We are in the moment of woman voice. The right time then to offer a little warning about the way three young women from round these parts will lead this planet.
I do not often report on my three Big Grits: they are old enough to report on me. I think it would be well if no one knew what I got up to. Thus, information here is slight but in the interests of gender representation, essential.
Shark. Presently into marine ecology, physics and engines. Now at a Royal Navy site in England stripping down engines and outboard motors, then working out how to put them back together, preferably so that there are no screws left on the floor, and the thing goes brrrrrr (or whatever engines do on starting). However, she notes in a telephone call home that she is given more help than she would like from the instructor. My message to him is, Back off with the help. Do not assume that girls need more help with engines than boys. She can use a spanner and she knows a piston from a crank shaft. Things can turn ugly, quickly.
Tiger. After a long dark night struggling with the soul, she has returned to Latin A-Level; hopefully she will also find an afternoon or two to laze with Ancient Greek, enjoy the company of Anglo Saxon and renew a happy flirtation with Old Norse. Highly capable, yet cripplingly lacking self-confidence. Her artwork is lovely, her capability for delicate animal illustration puts her on a course for childrens' books, and she's an all-round good egg. Just painfully over-sensitive about everything. Just drop the need for perfection, Tiger. Have a few failures, and remember that the best mistakes in life are usually the most fun, so you have permission to make them time and time again. We will still provide a hearty pasta dinner and, if necessary, fund the lawyers.
Squirrel. Who knows what Squirrel really does? I don't. She is now routinely made upset with Thing Called School. Thing Called School stops
her from doing what she wants to do, which is read books, write her own
stuff, and stare out the window. I hope she is writing a cracking
piece of young adult fiction, and I bet it's not going to have any
female characters blabbing about fashion, nail varnish, or boys. I
hope she has spirited girl protagonists who argue about society, engage in
direct action, and know how engines work, not so they can impress a
boy, but to power a machine to their will. Maybe she is writing a story where Thing Called School no longer exists, but the Stasi-equivalence are tracking the young escapees. Tiger effects a narrow escape from these jaws of death by solving an Old Norse
puzzle then the girl power tribe jumps on a speedboat fixed formerly
by a feisty Shark, and together, the three heroines save the planet.
Showing posts with label Shark. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Shark. Show all posts
Sunday, 15 October 2017
Sunday, 10 August 2014
Overcome by the urgent need for a boat?
Shark builds a coracle. She learns carpentry skills, uses dangerous power tools, avoids taking someone's eye out with a stanley knife, then she sets off up the Thames (with a paddle).
If you too are overcome with the urgent need for your very own water-based transport, contact Alistair.
If you too are overcome with the urgent need for your very own water-based transport, contact Alistair.
Sunday, 17 November 2013
The problem with seasides
Is the car filled with stolen beach that we then must proudly display on every surface in every room until the Hippie Mama has a big squeal on finding the egg cases floating in my sandwich box balanced on the toilet lid.
I am not to touch them, apparently. And neither should I think for one second about moving the dried out salty ones waiting to be examined and now resting on my antique carriage box in the hallway.
I am not to touch them, apparently. And neither should I think for one second about moving the dried out salty ones waiting to be examined and now resting on my antique carriage box in the hallway.
Saturday, 23 March 2013
Ocean and Earth Day
I recommend, if you have children whose brains have been sucked out and replaced by fish, that you escort them annually down to the University of Southampton, National Oceanography Centre, for their Ocean and Earth Day. Here you may let the happy fry go free. Your fishy offspring can stretch their gills, flip their salty fins, and be off to explore the undercurrents of the deepest, darkest oceans.
Consequently, I do not see Shark, Tiger and Squirrel all day long.
Well, that is not strictly true. A packet of chocolate biscuits is on offer about tea time, bait to drag them out of the place. It works, dark chocolate luring them back like wandering fish seduced by a particularly tasty meal, but I suspect only because the place shuts up shop: Shark was thrown out of the tour round the aquarium, so there was nowhere else to go. In the first chocolate-biscuit-end-of-day assessment, I hear only universal grumbling that the fun ends at 4pm, and not at a proper time, like never.
I agree. Time is my only complaint. I think the Ocean and Earth day should go on at least until supper, because I had to listen to the ins and outs of the early-day closure injustice for another six hours.
It is a simple problem of logistics. A fishy-minded visitor cannot attend to everything between 10.30am and 4pm. Is that not a ridiculously short time to seduce us with your fishy wares? If you listen to the lectures about bubbles, rocks, diving and biology, then attempt to struggle round the stalls, pilot a submarine, do the quiz, watch the videos, make the ammonites, scoff lunch, see the ships, read the careers boards, ask questions of the engineers, no wonder there is not time to visit the aquarium.
I chose wisely. The lectures. On the basis that I could rest my arse for a good couple of hours, and adopt the face of one who has a scholarly approach to fish, while secretly hoping my brood return to me in an exhausted state clutching hand-made plaster ammonites and novelty fridge magnets.
Despite the complaints about time, our endless enemy, I can only thank the staff at the University of Southampton once again for allowing we fish-loving public to trample all over their nice clean Oceanography centre, leaving only footprints (plus a trail of trash and fingermarks on the door frame where they had to prise off Shark) and taking with us, only photographs.*
* I jolly well hope so, anyway. But if I were you, Southampton Geology Staff, I would do an inventory of your rocks.
Consequently, I do not see Shark, Tiger and Squirrel all day long.
Well, that is not strictly true. A packet of chocolate biscuits is on offer about tea time, bait to drag them out of the place. It works, dark chocolate luring them back like wandering fish seduced by a particularly tasty meal, but I suspect only because the place shuts up shop: Shark was thrown out of the tour round the aquarium, so there was nowhere else to go. In the first chocolate-biscuit-end-of-day assessment, I hear only universal grumbling that the fun ends at 4pm, and not at a proper time, like never.
I agree. Time is my only complaint. I think the Ocean and Earth day should go on at least until supper, because I had to listen to the ins and outs of the early-day closure injustice for another six hours.
It is a simple problem of logistics. A fishy-minded visitor cannot attend to everything between 10.30am and 4pm. Is that not a ridiculously short time to seduce us with your fishy wares? If you listen to the lectures about bubbles, rocks, diving and biology, then attempt to struggle round the stalls, pilot a submarine, do the quiz, watch the videos, make the ammonites, scoff lunch, see the ships, read the careers boards, ask questions of the engineers, no wonder there is not time to visit the aquarium.
I chose wisely. The lectures. On the basis that I could rest my arse for a good couple of hours, and adopt the face of one who has a scholarly approach to fish, while secretly hoping my brood return to me in an exhausted state clutching hand-made plaster ammonites and novelty fridge magnets.
Despite the complaints about time, our endless enemy, I can only thank the staff at the University of Southampton once again for allowing we fish-loving public to trample all over their nice clean Oceanography centre, leaving only footprints (plus a trail of trash and fingermarks on the door frame where they had to prise off Shark) and taking with us, only photographs.*
Shark, giving me that eye-rolling manoeuvre.
I suppose I said something foolish, betraying my ignorance about tentacles.
* I jolly well hope so, anyway. But if I were you, Southampton Geology Staff, I would do an inventory of your rocks.
Sunday, 30 September 2012
See you later, daughter
Thanks to the news - maths teacher runs away with teenage schoolgirl - our local group fell into that conversation. Again. The one that starts, Would you trust your daughter to them?
