Fuck 'em. Yeah. OK, I know. Drunk blogging might not be a good idea. But it's therapeutic. And Grit's been on the cooking sherry since 4.15pm. Now she has more than a bra to get off her chest.
It all started because, believe it or not, Tuesday 19th January was Big Day.
The Big Day has more drama than Coronation Street. More intensity than Russell Crowe's forehead. More passion than a Mills and Boon romance set in Arthritis ward B with Doctor Smith behind the curtain.
Because Tuesday 19th January was the place to be in this year-long run up to the next step: the Committee Stage of the Children, Schools and Families Bill. Whoopee. The Bill that changes a fundamental right about who has the final say in your choice of education for your kids.
The one that says the consequence of non-compliance with the state on allowing them to licence you, subject you to their approval of your power supply, and demand you submit your annual plans for further inspection, is a School Attendance Order.
Now the blasphemy and cooking sherry start to make horrible sense, don't they?
Let's call them coping strategies.
Because I am an average done-no-harm home educating parent who chose off-template parenting and weird lifestyle. Like the freedom to visit the seaside out of school holiday time. For that, I am one of the poor sods about to be blitzed by a government order to be inspected for overcrowding, monitored for lesson plans next July, and faced with a local authority official, asking me in steady tones if I am aware that the government now has a legal right of entry to my home on a 2-week notice.
Of course if I refuse this type of support, I must have something to hide. Like our privacy, Shark's freedoms, 14 gallons of cooking sherry and the amusing way I tie the kids to the radiators and mock them with goats.
So console me. Round here, January 19th was Big Day. I was anticipating it. For weeks.
And I couldn't get Parliament TV to work. Not live. Not on archive. I have tried to watch the footage of this committee, several times. Everytime I go to the site, the router suffers an apoplectic fit, freezes, and refuses to do anything unless someone consoles it with some soothing button twiddling. I daren't go to the site now, or even link to it.
You might be grateful about that.
But I still believe that the committee stage of a Bill is a real information stage, where you can hear many voices arguing over points in a much more helpful way than from the big Balls Wall bashing the boxes.
You could go over to Gill's place instead. There you can see extracts. At some stage I will see the whole lot, and then no-one can stop me having a proper fingerjabfingerjab.
Go on, go over and see. Then at least you can make up your mind that you were right all along not to give a toss.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
7 comments:
Don't let the bastards get you down, Gritty. And when you get the chance, only watch the bits with Chloe in.
What Ruth says! And if all else fails, emigrate. That is not living in a democracy, that is a dictatorship.
nothing wrong with a bit of drunk blogging every now and then. You could always move out here...it's much prettier and I doubt anyone would hold it against you if you wanted to teach your kids at home. although the local primary only has about 12 kids in it anyway.
I would never blog if I didn't drunk blog. It's the newest incarnation of drunk dialing.
Stay strong. And maybe switch to something a bit nicer than cooking sherry.
It's not over Grit, don't feel defeated!
I don't know any details, but, perhaps Sharon is right. Come to New Zealand. Your (the girls') exquisite brooches led the way.
you are all very supportive, people. i am jumping out of bed with windmill arms this morning, so maybe the cooking sherry did some good.
Post a Comment