You are right. This is a Bad Idea

My line on pets has stayed constant for years. No.

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.)

Sha Tin is a long way to go for a class set of crayons

Like every other mother, I make my mistakes, resolve not to repeat them, and I move on.

In that cycle, I must of course forgive everyone else in the family for making me make those mistakes. Then I have to forgive them all again when they make me repeat the exact same mistake two days later. Then again within 24 hours. Motherhood is made of forgiving. It is what makes mothers eternal.

Take today for example. I take Shark to Sha Tin Town Hall.

That is not the mistake. Shark has eye spied a marine conservation competition advertised at the central library, and she is mad keen to find out about it. The poster probably caught her eye because it was all in English, and not in picture Cantonese. Also because it presented an enormous picture of an over joyous dolphin, showing off some flipper action with 'Get this! I can walk backwards on water!' Shark thinks that dolphins are more profound than humans.

So Shark says, 'Mummy, there is a talk at Sha Tin Town Hall. It's all about dolphins. Can we go?' And because Grit is a kind and supportive mother, motivated by her daughter's interests, she replies 'Of course!'

I copy down all the information on the poster. And really, for my daughter's marine education, it is no problem to make the hour long trek on the MRT underground system, plus platform changes, plus change to overground blue line train, plus half hour ferry, plus walk in aimless circles around the shopping malls of Central having my brain removed by air con Dior. Yes! I say. We'll go!

The day of the dolphin talk comes around, and I am resolved to go, even though I suspect it is less about dolphins and more about the work of the marine conservation group and the terms of the competition. But no matter. It is all supportive for my daughter's wider watery education. Dig strokes his beard and reminds me sagely, 'You'd better check the talk is conducted in English. Ring the telephone number and check.' He is very wise, isn't he?

Just then, as I hold the telephone in my hand, Tiger and Squirrel have the most earth-shattering ear-splitting cage fight over three centimetres of pink dolly ribbon. Knocked sideways by broken sound barrier, everything in Grit's brain falls out all over the floor, leaving a totally empty void where two seconds previously there was a telephone number and a wise purpose.

Following a big shout back and some high morality finger wagging, off I walk with Shark to set out on our long journey, leaving Dig in charge of Goneril and Regan and the contested control of three centimetres of ribbon.

And we do complete our trek. In record time. Under two hours, with only one aimless circuit of a shopping mall looking for a way out. Arriving at Sha Tin Town Hall, I think proudly, how wonderful I am! What a mother! What a selfless act! I hope Shark really does take her degree in Marine Biology and Ocean Whatnot because I deserve it.

But, just to casually check, because now I remember in the brouhaha of our exit from home, I forgot to telephone ahead - I made that mistake - I present us at the reception desk for the lecture on the marine biology conservation competition and ask, 'Hello, we saw your lovely poster, in English. Is the talk presented in English too?'

The young receptionist stares back at me, startled. 'English? English? No. Cantonese. Cantonese only. Have you come for the lecture? But here! Have some crayons! Take crayons!'

I made a mistake. It's just one more moment in my motherhood life. One more messed up moment, wasted time, pointless journey, squandered opportunity, loss of hours, fallout of argument, consequence of dolly ribbon.

But I offer my children my eternal forgiveness. And the thirty two packs of crayons, offloaded on me by the receptionist of the Cantonese only lecture. Magnanimous, my mistake admitted, my motherhood intact, my children colouring in, I move on.

With nothing to lose, here are my thighs

The left thigh I can hear sloshing about, filled as it is with bitter tears and a sluice of self-pitying misery. The right thigh is a concrete lump I may have levered off the side of the A14 heading to Ipswich.

Clearly, the only thing to be done beneath both is to entomb the flaccid dangling bits up to knee-height in cheap plastic boots the colour of a table leg (as you can see, table legs are considerably more shapely). Whatever their condition - OK then, pallid winter white, knobbly bits and cellulite - you might also see that I still keep my knees gripped together like a good grammar school girl.

Yes, all is hopeless, as usual. But it is Spring. The blackbird says so, turned mad by unfamiliar warm wind and weak English sunshine, banging its face against my window. Of course I'm taking some of the credit for that because the blackbird's not getting all the glory. The loss of birdbrain directional control was probably helped by Grit thrashing about up a ladder with the Windolene because, as I said, it is Spring. And I have been cleaning up house.