No. Not if we're talking education. For which read, learning about life at a speed my daughters feel comfortable with; learning about themselves, their skills, interests, ambitions, intellects, desires. I trust the world at large; the world that isn't containment and isolation. Outside, in this world, with luck I can keep my eye on proceedings, know my daughters, myself, our contacts, the community, this society.
If we're talking grades at exam passes? Schools have a process for that. But still I trust myself to help pin-point the help each daughter needs with those GCSEs, A levels, university entries.
If we're talking physical risk? Sure. A bunch of middle-aged men are kitted out in skin tight suits walking backwards into the local quarry, taking my daughter Shark with them.
And that is no problem at all.
Monday, 6 August 2012
Why Scuba diving isn't in the Olympics
As Shark says, What did you expect to see? It ends when we walk into the lake.
Sunday, 12 February 2012
Final day of the visit
Travelling Aunty leaves Hong Kong today, bound for Northumberland.
It sets her off into sorrowful remembrance. Or maybe trepidation. Her facial expression looks remarkably the same when she contrasts the memory of sunshine temperatures in the Philippines with the expectation of snow-locked moors of Northumberland and a central heating system that doesn't work properly.
Tiger is beside herself with envy. Aunty Dee is going home. To England. This fact prompts Tiger to spend a morning growling and muttering at her computer screen, vengefully stabbing the keyboard. Going home can't come soon enough, and she's now counting the days to our own departure in March.
Squirrel watches packing proceedings with her detached air. These events are all happening out of her control. Later she'll be upset and slam doors. That will mark the loss of a precious aunty who can actually knit and seems to enjoy watching dolly fashion shows. But for now, Squirrel quietly assists in the to-ing and fro-ing to the post office, sending the holiday cards back to an office in Prudhoe. Everyone agrees the postal system can sometimes defy time. Magically the cards can arrive at work desks quicker than the person who sent them.
Shark is sparked into a fury of action in the kitchen. She wanted Aunty Dee to squeeze in one last cultural experience of Hong Kong. A journey by sampan. But the only sampan experience we can organise in time is the crossing between Hong Kong Island and the South of Lamma Island. That means crossing the East Lamma Shipping Channel. This route is the passage of the heaviest container vessels in the world, and one of the busiest sea ways in Asia, active every day of the week. A sampan is like a miniature rowing boat. Dig explains the usual terms of travel insurance and remarks how there isn't time to enjoy a hospital experience, so Shark is asked to cook cake instead.
She does that vigorously, bashing flour and beating eggs, clattering about the kitchen and warding off incomers, until she has created chocolate mousse, cinnamon biscuits, spicy cake and bread dough which we don't have time to cook. The time for departure is upon us, so our Travelling Aunty is hurriedly fed cake with a squashed mousse top and bundled out the door with her unfinished Sudoko puzzles and a flurry of farewells. Dig accompanies her to the airport, just to ensure she catches the right plane to the right place.
I put the house back to the pre-visiting order, wrapping laundry and rearranging furniture. Shark looks glumly at her uncooked bread dough, Squirrel sorrowfully slinks up to her room, and Tiger beams. Next month I'll be packing up our bedrolls, too.
It sets her off into sorrowful remembrance. Or maybe trepidation. Her facial expression looks remarkably the same when she contrasts the memory of sunshine temperatures in the Philippines with the expectation of snow-locked moors of Northumberland and a central heating system that doesn't work properly.
Tiger is beside herself with envy. Aunty Dee is going home. To England. This fact prompts Tiger to spend a morning growling and muttering at her computer screen, vengefully stabbing the keyboard. Going home can't come soon enough, and she's now counting the days to our own departure in March.
Squirrel watches packing proceedings with her detached air. These events are all happening out of her control. Later she'll be upset and slam doors. That will mark the loss of a precious aunty who can actually knit and seems to enjoy watching dolly fashion shows. But for now, Squirrel quietly assists in the to-ing and fro-ing to the post office, sending the holiday cards back to an office in Prudhoe. Everyone agrees the postal system can sometimes defy time. Magically the cards can arrive at work desks quicker than the person who sent them.
Shark is sparked into a fury of action in the kitchen. She wanted Aunty Dee to squeeze in one last cultural experience of Hong Kong. A journey by sampan. But the only sampan experience we can organise in time is the crossing between Hong Kong Island and the South of Lamma Island. That means crossing the East Lamma Shipping Channel. This route is the passage of the heaviest container vessels in the world, and one of the busiest sea ways in Asia, active every day of the week. A sampan is like a miniature rowing boat. Dig explains the usual terms of travel insurance and remarks how there isn't time to enjoy a hospital experience, so Shark is asked to cook cake instead.
She does that vigorously, bashing flour and beating eggs, clattering about the kitchen and warding off incomers, until she has created chocolate mousse, cinnamon biscuits, spicy cake and bread dough which we don't have time to cook. The time for departure is upon us, so our Travelling Aunty is hurriedly fed cake with a squashed mousse top and bundled out the door with her unfinished Sudoko puzzles and a flurry of farewells. Dig accompanies her to the airport, just to ensure she catches the right plane to the right place.
I put the house back to the pre-visiting order, wrapping laundry and rearranging furniture. Shark looks glumly at her uncooked bread dough, Squirrel sorrowfully slinks up to her room, and Tiger beams. Next month I'll be packing up our bedrolls, too.
Thursday, 9 February 2012
Diving lesson 3
Here is my big shout out for the superb organisation that is Action Divers.
I loved them.
As a complete naive, non-diving parent (and the sort of carpet-slippers wussy who swims about trying not to get her hair wet), throwing my precious 11-year old daughter into the brutal surly ocean, wrapped only in a skin of neoprene and protected by an oxygen tank splattered with a death's head sticker, is a big thing.
Understandably, my starting fear has been, Will the ocean kill her?
My phobias have progressed through all water-related scenarios, well beyond simple drowning, to being decapitated by coral, eaten by mutant octopus, and facing naked protean underwater savagery from flesh-eating humanoids desperate to chew off her arms and legs, having escaped from their caves in The Descent.
Reader, in protecting my daughter from these terrors, Action Divers did not fail me.
For three days Shark has been safely scuba'd through hazards procedures, equipment handling, and proper watery skills. Each evening she has dutifully completed her homework. That meant confronting her woeful spelling, doing armed combat with a set of comprehension exercises, and preparing herself for a 9am start. (She probably was also taught how to handle aggressive octopus, wicked coral, and terrible creatures of the deep.)
I have rarely seen her with such determination and dedication.
And I must give a big whoop-de-doo to Simon in particular, who has been a perfect teacher for Shark; unfailingly patient, attentive, and communicating a love of the diving life which has led and inspired her. She has already pin-pointed the list of courses she wants and is now busy plotting her diving career. An eternal thank you.
(Or at least until she drops the idea of becoming a marine biologist and chooses life instead as a beach bum and bar fly.)
But for this experience - first-time child diver and annoying fussying mother - then yes, I totally recommend them.
If you are at the Hong Kong end, simply use Action Divers in Puerto Galera. The beaches are prettier than in Sai Kung and non-divers can amuse themselves by snorkeling without being hit in the head from a sampan.
Hmm. Now I've started thinking about it, maybe we should move out to the Philippines. Action Divers can take over Shark's Maths education as well. They need only represent every problem in terms of fish and coral and together we should crack it.
I loved them.
