Took Tiger, Shark, and Squirrel to the British Library for Propaganda: Power and Persuasion.
With some trepidation, admittedly.
How would my little gritties take to it? Like all British Library exhibitions it is not especially aimed at children. Worthy, weighty, document-heavy, it offers plenty of spotlit text to peer at, as you fumble around in a semi-darkened room crashing into people.
Worse, British Library exhibitions attract adults who like to tut. People who have higher scholarly purposes which could be fulfilled if only the rest of humanity didn't get in the way of the captions. Do not assume the academic types are child-friendly, as Tinkertop tips headlong into them, blinded by the sudden transition between spotlights and atmospheric pools of total darkness.
But I still take my little grits. I know it is never likely to amuse the children with a selection of interactive, button-jabbing delights - press here to animate your government message and see a pop-up Stalin with his spinning head - but I am forever optimistic that if there is a challenge, we intrepid explorers in the land of learning can rise to it.
Thankfully, the British Library more or less adopts the same approach. Given the subject - isn't propaganda, power, and persuasion about as wide an area as you can imagine? - the BL attempts to make it approachable, even from a Junior Grit's point of view.
To start us off, we get an easy-to-follow guide on how to create your own propaganda. It was extremely helpful to me as average parent instructing the national yoof, and I would recommend the beginning section alone to justify taking in your juniors, if only to teach them some techniques for spotting the spin from your average government minister.
The British Library then offers a selection of Alastair Campbell's talking heads to distance itself from a few opinions and raise a few issues. Inbetween is thrown at us an assortment of old posters, documents, paintings, and videos, navigating a way through a variety of contexts, from how to hate the Germans properly in WW2 to how to cross the road with Tufty the Squirrel in 1963.
This was my other nagging fear: would the Gritties Jnrs at their tender age of 13 take it all literally? Would they appreciate the contexts? Would they come out having failed to spot the meta-text, having bypassed the whole 'read between the lines' thing, to urge me to hate Germans and, by the way, I have totally failed Tufty Fluffytail's first law of motor traffic?
It is no small worry. My proto-teens still have their tender sensibilities intact: they have not yet reached the jaded and cynical, government-withered stage of my existence, with my blood now combined from vinegar, hydrochloric acid and caustic soda. I especially fretted about this in front of the Nazi propaganda video of how to identify a nasty Jew, and the USA's Norman Rockwell posters of homely dinners, dished up by a pink-cheeked grandma in her fresh white apron, showing sublimely how America has the answer to everything, and it is wholesome. Visuals like this remain impactful.
Me, I was grateful to be out in the fresh air after two hours; relentless persuasions on my deviant behaviours issued to me from self-assured authorities is a little wearing on my brain, even though I can still see the hilarity in some of the injunctions, such as the Protect and Survive posters of 1970s and 1980s Britain. When I looked around for the Gritties Jnrs, expecting them to be waiting glumly outside, they were still in the exhibition room, reading everything, listening to Alastair Campbell's head, and complaining when I dragged them out.
Verdict for your teens? On the way home, Squirrel narrowed her eyes at me and demanded to know what I was up to? Wasn't the home ed workshop enough? What was my secret intention?
So that suggests to me the British Library have somehow made Propaganda: Power and Persuasion accessible to your average anti-authoritarian 13-year old. Take them. They should do fine, and we all just have to ignore the tuts.
Showing posts with label library. Show all posts
Showing posts with label library. Show all posts
Wednesday, 22 May 2013
Tuesday, 10 January 2012
We can lose ourselves
It is true. This is one of our biggest delights.
Given constraints, such as the imperative to eat, wee, and go to sleep, we free-in-the-heads can go pretty much any place, to do anything.
Yes, this freedom is a liberating consequence of being human, but in home ed land, can you believe it has extra spice?
We are already living a life suspected by some and judged by others to be downright wrong. In this counter-culture, barbed and resentful comments can wound, fears can run deep, and quick, sideways glances from the disapproving can weigh down a spirit, but with an imagination and a place to put it, we can secretly say, sod them all, we're off.
Then we can put our freedoms into practice; which probably doesn't help our image, or lessen the jealousies of the desk-bound. In our limitless place of learning outside closed doors, corridors, rooms, and designated areas, we can go where we like, when we like, and we don't have to ask permission.