Which brings me back to the thighs. Because it is Spring I must robe the revolting puffy things that stick out of my torso - but which I admit are incredibly useful for locomotion - in something other than those once-black-now-grey jeans which you can also see in this very fine photograph.

I have thrown those black jeans out twice, putting them into the bin both times. And then I have gone and got them out again. Both times.

Once, in a Sydney apartment, last year. The same apartment where I set the fire alarm going and peeled off my face. Just as we were leaving - and a good five hours after I rolled up the black jeans and stuck them in the bin - I fled back inside again in a panic attack, wrenched the jeans out from under the coffee grinds, and stuffed them in Tiger's luggage.

Of course she screamed about that particular shocking violation, but tough. I couldn't fit them in my trolley because I was carrying 15 books and 10 CDs on the history of the British empire that I'd picked up cheap in Port Stephens. Which was why I was throwing out the jeans in the first place. And because they are ragged, pitted with holes, thin, and worn out.

I wondered whether that moment had revealed a fear of abandonment and need for security. I think it might. Or maybe it says I am just very tightfistedly mean. I should put my hand in my bank account, go to the shops, and buy a replacement pair.

I like to think neither are true, and that somewhere along the line I actually once liked wearing these jeans. I can go one better, and wonder if I even thought I looked quite good in them, in the right level of daylight dimness, peered at through squinty eyes.

I know that looking good is no longer true, mostly thanks to the elastic going and that time I suffered the temporary bowel control issue. But simply considering that one afternoon, probably several years ago, I may have thought to myself, They look nice! has made me never want to part from them, ever. These moments are rare. So rare, that it may explain a wardrobe filled with clothes that no longer fit, are 20 years out of fashion, or are held together with sticky tape. Because once, I liked them.

Perhaps I can hope that they will die on me while I am wearing them. That might be a suitable way for us both to go. But maybe I need to be brave. I will try and pluck up enough courage this time to part with them for good. To spring clean my thighs, and go to M&S to buy another pair of Per Una jeans.

Hmm. I really don't suppose, M&S, that you would care to donate a similar pair free to robe the plump and blotchy Gritty thighs? Then just for you, I may label that photograph Thighs by M&S.

And I don't look like her on the right. But you can bet I wish I did.
JGXDW62J7ZN9

Grit sells herself for a bottle of Jonnie Walker and a packet of fags

John Lewis say they'll bung 25 quid this way for tip top rules on a perfect family Christmas.

Grit's family is perfect, obviously. One member floats about Hong Kong harbour and three are tied to the radiators, so they've come to the right place.

Unfortunately, I can't think of any rules. This house mixes autonomy, anarchy, and seasonal adjustment disorder in equal measure. The line between them is razorfine, and cross it at your peril.

Quite frankly, it's easier to simply say that John Lewis is a lovely place to shop. OK? They sell lovely things like tinkly things and furry carpets and reindeer and things and more things.

But more importantly, no one who works there has ever thrown me and the gritlets out, probably fighting with themselves over that, but they never gave into that urge, which qualifies as lovely in my book.

Anyway. Christmas rules and traditions. We don't have any.

BUT THEN. I thought, Aha! We DO have rules. And special traditions!

The children must notice what they are. I'll ask them.

Squirrel: When you put up the decorations, do not make trip hazards on the stairs. People might fall down the stairs and go to hospital. Do not throw baubles. Do not climb up the Christmas tree. Do not hit your sister with bits of the Christmas tree. [You can see what issues we have here.] Do not eat all the sweets in one go. Do not electrocute yourself. Do not stab yourself in the eye. [Squirrel? You are rambling. Shut up. Your turn, Tiger.]

Tiger: Daddy must set the pudding on fire. Not his beard. The pudding.

Shark: If I had a grudge against the neighbour, could I put up an inflatable plastic reindeer now and everyday loll it over their wall by accident-on-purpose? [Advanced thinker.]

Be quiet the lot of you. I can think of sensible traditions.