As a complete naive, non-diving parent (and the sort of carpet-slippers wussy who swims about trying not to get her hair wet), throwing my precious 11-year old daughter into the brutal surly ocean, wrapped only in a skin of neoprene and protected by an oxygen tank splattered with a death's head sticker, is a big thing.
Understandably, my starting fear has been, Will the ocean kill her?
My phobias have progressed through all water-related scenarios, well beyond simple drowning, to being decapitated by coral, eaten by mutant octopus, and facing naked protean underwater savagery from flesh-eating humanoids desperate to chew off her arms and legs, having escaped from their caves in The Descent.
Reader, in protecting my daughter from these terrors, Action Divers did not fail me.
For three days Shark has been safely scuba'd through hazards procedures, equipment handling, and proper watery skills. Each evening she has dutifully completed her homework. That meant confronting her woeful spelling, doing armed combat with a set of comprehension exercises, and preparing herself for a 9am start. (She probably was also taught how to handle aggressive octopus, wicked coral, and terrible creatures of the deep.)
I have rarely seen her with such determination and dedication.
And I must give a big whoop-de-doo to Simon in particular, who has been a perfect teacher for Shark; unfailingly patient, attentive, and communicating a love of the diving life which has led and inspired her. She has already pin-pointed the list of courses she wants and is now busy plotting her diving career. An eternal thank you.
(Or at least until she drops the idea of becoming a marine biologist and chooses life instead as a beach bum and bar fly.)
But for this experience - first-time child diver and annoying fussying mother - then yes, I totally recommend them.
If you are at the Hong Kong end, simply use Action Divers in Puerto Galera. The beaches are prettier than in Sai Kung and non-divers can amuse themselves by snorkeling without being hit in the head from a sampan.
Hmm. Now I've started thinking about it, maybe we should move out to the Philippines. Action Divers can take over Shark's Maths education as well. They need only represent every problem in terms of fish and coral and together we should crack it.
Tuesday, 7 February 2012
Diving lesson 1
I totally understand why Shark wants to learn how to dive.
It is a sport full of attractive men who strip down to their waists, show their chests, and stride about, dripping in slinky black wet suits.
I completely endorse her choice. I will support her all the way, drive her wherever she wants to go, and be by her side in all conditions, especially the tropical ones where they don't bother with the wet suits at all but just the trunks and I bet they are tiny.
Dig says most male divers are probably gay. I say I overheard the demi-god with the chest comment only this morning on his diving life, and his exact words were 'I chill out at the beach everyday and watch girls'. That doesn't sound like gay man talk to me, Dig.
Then he says he suspects they are closet gay.
Nonsense. It would show somewhere, like pink wetsuits and disco music and underwater whistles. I see none of that. Just a lot of lovely men striding about semi naked and wet.
It's a sport I'm going to get into, you can be sure about that.
Shark is foolishly oblivious to the attractions of diving. She is all fish this and fish that.
I say be quiet about the fish now, I need to see if I can perfect my chat up routine on the men at the dive school. I am a woman aged 51 with not much time left.
It is a sport full of attractive men who strip down to their waists, show their chests, and stride about, dripping in slinky black wet suits.
I completely endorse her choice. I will support her all the way, drive her wherever she wants to go, and be by her side in all conditions, especially the tropical ones where they don't bother with the wet suits at all but just the trunks and I bet they are tiny.
Dig says most male divers are probably gay. I say I overheard the demi-god with the chest comment only this morning on his diving life, and his exact words were 'I chill out at the beach everyday and watch girls'. That doesn't sound like gay man talk to me, Dig.
Then he says he suspects they are closet gay.
Nonsense. It would show somewhere, like pink wetsuits and disco music and underwater whistles. I see none of that. Just a lot of lovely men striding about semi naked and wet.
It's a sport I'm going to get into, you can be sure about that.
Shark is foolishly oblivious to the attractions of diving. She is all fish this and fish that.
I say be quiet about the fish now, I need to see if I can perfect my chat up routine on the men at the dive school. I am a woman aged 51 with not much time left.
Sunday, 4 December 2011
The start of another expensive new hobby
Do you girls know how many pairs of shoes I could have bought? Do you?
Friday, 2 September 2011
Girls are usually so placid
We rediscover last year's ways of living in Hong Kong, i.e. a four-hour stay in the library, then a stopover at I Scream.
This is a benefit with girls. I am maternally grateful for it everyday, no matter what fresh emotional torture they dream up. I know I can never have it as bad as Mothers of Boys.
I think this because, although I have no sons, I know what it is to have a brother. They settle scores swiftly and violently and throw themselves about - and their sisters too - with no sense of danger.
I still bear the scar where Big Bro made a trolley out of a 1950s television cabinet. To test his new design, he stood his five-year old sister in the back, then gave both a shove from the top of a hill. The only means of stopping was to slam into a wall. When I saw the blood, I retaliated in the brotherly manner in which I had been raised by swinging a wooden plank at his head.
But most girls I know (except Alex) shy away from this oblivious-to-danger point, like home-made bungee ropes cut from mother's bra elastic. I believe girls would, sooner or later, pause to reflect on the consequences of the plan to suspend the rope from an upstairs bedroom window and get their little brother to jump out first.
Of course, if you home educate, you can draw out this tendency of girls and engage them in quieter activities for hours. Angry impulses and violent frustrations you can help them control, and lead them towards calm rationality, gentle expression, and thoughtful discussion.
Indeed, I have known four-year old home educated girls who think an afternoon's discussion about emotional relationships while bent over the Hama beading is the most rewarding and delightful activity. Possibly after knitting, or drawing careful pictures of the teapot. (If you do not know what Hama beading is, congratulations. Please do not depress yourself by finding out.)
Well, I guess I have encouraged similar. The quiet occupation of reading. My daughters 1,2,3, all late readers, were not really that capable or interested until the age of eight or so, but they now choose to sit for hours with books, often written for readers well above their age. As they read, they like to be surrounded by books too, so libraries are places of quiet intellectual inquiry and stimulation.
So it's a gentle day, driven by girl interests.
Tiger has flown into Hong Kong with some determination to compose life as she likes it, such as four-hour library visits, followed by the best gelato. Shark is happy, because she finds the fun-with-fish section augmented, and Squirrel is coming to terms with growing up.
I am coming to terms with Squirrel growing up as well. As of yesterday, thanks to her new mastery of excoriating sarcasm, she is on a different pocket-money rota. Each day I give her seven dollars if she can make it through to bedtime without me wanting to punch her in the face.
A library visit and a rewarding gelato suit us all.
This is a benefit with girls. I am maternally grateful for it everyday, no matter what fresh emotional torture they dream up. I know I can never have it as bad as Mothers of Boys.
I think this because, although I have no sons, I know what it is to have a brother. They settle scores swiftly and violently and throw themselves about - and their sisters too - with no sense of danger.
I still bear the scar where Big Bro made a trolley out of a 1950s television cabinet. To test his new design, he stood his five-year old sister in the back, then gave both a shove from the top of a hill. The only means of stopping was to slam into a wall. When I saw the blood, I retaliated in the brotherly manner in which I had been raised by swinging a wooden plank at his head.
But most girls I know (except Alex) shy away from this oblivious-to-danger point, like home-made bungee ropes cut from mother's bra elastic. I believe girls would, sooner or later, pause to reflect on the consequences of the plan to suspend the rope from an upstairs bedroom window and get their little brother to jump out first.
