I must remember that I am set on earth not to enjoy the fine company of our young men down the tip; nor to savour the gracious living next to the asbestos bin (yes, really!); nor experience much of good company (not these days, what with Squirrel pulling that lip at me).
I am here with other, worthier goals.
To wit: discover what a child's education can be, if it is not made up of conventional school.
Yes. That is it. You see, me and this blog must be focused on our principles and endeavours. We must together chronicle the wonderful, daily, educational learning environments of Shark, Squirrel and Tiger. Our liberating, inspiring, and truly worldwide education! (The Local Authority EWO and Social Services woman might come knocking.)
So, there must be an education, happening somewhere round here today, that I can report.
Um.
Er.
No, don't worry! I'm sure I'll find it in a moment.
It's in here somewhere. Give me a minute. I'm sure we've all done something. Of course if I look hard, I'll find it! Talk amongst yourselves while I sit here and have a think.
That is the problem with house tidying, isn't it? Nothing else happens, except that which makes sense in house tidying. Clearing up, throwing out, clearing out, throwing up. It all leads me to nowhere, except into long pointless arguments with the inside of my head about how I would secretly like to throw out those painted babies with the missing legs.
Frankly it would be easy to do because I don't care a jot about them. I mean, would you? They are hardly the stuff of romantic childhood. I can't tenderly bring Dolly out the cupboard in ten years to recall, fondly, Ah, that was the day Squirrel painted her face blue, then we put her in the washing machine, and one leg fell off. As I remember, Shark filled it with mud and buried it in the garden.
Well, I can't report that. I must instead find something worthy and educational. It is my mission.
Otherwise, someone will stumble by this blog looking for supportive messages of educational salvation and moral endeavour, but come across nothing more than the prattle of an ancient, hopeless old crone, pathetically seeking companionship down the local 'community recycling centre' and wandering about a gutted garage bumping into pianos with her jaw clacking away to herself. I mean, I have to do some incoherent arguing with myself whether to chuck out a plastic dismembered doll; whether this counts against me as another instance of motherhood disloyalty; and whether Little Eric at the tip would find it really funny if I hid her in garden waste and let him discover it as he's turning over the top layer with his pitchfork.
And we wouldn't want that scenario, would we.
Anyway, I have now found something.
Thank you for waiting.
The other evening, we attended an independent cinema screening of Our Hospitality (1923), complete with piano score played by living pianist.
We discussed the development of cinema from silent to talkies, the comedy of Buster Keaton, and what an audience can enjoy about slapstick with a piano accompaniment in these post-structuralist, post-modernist, 3D cinema days.
Then I came home and discovered this. Satisfying. And undoubtedly I can call this an education in media studies, film history, critical thinking, emotional expression, cultural awareness, visual literacy and how we can laugh at the same thing at the same time thus, human bonding.
Ha. Now I can return to my endeavours at the tip with a clear conscience.