1. Spend days doing craft, but not knitting with our own hair, that is right out.
We do lots of crafts. I am too mean to buy decorations. Holly up the bannisters, make home-made wreaths, dress down the house with toilet rolls and string, and create our own presents*. Except for gifts we buy at the charity shop.**

(OK, John Lewis might not like this rule, for obvious reasons. But every year I tell Shark, Squirrel and Tiger that it is time to help others, and in my book that's not a fat banker in a suit behind a desk who keeps a mistress in Newton le Willows.)

2. Do not mention the inlaws because they are all DEAD DEAD DEAD.
Now you feel guilty, don't you, John Lewis. Make it £30 and we call it quits.

3. On Christmas Eve we party at the Hat's.
Remember? Someone was sick down the back of my leg. But it's important to visit friends. Christmas is such a forgiving time. And this year don't eat all the grapes.

4. We tell the story about baby Jesus.
We may go to a special heaven for non believers who like the idea of virgins giving birth.

5. But say what? You want light entertainment?
This year ladies, we might take you to midnight mass to see all the drunks!

6. For Christmas dinner we eat baked potatoes.
With cheese and baked beans. Seriously! No-one's going to believe that. But it's true. This year I shall photograph it.

7. Christmas Day is a non-computer day.
Mummy Grit and Daddy Dig never turn on the computers. Only in secret. Next year we will all sing songs round the Victorian piano.

8. Mummy Grit mixes cheap gin at noon.
Then she has Daddy Dig see if he can squirt it into her mouth from a used shampoo bottle across the kitchen. By then she is smashed on cooking sherry and already foaming at the mouth, so it makes no difference.

9. Do not, under any circumstances, listen to the Queen's Speech.
If you so much as touch that remote control, you are DEAD. We are not quite at the republican stage in this house but we are coming pretty close. Close enough to want to see the entire lot of them living in a terrace in Manchester and see how they like it.

10. Bring about world peace from the homely fireside.
I am now insensible enough to think that spending entire days footling about with my kids, trying to extract modelling balloons from the U-bend, telling anyone who will listen that life can be imaginative and fun even though it comes with a destroyed house and a beaten spirit, all makes for a good way to raise happy children who appreciate and love their families. (Are you listening to this, Shark, Squirrel and Tiger?) And if there is one rule we have about enjoying each other's company, and not bloody well arguing all the day long, this one's it.

Now, if any reader persevered this far, know that I needed cheering up. And right now, considering the options, prostitution to John Lewis seems fair enough.

And what's with all the This is a sponsored post. What have I got to do now? Run a marathon?

P.S. Squirrel just asked What are you doing on the blog? I answer Trying to get 25 quid out of John Lewis. To which she replies Is it a bribe or a threat?

* Because we are smugbastardhomeeducating types and learning how to make a felt brooch is a way of providing an education round here.

* Because we are smugbastardhomeeducating types and giving to the local hospice shop is a way of providing an education round here.

Home educators are sexy

In their various ways the NSPCC, DCSF and Badman all allowed unchallenged the media slur that home educating families are probably child abusers, delinquents and vagabonds.

Why? Because they thought they could get away with it.

And they banked on the great British public mindlessly agreeing. After all! These home educators are freaks, outcasts and hippies on the fringes of our society. They are already on the margins. Strange. Excluded. They have shunned normal society. They are alone. Kill the hippies! Persecute the paedophiles!

But what the NSPCC, DCSF and Badman failed to see is that home educators are a cross section of all society.

Home educators are not solely drawn from fringes, gutters or swamps. No. We are like a line drawn from top to bottom of all society; there are some top nob kids home educated alongside the feral squealers who once saw a comb and thought it was a medieval torture instrument.* Hey, sometimes they are both one and the same kids.

And with them is a huge swathe of kids swirling round the mouthy middle classes, whose ex-marketing manager mums are organising piano lessons on the one hand and Latin lessons on the other; doing it all in an environment safe from knives, drugs, and Jessie of 3b who will beat you to a pulp because you're wearing pink socks.

And these people from the top to the bottom of British society are attending to their children brilliantly and - dare we whisper it - sometimes better, and with more social mobility, than school.

But the NSPCC, DCSF and Badman are rather counting on that outdated old stereotype of home educators - shoeless, covered in grime, and living in a tent.

Well you don't have to travel far round the blogs to see that stereotype is changing. Bloggers who are smart, funny, thorough, determined, and wise.