Of course, if you home educate, you can draw out this tendency of girls and engage them in quieter activities for hours. Angry impulses and violent frustrations you can help them control, and lead them towards calm rationality, gentle expression, and thoughtful discussion.
Indeed, I have known four-year old home educated girls who think an afternoon's discussion about emotional relationships while bent over the Hama beading is the most rewarding and delightful activity. Possibly after knitting, or drawing careful pictures of the teapot. (If you do not know what Hama beading is, congratulations. Please do not depress yourself by finding out.)
Well, I guess I have encouraged similar. The quiet occupation of reading. My daughters 1,2,3, all late readers, were not really that capable or interested until the age of eight or so, but they now choose to sit for hours with books, often written for readers well above their age. As they read, they like to be surrounded by books too, so libraries are places of quiet intellectual inquiry and stimulation.
So it's a gentle day, driven by girl interests.
Tiger has flown into Hong Kong with some determination to compose life as she likes it, such as four-hour library visits, followed by the best gelato. Shark is happy, because she finds the fun-with-fish section augmented, and Squirrel is coming to terms with growing up.
I am coming to terms with Squirrel growing up as well. As of yesterday, thanks to her new mastery of excoriating sarcasm, she is on a different pocket-money rota. Each day I give her seven dollars if she can make it through to bedtime without me wanting to punch her in the face.
A library visit and a rewarding gelato suit us all.
Thursday, 4 August 2011
More horse related woe
Here it is. The daughter thief. Snatching fresh victims! Whinnying with mockery to trample on my pain. What torture this is to me. The daughter thief has won! It eats all my money, steals all my daughters, disdains my cares and leaves hoof prints on my soul.
You, you dreaded horse - how I resent your charms and secret powers - you have now stolen away not one of my daughters but two of my cherished daughters! Can the pain end here!
Tiger, her heart was stolen so long ago. I, foolish parent, in a moment of weakness, hoisted the four-year old girl children over the saddle edge 'to get a better view'.
Oh stupid, unwise folly filled parent! I had no better view of the future! I did not forsee that horse will seize this moment, capture the youthful spirit and never return her to my mortal concerns! From then on, it has been, on Tiger's lips, all horsehorsehorse!
Tiger, I have wrestled with my heart. I have had no choice but to watch you slip to worldofhorse. There is no guard I can raise against it.
But Squirrel! Noooooo! One week living with the stables, while mama vainly seeks to justify this on the basis of some educational mishmashery nonsense, now she is taken too!
It is all woe to me now. WOEOWOWOWOEOEOEOW.
These, to my eyes, now become instruments of torture...
And this, the power I have left to resist.
Oh fishies, be friends to me! I have but one daughter left! Do not let my fin-turned daughter Shark be lured from your watery grip!
Thursday, 16 June 2011
You are right. This is a Bad Idea
My line on pets has stayed constant for years. No.
No pets. NO PETS.
Except.
Shark says she wants something to love. She says she tried loving a fuchsia plant but it was not very rewarding and it died.
I said that was too much love. Fuchsia plants do not like watering as if you are reenacting tropical storms over Hong Kong. Back off a little with the love.
Anyway, everyone knows that fuchsias are fickle. It probably would shrug its leaves and say love is a thing, as any spirit, free. That is a truth of life. I don't know. Go and love a geranium.
Shark says she has tried, but the problem with vegetation is that it does not have a heart. Can she have a fish.
No, of course not. Keeping anything with a heart in a tank, cage, hutch, prison, is against my principles. You would overlove it, then neglect it, and we would have a big shout about responsibility, CRUELTY, SUFFERING and DEATH. Better to avoid all that in the first place and love all things, free.
Shark has said this is truly hard to bear, especially when she would like the opportunity to be responsible and show how sensitive she can be to the needs of creatures with a heart.
I have put my fingers in my ears. Arguments that shift the moral ground back to me are usually quite difficult to endure. Better to avoid them all in the first place.
So the way I have thought about it, is this. (Shifty.)
Hello Sam, and all you lovely home educating families within a short drive of Shark, Squirrel and Tiger!
I bet your children would like the opportunity to love a pet and show you how responsible they can be!
But we all know that keeping a pet is a big responsibility! (Too big for me.) Yet I would like Shark and her sisters to know this responsibility too. (There have been tears.)
How would a travelling hamster sound? He would be like a Flat Stanley (only hopefully Not Flat).
Hammy would live with us while we are in England, where he would be overloved with juicy treats, home-made hamster assault courses, and where I will safeguard him against reenactments of tropical rainstorms.
When we are absent, Hammy comes to live with you!
Sounding good, no? (Stay with it.)
When you feel Hammy has brought enough qualities of pet responsibility to your home and is in danger of overstaying his welcome, you can assist the next welcoming family and pass him on!
(Good grief, it is sounding really bad now.)
Just think what benefits Hammy can bring to your education! He could have his own blogspot! Your child can write his entries for him! (Aha! Excuses for literacy! I might have a foot in the door here.)
Think of the Design and Technology opportunities for those Hammy exercise courses! You can do Physics! Science! Natural History! The Personal, Social and Something Else! (Even I can feel the desperation in those exclamation marks.)
But take a moment and consider this exciting opportunity! Then only tell me how much of a brilliant solution to satisfy everyone is this!
(Quickly, before I come to my senses, the deed is done and, in anticipation of your happy agreement, posting pictures of Hammy, the NOPET hamster.)
No pets. NO PETS.
NONONONOPETS.
Except.
Shark says she wants something to love. She says she tried loving a fuchsia plant but it was not very rewarding and it died.
I said that was too much love. Fuchsia plants do not like watering as if you are reenacting tropical storms over Hong Kong. Back off a little with the love.
Anyway, everyone knows that fuchsias are fickle. It probably would shrug its leaves and say love is a thing, as any spirit, free. That is a truth of life. I don't know. Go and love a geranium.
Shark says she has tried, but the problem with vegetation is that it does not have a heart. Can she have a fish.
No, of course not. Keeping anything with a heart in a tank, cage, hutch, prison, is against my principles. You would overlove it, then neglect it, and we would have a big shout about responsibility, CRUELTY, SUFFERING and DEATH. Better to avoid all that in the first place and love all things, free.
Shark has said this is truly hard to bear, especially when she would like the opportunity to be responsible and show how sensitive she can be to the needs of creatures with a heart.
I have put my fingers in my ears. Arguments that shift the moral ground back to me are usually quite difficult to endure. Better to avoid them all in the first place.
So the way I have thought about it, is this. (Shifty.)
Hello Sam, and all you lovely home educating families within a short drive of Shark, Squirrel and Tiger!
I bet your children would like the opportunity to love a pet and show you how responsible they can be!
But we all know that keeping a pet is a big responsibility! (Too big for me.) Yet I would like Shark and her sisters to know this responsibility too. (There have been tears.)
How would a travelling hamster sound? He would be like a Flat Stanley (only hopefully Not Flat).
Hammy would live with us while we are in England, where he would be overloved with juicy treats, home-made hamster assault courses, and where I will safeguard him against reenactments of tropical rainstorms.
When we are absent, Hammy comes to live with you!
Sounding good, no? (Stay with it.)
When you feel Hammy has brought enough qualities of pet responsibility to your home and is in danger of overstaying his welcome, you can assist the next welcoming family and pass him on!
