil in holy terror from the creature that spawned them. And we do this, at high school level, possibly 15 to 30 times in one night.
Prior and earnest discussions with the parents that we know come back to haunt us. Yes, we said we would investigate ways of compensating for little Mattie's handwriting. Yes, we said that we would ensure Ashleigh wore her glasses for every lesson. Yes, Connor has a spelling difficulty which should really be addressed as soon as.
There is the parent (arrival time; 8.20) who is braced for criticism, and struggles with anything else. There is the parent whose child is obviously, but deeply secretively, A F***ING PRODIGY, who cannot countenance any evidence to the contrary. There is the parent you would wish on no human being - not even Cheney.
Bienvenue, wilkommen, welcome.
Discuss this entry
(No replies)
The way to hell...
Aug 23, 2006
is paved with in-laws-to-be and well-meaning friends.
To begin with, the well-meaning friends. My friend of too many years to comfortably remember, is making my wedding invitations. They are very, very nice, very professional- looking cards. I am very happy with them. What is beginning to drive me out of my (admittedly short-trunked) tree is the growing suspicion that my wedding is a bigger deal to my friend than it is to me. She is asking me to confirm the numbers for the wedding, and therefore the numbers of invites needed for both the day event and the evening. This request comes A YEAR (almost) before the wedding. A year. This is because, as she somewhat icily told me when I phoned her to query her timing, she has to arrange the making of Christmas cards, birthday cards etc. Now to the arguments currently raging through my head:
Claire's a full-time mother of two young kids; she has to organise her time carefully around the house, her kids, her husband and a fledgling business making cards etc. It is entirely reasonable for her to prepare for making the cards well in advance of time. It also suits us because they will be done and dusted.
For the nine months before her wedding - a long time ago, scars take a good while to heal on me - the only topic of conversation for Claire was her wedding. Nothing else. Nothing. Else. It was the first of many weddings which have lead to my being absolutely determined NOT to go bonkers over this wedding. Which is why the only focus of me and the dearly b's attention for the last wee while has been selling our flat to move on to somewhere bigger. We will worry about the remaining details of the wedding once the dust has settled from moving house in (hopefully) a couple of months. As I told Claire in a letter about a month ago when she first broached the wording of the insert to the invitation...
Then the in-laws-to-be. The MIL-to-be phoned tonight "just to see how you and Bob were getting on". And then immediately asked how the house move was going (estate agent came round, flat very shiny, going on market over 55k, likely to sell quickly and well, all very good). Then she starts telling us about properties that she's seen in the local press. At length. Properties in areas that the dearly b. and me had vetoed from the get-go because they were in the 'burbs. And we can't do the 'burbs. We just can't. When I start telling her about a desirable flat that we've seen near the city centre (but in a quiet residential area) she starts foretelling doom because (a) it's near the beach (relatively speaking - it's still a good 15 minute walk to the seafront), and is therefore (b) almost guaranteed to be overwhelmed by tidal water at some point in the future. I kid you not. That's what she said. Now to the arguments:
She is a dear soul who cares for me as much (if not more) than her own daughter, and only wants to make sure that we are safe, comfotable and happy in our new home
...fill in your own ideas.
The only thing that eventually made her stop talking about the safety of 'burbs/disaster area of our chosen territory was the information that we had ordered a survey to be done of the property we want.
The reason I am typing this now - aside from the joys of ranting safely in cyberspace - is the fact that I know, I KNOW, that this is how it's going to be for the next 11 months until the wedding (for the wedding-obsessed friend) and for the next forever for the in-laws. And if it wasn't for the fact that I utterly, utterly adore the man that I am marrying, I'd be sorely tempted to say - to hell with this.
Discuss this entry
(No replies)
Kung fu and wedding dresses.
Jul 14, 2006
About six months ago, at a friend's fundraiser for a charity trip, there was a raffle. And through this raffle, I won a month's free kung fu tuition. Well, either tai chi or kung fu; and I plumped for the kung fu.
This was in part because I had seen the difference that the classes had made to my partner's physique in the six years he's been studying it. It was also in part because of some very gentle pressure from my partner (so that he could be Yoda to my Luke, I suspect). It was, moreoever, to give me another classroom teaching tool - the mental knowledge (transferrable through an appropriately hard stare) that I could subdue the offending individual with my finger. It was, furthermore, to afford me some time away from trying to get our flat in order for putting it on the market. And, with any luck, if I kept up with it until July 21st 2007, then I would not just look good in my wedding dress, I would look stunning.
It is also, clearly, because I like pain. I haven't fortunately got to the part when anyone's hit me, yet (and if I can postpone that particular pleasure for as long as possible, so much the better!) But the warm-up alone is agony to the legs, especially the dodgy old knees. Suffice to say, I no longer associate the word "turtles" with an endangered species of amphibian found in the warmer climes of the world, but rather with a stance akin to squatting low over a rock festival portaloo for what seems an eternity, with one's hands down between the legs, head up, back straight and lactic acid burning around your knee cartilage.
'parrently a lot of people drop out after the first lesson; I've made it to two. Further progress to be reported.
Discuss this entry
(No replies)
Primal Scream and "Country Girl"
Jun 9, 2006
Question: “Primal Scream’s Country Girl is the happiest tune in the history of happy tunes.”
Discuss.
Discuss this entry
(No replies)
Show more of My Journal Entries
|
Home
Leave a Message