Grit, who once wrote advertorial copy for a living and thus qualifies for what she's talking about, now contributes her cunning plan to help along our image change.

First, let's look at a case study: Image change and public consciousness: Fat people.

Once, fat people were as socially unacceptable as home educators. They were the objects of disdain. They were scorned.

But then the Great British Public discovered some of those fat people were having fun. More than that, some fat people were having sex. Kinky sex! They are having MORE FUN, MORE SEX and MORE KINKY SEX than thin people! What about those Fat Admirers! Feeders and Squashers! Ladies with big thighs! Men with big bellies! Yes! Yes! We all want to be fat!

Now hasn't it changed? Fat is OK. Fat is something we won't mind a bit more of round our sexy arses. The Great British Public is getting fatter just so they can have more kinky sex and more Jammie Dodgers.

Bearing this case study in mind, we home educators should be able to effect the same kind of image change.

Here is Grit's cunning plan.

We all take on that sexy mama and papa image for ourselves, because sex sells ideas.

So come on home educators! Let's change our image! Let's sex it up!

Mamas, hunt down those fuck me shoes, the sort you hobbled home in before you had the kids! Come along Papas! Splash on the Old Spice, cultivate that manly air, and come-to-bed smirk! Let's tell the Great British Public that home education is done by sexy mama and papas who pack the kids off to Latin, change from this...


to this...


...and then break out those Jammie Dodgers.

Disclaimer: Grit reserves the right to avoid any consequence of this post. Actually, she probably regrets it already.


*Please note that on some days I include Squirrel, Shark and Tiger both in the swamp-dwelling, comb-fearing brigade and in the cultivated tribe of posh kids who dine with daddy at official functions. Which just shows how socially fluid home educators can be.

Thank you Richard Vaughan! Grit's new job is PROSTITUTE!

Hey, Richard! Writer of the article on HOME EDUCATION for the TES! Yes, you! You wrote the article published 12 June!

Richard, you might have saved us.

Since I gave up a full time job to HOME EDUCATE my children, I've become used to making decisions, like, do I buy new boots at John Lewis for £180? Or do I buy used shoes at the RSPCA charity shop for £3? Well, sometimes there's no real choice, because my kids need books, resources, outings, computer stuff and art materials. And tell me about the cost of those acrylics!

Well you obviously appreciate that home educators don't usually receive money from the state just because they've chosen a different way of education from you. Not a bit. Usually, it's a big hit on our time, commitment, energy, and pockets.

Which is why your suggestion is just tickety-boo! It could be a nice little earner, no? Don't be SHY! It was you, wasn't it Richard, who conflated the article on HOME EDUCATION with this paragraph on PROSTITUTION?

The Department for Children, Schools and Families has issued new guidance with the Home Office to safeguard children from sexual exploitation and prostitution. It revises guidelines published in 2000 in a report, Safeguarding Children involved in Prostitution. Delyth Morgan called all frontline professionals to work together to identify children at risk of sexual exploitation and take the 'best steps to keep them safe from harm'.

Of course you know that home education often means learning things together with our children. So if my child is now living in a world where HOME EDUCATION and PROSTITUTION can be dealt with as if they are pretty much one and the same thing, of course they should know about it.

Well, I'm their teacher! I'll find out first!

Now bear with me Richard, because I'm new to this game, and I may not have all the lingo just yet. I've done my advertising on the back lanes.


And I've had a little rummage in the wardrobe and come up with this. Do you think it will help?


Look a bit closer, Richard. Something might tickle your fancy.


Sorry, I don't have all the face mask stuff yet. I found these eye patch things that Dig bought back from an aeroplane.


Ohh la la, Richard!


And when we are very naughty, Richard, I could read to you about THE BATTLE OF BOSWORTH.


And then we could get down to some serious work. Again, you'll have to forgive me. It's just what we've got in the cleaning cupboard right now.

Well, Richard. Big Boy. Thanks for suggesting this angle. Me, I would NEVER have THOUGHT that HOME EDUCATION AND PROSTITUTION BELONG TOGETHER.

I should give you a discount.*

*But sadly, due to irritating ideas about accuracy, decency and fairness in this country, I've been forced to accompany the opening of my new business with a letter to the Press Complaints Commission.