(Good grief, it is sounding really bad now.)
Just think what benefits Hammy can bring to your education! He could have his own blogspot! Your child can write his entries for him! (Aha! Excuses for literacy! I might have a foot in the door here.)
Think of the Design and Technology opportunities for those Hammy exercise courses! You can do Physics! Science! Natural History! The Personal, Social and Something Else! (Even I can feel the desperation in those exclamation marks.)
But take a moment and consider this exciting opportunity! Then only tell me how much of a brilliant solution to satisfy everyone is this!
(Quickly, before I come to my senses, the deed is done and, in anticipation of your happy agreement, posting pictures of Hammy, the NOPET hamster.)
Thursday, 7 April 2011
Cupboard clearance
I am discovered, sat on the floor, turning out my third cupboard. Hacked about toilet rolls, red ribbon tied round scrap paper, uncompleted copies of a unicorn newspaper, half-made dinosaurs, and endless pieces of crudely cut foam - wings, tails, heads, bodies, beaks.
The children assemble the home-made birds and fly them from the roof. When the foam birds fly, they land in the trees and won't come out. The children tie lengths of string to their tails, so they can be tugged back from their hiding places. Their wings wriggle loose and their beaks drop off but the tail comes home, the dismembered body dangling.
I've been quietly shovelling the worst of the stuff into sacks. With each filled sack, I've been slipping quietly to the bins, trying not to let the door click and disturb the distant play. I want to clear away without a trace, to leave the house empty, as clean and as empty as it can be. But the children's stuff, it's everywhere. Under beds, in boxes, in drawers, in cupboards. I can't take it all home; I can't leave it. Secretly, I want not to be defined here, no records, no mementos, no treasured items loving placed to wait for our return.
Shark spoils my secret clearance by coming in on me looking for sewing needles or string or paper or toilet rolls to cut up and stuff in cupboards. She glowers at me and says in an even tone, 'What are you doing?'
Gripping my sack to stop it bursting open and spilling its illegal contents all over the floor, I mutter the same things: insects make homes in old stuff and there might be a typhoon and daddy will fall over and break his leg and the landlord will come round and mend the window and you can fill the cupboard up again.
Shark stares at me. She has thought, long and hard about all this. Insects are interesting and typhoons are exciting and daddy has another leg and the landlord can come round anytime he wants. England, by contrast, has all sorts of restrictions on her liberties. There is no beach, no banana trees, no village with a Cake Lady, and no waterside restaurant selling lemon ice tea. In England there are roads and cars and people like parents telling you the hours you can come and go while trying to menace you with strangers called Truancy Patrol. But here there is freedom and island paths and a new friend called Louise and the sea. There is the sea.
Frowning, Shark goes to the sack, peers inside and pulls out every paper she can see, drawn with Tiger's horse. 'You're not taking the horses to the bin' she says. She extracts Squirrel's copied out fairy poems, her maps of the island - one fistful of hundreds that she's made - then she slaps them all back in the cupboard, and stands over me with her hands on her hips, as if to say, 'Make one move in that direction and there'll be trouble.'
Tiger looks at her in disgust and says 'You can take it all to the bin for all I care'. Squirrel slips away from the tidying scene, her arms filled with treasures she's swept up from her favourite corner.
I don't say anything. I resolve silently to wait until Shark is in bed and fast asleep. Then I will drink half a bottle of wine and get out my sacks again.
She rummages around in front of me, picking out stuff, until the plastic is flat on the floor and the cupboard is full. She wags her finger at me and in her no-nonsense voice says, 'And I want the foam birds. I want the swallow, and the starling, and when you find the pigeon you can put that back in the cupboard too.'
The children assemble the home-made birds and fly them from the roof. When the foam birds fly, they land in the trees and won't come out. The children tie lengths of string to their tails, so they can be tugged back from their hiding places. Their wings wriggle loose and their beaks drop off but the tail comes home, the dismembered body dangling.
I've been quietly shovelling the worst of the stuff into sacks. With each filled sack, I've been slipping quietly to the bins, trying not to let the door click and disturb the distant play. I want to clear away without a trace, to leave the house empty, as clean and as empty as it can be. But the children's stuff, it's everywhere. Under beds, in boxes, in drawers, in cupboards. I can't take it all home; I can't leave it. Secretly, I want not to be defined here, no records, no mementos, no treasured items loving placed to wait for our return.
Shark spoils my secret clearance by coming in on me looking for sewing needles or string or paper or toilet rolls to cut up and stuff in cupboards. She glowers at me and says in an even tone, 'What are you doing?'
Gripping my sack to stop it bursting open and spilling its illegal contents all over the floor, I mutter the same things: insects make homes in old stuff and there might be a typhoon and daddy will fall over and break his leg and the landlord will come round and mend the window and you can fill the cupboard up again.
Shark stares at me. She has thought, long and hard about all this. Insects are interesting and typhoons are exciting and daddy has another leg and the landlord can come round anytime he wants. England, by contrast, has all sorts of restrictions on her liberties. There is no beach, no banana trees, no village with a Cake Lady, and no waterside restaurant selling lemon ice tea. In England there are roads and cars and people like parents telling you the hours you can come and go while trying to menace you with strangers called Truancy Patrol. But here there is freedom and island paths and a new friend called Louise and the sea. There is the sea.
Frowning, Shark goes to the sack, peers inside and pulls out every paper she can see, drawn with Tiger's horse. 'You're not taking the horses to the bin' she says. She extracts Squirrel's copied out fairy poems, her maps of the island - one fistful of hundreds that she's made - then she slaps them all back in the cupboard, and stands over me with her hands on her hips, as if to say, 'Make one move in that direction and there'll be trouble.'
Tiger looks at her in disgust and says 'You can take it all to the bin for all I care'. Squirrel slips away from the tidying scene, her arms filled with treasures she's swept up from her favourite corner.
I don't say anything. I resolve silently to wait until Shark is in bed and fast asleep. Then I will drink half a bottle of wine and get out my sacks again.
She rummages around in front of me, picking out stuff, until the plastic is flat on the floor and the cupboard is full. She wags her finger at me and in her no-nonsense voice says, 'And I want the foam birds. I want the swallow, and the starling, and when you find the pigeon you can put that back in the cupboard too.'
Wednesday, 23 February 2011
Two out of five is pretty good
Remember this, Grit, for next time. You have a dangerous, hypersensitive, volatile child. One who is terrified of all hazards involving fire, water, falling rocks, darkness, tunnels, smoke, lifts in shopping centres, crowds, dog licks, and now (as of yesterday), swallowing and breathing.
So that was a good idea. Who had that one? The one which starts, Let's take all the children into Power Plant!
Power Plant is an artsy, electronic controlled garden which comes alive after dark. One that's lit by fire. Yes, let's take the hypersensitive alien being and walk her through the blinded shape-shifting crowds, blundering their way like the lost souls of oblivion groping their way towards death. Then, as we feel our way between vibrations, bells, alarms, crackling lightening and sublimating dry ice, I can remind everyone how thrilling a sensory garden can be!
Come on Tiger, you liked it before. When the local arts studio did their own version with a giant eyeball. Surely if you liked it then, you'll like it now, no?
No. Apparently, that was in England. This is Hong Kong. In England you could run around in front of the giant eyeball. This is Hong Kong, and is all so obviously different, you are just pretending not to know that, you horrible mother who wishes now only to torture and cause pain.
Well this is an experience reducing to Misconceived Idea in the Pursuit of a Creative Education Number 4,892. Subsections: Education, Dark, Blind Terror.
But it works for two out of five of us, so I'm calling it a success. Never let it be said I'm not an optimist. Shark (academic, articulate, fishy, born in 1842) declares the whole experience wonderful, and pauses to write elegant poems about fire, possibly with a quill pen.
Squirrel (Fairyology expert, student of small things, not yet born) says electric nature is beautiful and nearly as nice as the hairy bits on the back of fairy's neck. (The bits which catch the light, stupid. They don't get those until they are way past their first changeling celebration. Duh. Doesn't everyone know that.)
That's the two from the five. Huzzah! Success!
Tiger (still attempting to recover from Hazard Alley 2007 when the safety officers pretended to set the building on fire) rips my hand off and squeals Let's get out of here until I feel maybe I am locked for eternity inside a bad American movie where cowboys and cops and spies will soon be bursting through saloon bars shouting Let's get out of here just a few more times.
Dig's not included in the count, obviously. He's staring at a wet floor in England and I gave his ticket back to the organisers.
I don't include myself either, thanks to the amputated hand and the misery of my slaughtered guts, plus the pain I feel that my exciting and creative education seems to have bypassed daughter three yet one more time.
Since I have nothing to lose, I may as well add the humiliation of the evening, the one about to repeated at the end of the visit in reverse, and that is to find the place where Power Plant is hosted - Kowloon Walled City Park - I had to take a taxi from the underground station.
Kowloon Walled City Park is actually located round the corner from the underground station. Google suggests it is a 12-minute walk. It may be, but I couldn't navigate my way out the shopping centre. Fortunately, the shopping centre does seem to have a taxi rank running right through it.
So here it is, Power Plant. Ta Dah!
By the way, if you come here for the photographs, you're going to be disappointed. But remember that circumstances are very trying right now. Plus I have a four-year old phone camera and only one hand.
So that was a good idea. Who had that one? The one which starts, Let's take all the children into Power Plant!
Power Plant is an artsy, electronic controlled garden which comes alive after dark. One that's lit by fire. Yes, let's take the hypersensitive alien being and walk her through the blinded shape-shifting crowds, blundering their way like the lost souls of oblivion groping their way towards death. Then, as we feel our way between vibrations, bells, alarms, crackling lightening and sublimating dry ice, I can remind everyone how thrilling a sensory garden can be!
Come on Tiger, you liked it before. When the local arts studio did their own version with a giant eyeball. Surely if you liked it then, you'll like it now, no?
No. Apparently, that was in England. This is Hong Kong. In England you could run around in front of the giant eyeball. This is Hong Kong, and is all so obviously different, you are just pretending not to know that, you horrible mother who wishes now only to torture and cause pain.
Well this is an experience reducing to Misconceived Idea in the Pursuit of a Creative Education Number 4,892. Subsections: Education, Dark, Blind Terror.
But it works for two out of five of us, so I'm calling it a success. Never let it be said I'm not an optimist. Shark (academic, articulate, fishy, born in 1842) declares the whole experience wonderful, and pauses to write elegant poems about fire, possibly with a quill pen.
Squirrel (Fairyology expert, student of small things, not yet born) says electric nature is beautiful and nearly as nice as the hairy bits on the back of fairy's neck. (The bits which catch the light, stupid. They don't get those until they are way past their first changeling celebration. Duh. Doesn't everyone know that.)
That's the two from the five. Huzzah! Success!
Tiger (still attempting to recover from Hazard Alley 2007 when the safety officers pretended to set the building on fire) rips my hand off and squeals Let's get out of here until I feel maybe I am locked for eternity inside a bad American movie where cowboys and cops and spies will soon be bursting through saloon bars shouting Let's get out of here just a few more times.
Dig's not included in the count, obviously. He's staring at a wet floor in England and I gave his ticket back to the organisers.
I don't include myself either, thanks to the amputated hand and the misery of my slaughtered guts, plus the pain I feel that my exciting and creative education seems to have bypassed daughter three yet one more time.
Since I have nothing to lose, I may as well add the humiliation of the evening, the one about to repeated at the end of the visit in reverse, and that is to find the place where Power Plant is hosted - Kowloon Walled City Park - I had to take a taxi from the underground station.
Kowloon Walled City Park is actually located round the corner from the underground station. Google suggests it is a 12-minute walk. It may be, but I couldn't navigate my way out the shopping centre. Fortunately, the shopping centre does seem to have a taxi rank running right through it.
So here it is, Power Plant. Ta Dah!
By the way, if you come here for the photographs, you're going to be disappointed. But remember that circumstances are very trying right now. Plus I have a four-year old phone camera and only one hand.
Friday, 11 February 2011
The next generation won't go quietly
I'm not going to say, 'Those dolphins? They don't stand a chance'. That would sound like a world-weary oldster just giving in. I know that's exactly what some folks would like us all to do.
Shark's younger, and she's made of sterner stuff. Her message is clear. She says, Hong Kong, stop polluting the water.
I've lived with her for ten years. I know what a loud noise she can make. I've come to the quiet conclusion, it's probably better to do as she says.
Thursday, 6 January 2011
Democratic decision making
It's decided. By 3 votes to 2. Aunty Dee will occupy Shark's room. Shark is to triple up with her sisters.
Surprisingly, Shark's is the deciding vote on room management. But it means she gets the new spare bed.
We have a choice on the spare bed. A chair that folds out to a mattress that folds back into a chair. Or a folding bed with wheels. Shark says the wheelie bed looks like a fun place to sleep. She points out that it is available in many colours, and discounts my argument that it looks like Ikea stole it from a hospital ward.
She loses. Four votes in favour of the fold out chair mattress. One vote for the wheelie bed.
The fold out chair mattress is only available in pink or yellow. As the arguments for and against are delivered, Squirrel throws her weight around, literally, on her routine destruction test.
Pink wins the vote, 4 to 1.
Tiger's decisive argument is that it will be the most amusing thing ever to see Shark sleep on a girly pink bed (and preferably one with a pink fairy duvet cover).
We console the scowling Shark and suggest on the journey home she can consider the opinion that democracy never seems to serve the interests of minority groups.
Surprisingly, Shark's is the deciding vote on room management. But it means she gets the new spare bed.
We have a choice on the spare bed. A chair that folds out to a mattress that folds back into a chair. Or a folding bed with wheels. Shark says the wheelie bed looks like a fun place to sleep. She points out that it is available in many colours, and discounts my argument that it looks like Ikea stole it from a hospital ward.
She loses. Four votes in favour of the fold out chair mattress. One vote for the wheelie bed.
The fold out chair mattress is only available in pink or yellow. As the arguments for and against are delivered, Squirrel throws her weight around, literally, on her routine destruction test.
Pink wins the vote, 4 to 1.
Tiger's decisive argument is that it will be the most amusing thing ever to see Shark sleep on a girly pink bed (and preferably one with a pink fairy duvet cover).
We console the scowling Shark and suggest on the journey home she can consider the opinion that democracy never seems to serve the interests of minority groups.
Tuesday, 14 December 2010
Cheer for the origami Christmas
Shark sits for many hours with origami. To me it's a peculiar hobby to enjoy, but hey, I tell myself it's not masterminding criminal enterprise, or dog fighting, or online gambling, or any other pointless and disagreeable activity she could fill her days with. Folding paper into strange shapes and declaring it a cricket seems as innocuous as you can get.
There's a simplicity about origami, too, isn't there? It doesn't need batteries, doesn't make noisy boom-boom-boom sounds and doesn't demand an entire month's salary to feed it. Yet you can still amuse yourself on long bus journeys, and without driving your neighbour into madness or despair. In fact, I'm now claiming that origami is social. Shark can twist your till receipt into a flying crane to amuse you, then she can provide you with a miniature lemur to slip into your pocket to take home.
Anyway, I bet she will drop origami one day, then I will feel nostalgic about it, so I'm holding on to the enjoyment of watching her now. In a few years some awful and adored teenager will sneer that it's a strange thing for a girl to spend time on, or claim is any accomplishment at all. Overnight the origami will vanish and I will be picking up yellow hair extensions from the floor, instead of the yellow folded paper some one tells me is called Derek the dinosaur.
Well, the origami kept Shark occupied today. She's obviously looking forward to the journey home for Christmas, because in anticipation she's sat several silent hours, recreating her own festive front room, complete with decorated tree, presents, mantelpiece, candles and three Santa socks. We all look at it in wonder, I declare it brilliant, and suggest she photographs it.
Yes, she's probably a better origamist than photographer. Or maybe she has the angle of that tree perfect because we never screw it in the bucket properly. And we do stick a floor mop in it, so that bit is true too.
But I remain quietly impressed by her lovely, unbowed nerdy streak. And the hours she can take so simply and gently, without rush or pressure to spoil her time.
Tuesday, 21 September 2010
I invent fish maths
This is a problem with home education. There's always a subject or an area you're bloody rubbish at talking about.
In Grit's case, it's maths. Now I can work out ten per cent off the price of a decent-sized handbag, simultaneously sustaining in my brain the knowledge that it's fifty per cent overpriced and that there is a finite limit to my bank account. Yet I will still come out with the answer that it's a bargain.
Some people say that is enough. This is real-life maths, suitable for a real-life world. And a child starts showing inclination and disposition in this real world soon enough. If they are going to be sharp with maths, it'll show, you'll know. They lead the way. You know how to help.
Similarly, if they are determined to become an illustrator, then there is little point forcing them through two hundred and seventy-two school hours of algebra hoops. You can make the kid jump if you poke enough pointed sticks behind them, but the numbers won't travel along.
These examples really support an education that is responsive, child-centred, easy going. One which doesn't set up kids for failures but which matches their inclinations and needs.
Of course you have to know each child. And if you are determined to introduce higher level maths even with your illustrator, you could. Theoretically, I could do the algebra in a way relevant to illustrative techniques and printing requirements. Then it will stick in their brain like cement mortar to brick. I could do that, if I knew any algebra.
But this is my point. There is always that area for which your child needs your help, but which you are crap at. They may have started to help themselves, looked at it, burst into tears, and looked to you for explanation.
For example. Shark says she would like to study marine biology. I have put her in front of a lot of fish over many years. Recently, she has become aware of a need for maths to sit a degree course. I guess there is a little maths to be done there, what with the waves and all. You see I'm already at my limits.
And this is where I feel my great weakness. I am simply crap at maths. I start off with good intentions, which is bad enough. But then it all gets worse. This is how it goes.
'Well, Shark. I'm sure I can help you understand decimals. Um. Here is the number ten. You can divide it up! Into bits and then bits of bits, like points. Um. Um. OK, let's think of this number as a big fish. And we are dividing it up into bits and points. Um. OK, here is a fin. It's a green fin, and the fish has ten green fins all over. I'm chopping off one of the fins. Yes, maybe I'm a predator, and I eat green fins from this fish. Now I'm pulling off some more fins. There. I've collected all these fins. And that makes point six. I think. Anyway. Let's say it does. Get it? Oh. Go and ask daddy.'
A simple answer would be convenient, but I know life doesn't work like that. So I shall continue to stick her in front of more maths websites, keep drawing pictures of pointed fish that look like something from a weapons establishment, take her to more lectures by Marcus du Sautoy, buy in the services of a maths teacher, invent fish maths fun, print off two thousand worksheets, confess my ignorance, and hope basically that she just gets on with it. That one day it all clicks into place without me making it worse.
But if someone would like to tell me right now that a fishy-related degree is really all about patting rays in feeding tanks, you can be sure I'll let her know, and I'll heave a big sigh of mathematical relief.
In Grit's case, it's maths. Now I can work out ten per cent off the price of a decent-sized handbag, simultaneously sustaining in my brain the knowledge that it's fifty per cent overpriced and that there is a finite limit to my bank account. Yet I will still come out with the answer that it's a bargain.
Some people say that is enough. This is real-life maths, suitable for a real-life world. And a child starts showing inclination and disposition in this real world soon enough. If they are going to be sharp with maths, it'll show, you'll know. They lead the way. You know how to help.
Similarly, if they are determined to become an illustrator, then there is little point forcing them through two hundred and seventy-two school hours of algebra hoops. You can make the kid jump if you poke enough pointed sticks behind them, but the numbers won't travel along.
These examples really support an education that is responsive, child-centred, easy going. One which doesn't set up kids for failures but which matches their inclinations and needs.
Of course you have to know each child. And if you are determined to introduce higher level maths even with your illustrator, you could. Theoretically, I could do the algebra in a way relevant to illustrative techniques and printing requirements. Then it will stick in their brain like cement mortar to brick. I could do that, if I knew any algebra.
But this is my point. There is always that area for which your child needs your help, but which you are crap at. They may have started to help themselves, looked at it, burst into tears, and looked to you for explanation.
For example. Shark says she would like to study marine biology. I have put her in front of a lot of fish over many years. Recently, she has become aware of a need for maths to sit a degree course. I guess there is a little maths to be done there, what with the waves and all. You see I'm already at my limits.
And this is where I feel my great weakness. I am simply crap at maths. I start off with good intentions, which is bad enough. But then it all gets worse. This is how it goes.
'Well, Shark. I'm sure I can help you understand decimals. Um. Here is the number ten. You can divide it up! Into bits and then bits of bits, like points. Um. Um. OK, let's think of this number as a big fish. And we are dividing it up into bits and points. Um. OK, here is a fin. It's a green fin, and the fish has ten green fins all over. I'm chopping off one of the fins. Yes, maybe I'm a predator, and I eat green fins from this fish. Now I'm pulling off some more fins. There. I've collected all these fins. And that makes point six. I think. Anyway. Let's say it does. Get it? Oh. Go and ask daddy.'
A simple answer would be convenient, but I know life doesn't work like that. So I shall continue to stick her in front of more maths websites, keep drawing pictures of pointed fish that look like something from a weapons establishment, take her to more lectures by Marcus du Sautoy, buy in the services of a maths teacher, invent fish maths fun, print off two thousand worksheets, confess my ignorance, and hope basically that she just gets on with it. That one day it all clicks into place without me making it worse.
But if someone would like to tell me right now that a fishy-related degree is really all about patting rays in feeding tanks, you can be sure I'll let her know, and I'll heave a big sigh of mathematical relief.
Saturday, 20 March 2010
Shut up. You're going.
After breakfast I walk the kids over to the University of Southampton.
I don't make them start from Buckinghamshire, obviously, as the distance to cover is maybe a hundred miles. Shark cannot walk that far before lunch. I did think about it, because of the cost of petrol. But no. I am indulgent. We stay overnight at the Premier Inn.
(I may write about the Premier Inn later, because I love them, and I wonder if I can do a deal where I get free vegetarian sausages for the rest of my life?)
Anyway, we have come to the University of Southampton because it's the Ocean and Earth Day. Don't say you didn't know!
I have an obvious reason to come here, at the dropping-off point of England. I gave birth to a long-haired fish fan. It's that simple. There is no option but to bring her. Soon I may receive an invite from the local library near Nether Wallop saying Hey Grit! We have a new book in the library on the black tip reef shark! Do you want to bring Shark over to praise it? And I will think about this invite for one second before replying We'll be right there! We will stay in the Premier Inn overnight and eat their delicious mouth watering vegetarian sausages for breakfast!
But I have to bring Squirrel and Tiger too. I believe Social Services might have something to say about my other idea of locking them in the house for three days with a can opener and a selection of baked beans.
Well I pay for the decision one way or another. Squirrel and Tiger have been sulking that they are forced to come and they never have anything they want and Shark has everything and we have to tour the entire universe worshipping swim bladders and that is so unfair because horses have tails and there are black holes and why can't we look at those instead?
SHUT UP. YOU'RE GOING seems to be the only answer to complaints of that sort, which I hope you do with your offspring too. Reminding kids of the time we drove 150 miles to the planetarium, or the month we put up five hundred quid to sit on a horse on the Isle of Wight - that is all totally pointless. Kids only ever remember the grudge. That time you forced them to wear clothes when they didn't want to? Outside, in the rain? You unreasonable parent!
So here we are at the Ocean and Earth Day, and Shark pushes off to do her own thing because frankly the family is embarrassing. OK, on that she is right. You should see us. And I have hair! On my head!
Somehow the rest of us end up in the geology department. Tiger spends a long time, and I mean a long time, staring transfixed at the earthquake machine. So long in fact that the guy there might start to feel it is a bit creepy and weird, having a little kid in a fluffy coat totally blown away with his construction.
But let me first say Tiger is right to be hypnotised because it was a fantastic earthquake machine. It is the sort of earthquake machine that makes me proud to be British. Two bricks joined together by an elastic connector. The sort of stretchy connector you use to keep the boot of your car held down, so you aren't stopped by the police when you drive your old wardrobe to the dump.
But I know something that the guy explaining the tension and balance of the earthquake machine doesn't know. That Tiger will be building one of these the minute she arrives home. She has been experimenting trying to make unicorns fly for something like four years and I know for sure she is staring at that contraption and thinking balance and tension and forces and SPRING and CATAPULT and LANDING. So that is a horse-shape mythical being and Newtonian forces covered all at once, thank you very much.
Then I turn round and there is Squirrel. Now Squirrel does not move for two hours, except maybe to shuffle along the benches a little. Squirrel is copying down every bit of written information she possibly can about rocks. And fossils. And more rocks. And rocks.
Hello Squirrel! What are you doing?
I must write this down!
Do you want to come over to engineering and pilot a submarine?
No! I must write this down!
And that's what she did. Till the end of the day. All the pages of information that Squirrel did not manage to write down before the security staff made us leave the building on threat of prosecution I had to photograph to write out at home.
But I do not mind. Really. Because I turn to Squirrel and say, Squirrel, why do you need to write it all out? And she shouts in total urgency, like she might explode internally with the pressure of it, Because I want to be a geologist!
And that is possibly one very proud parent moment. Because now I know I was right to drag her over the Chilterns four years ago to listen to the geology group leader for two hours explain about lower, middle and upper chalk, while she complained that her feet hurt and all the time in the rain I forced her to wear a coat.
I don't make them start from Buckinghamshire, obviously, as the distance to cover is maybe a hundred miles. Shark cannot walk that far before lunch. I did think about it, because of the cost of petrol. But no. I am indulgent. We stay overnight at the Premier Inn.
(I may write about the Premier Inn later, because I love them, and I wonder if I can do a deal where I get free vegetarian sausages for the rest of my life?)
Anyway, we have come to the University of Southampton because it's the Ocean and Earth Day. Don't say you didn't know!
I have an obvious reason to come here, at the dropping-off point of England. I gave birth to a long-haired fish fan. It's that simple. There is no option but to bring her. Soon I may receive an invite from the local library near Nether Wallop saying Hey Grit! We have a new book in the library on the black tip reef shark! Do you want to bring Shark over to praise it? And I will think about this invite for one second before replying We'll be right there! We will stay in the Premier Inn overnight and eat their delicious mouth watering vegetarian sausages for breakfast!
But I have to bring Squirrel and Tiger too. I believe Social Services might have something to say about my other idea of locking them in the house for three days with a can opener and a selection of baked beans.
Well I pay for the decision one way or another. Squirrel and Tiger have been sulking that they are forced to come and they never have anything they want and Shark has everything and we have to tour the entire universe worshipping swim bladders and that is so unfair because horses have tails and there are black holes and why can't we look at those instead?
SHUT UP. YOU'RE GOING seems to be the only answer to complaints of that sort, which I hope you do with your offspring too. Reminding kids of the time we drove 150 miles to the planetarium, or the month we put up five hundred quid to sit on a horse on the Isle of Wight - that is all totally pointless. Kids only ever remember the grudge. That time you forced them to wear clothes when they didn't want to? Outside, in the rain? You unreasonable parent!
So here we are at the Ocean and Earth Day, and Shark pushes off to do her own thing because frankly the family is embarrassing. OK, on that she is right. You should see us. And I have hair! On my head!
Somehow the rest of us end up in the geology department. Tiger spends a long time, and I mean a long time, staring transfixed at the earthquake machine. So long in fact that the guy there might start to feel it is a bit creepy and weird, having a little kid in a fluffy coat totally blown away with his construction.
But let me first say Tiger is right to be hypnotised because it was a fantastic earthquake machine. It is the sort of earthquake machine that makes me proud to be British. Two bricks joined together by an elastic connector. The sort of stretchy connector you use to keep the boot of your car held down, so you aren't stopped by the police when you drive your old wardrobe to the dump.
But I know something that the guy explaining the tension and balance of the earthquake machine doesn't know. That Tiger will be building one of these the minute she arrives home. She has been experimenting trying to make unicorns fly for something like four years and I know for sure she is staring at that contraption and thinking balance and tension and forces and SPRING and CATAPULT and LANDING. So that is a horse-shape mythical being and Newtonian forces covered all at once, thank you very much.
Then I turn round and there is Squirrel. Now Squirrel does not move for two hours, except maybe to shuffle along the benches a little. Squirrel is copying down every bit of written information she possibly can about rocks. And fossils. And more rocks. And rocks.
Hello Squirrel! What are you doing?
I must write this down!
Do you want to come over to engineering and pilot a submarine?
No! I must write this down!
And that's what she did. Till the end of the day. All the pages of information that Squirrel did not manage to write down before the security staff made us leave the building on threat of prosecution I had to photograph to write out at home.
But I do not mind. Really. Because I turn to Squirrel and say, Squirrel, why do you need to write it all out? And she shouts in total urgency, like she might explode internally with the pressure of it, Because I want to be a geologist!
And that is possibly one very proud parent moment. Because now I know I was right to drag her over the Chilterns four years ago to listen to the geology group leader for two hours explain about lower, middle and upper chalk, while she complained that her feet hurt and all the time in the rain I forced her to wear a coat.
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