We can be up and off indeed, with extra quiet content - some would say smug self-righteousness - because, in the spirit of our duties - responsibilities, freedoms, rights, whatever you want to call them - we can take a child by the hand and not only lead them off the path of the National Curriculum, we can neither follow a timetable, nor work to hours, days or terms; not run the home like a school; use no lesson plans, nor set work, nor mark work, nor give formal lessons, neither present a blank face with a 'developmental objective', nor make anyone put a chair on a table so you can sweep the floor under the desk: we can simply do away with the desk.
Then yes, I can understand the lack of whatever looks like school combined with a free-range mind can suggest to the hour-tied onlooker a complete state of chaos and bewilderment. I guess they wonder what on earth home educators do, if they don't do a lot of what looks like what they are told to do, in school.
Well, as I said, we can pretty much do anything, anywhere.
To my way of thinking, when each morning opens, the possibilities are so ridiculously endless, the nuances so variable, and the permutations of any action so wonderfully limitless, there is sometimes only one place to pin ourselves down.
If Shark, Squirrel and Tiger are to experience as many states and futures as can be shoe-horned into one day, we must be at the library. Here they can let their minds wander, or they can go looking for an author who holds them long enough to extract their agreement to be held by ink on a page.
But I confess. Today, I have a secret urge.
I have found that I can slip away, even from the freedoms of the library. I can leave my three tender exploring minds for hours in the company of witch dolls, chalk horses, puppet people, and humans fashioned from melting stone - and I can take my own exploring soul down the bewitched back streets of Hong Kong Island.
Leaving their eyes quietly fastened on the endless pages, I can leave the library to aim for a precise slice of Sheung Wan, filled with all the strange practices of the printing of papers; I can peer into the mechanics of print, boards, cardboards and cutters; I can watch the pressers, slammers, stitchers, and loose-leaf folders go about their day.
Printing was one of the biggest industries in Hong Kong, but the biggest book work has upped presses and moved north, leaving behind a business of pamphlet and card print with slam-thunk machinery that would not be out of place in your local museum, Victorian section.
Working these print presses, in the space of your broom cupboard and spilling straight to the street, are the skilled people who always loved handling inks and papers, bindings and glues.
Between them slips the infrastructure they need: stationery stores, paper suppliers, envelope sellers and, most traditional Chinese, chop street. In these tiny booths with knife, stone and wax, your business chops are crafted to grace your freshly-printed letter paper, handmade to your most precise requirements.
Tucked between them, between the paper cutters, any size, and the stationery store with the rolls of green wrapping smelling of ink, is my bone finder. She finds me bones - ask no questions, tell no lies - which she sells to me in pairs, two at a time. These desirable pieces, fashioned to look like yours, half the length of your forefinger, snap it off before your knuckle, I need. I stitch these bone likenesses into leather and wrap them with bleached, pressed paper, making my miniature books. Folded in my bone finder's shop, squeezed between the end-of-line beads and the sinuous twine, strange, which I swear was not there before, I could lose hours.
It is how we free-in-the-heads and learners out-of-doors can choose to spend our days.
By dark, Shark, Squirrel and Tiger are still seated in the library, heads bent, engrossed, each with a pile of books, chosen ones to bring home. In my pocket are my bones.
Given constraints, such as the imperative to eat, wee, and go to sleep, we free-in-the-heads can go pretty much any place, to do anything.
Yes, this freedom is a liberating consequence of being human, but in home ed land, can you believe it has extra spice?
We are already living a life suspected by some and judged by others to be downright wrong. In this counter-culture, barbed and resentful comments can wound, fears can run deep, and quick, sideways glances from the disapproving can weigh down a spirit, but with an imagination and a place to put it, we can secretly say, sod them all, we're off.
Then we can put our freedoms into practice; which probably doesn't help our image, or lessen the jealousies of the desk-bound. In our limitless place of learning outside closed doors, corridors, rooms, and designated areas, we can go where we like, when we like, and we don't have to ask permission.
We can be up and off indeed, with extra quiet content - some would say smug self-righteousness - because, in the spirit of our duties - responsibilities, freedoms, rights, whatever you want to call them - we can take a child by the hand and not only lead them off the path of the National Curriculum, we can neither follow a timetable, nor work to hours, days or terms; not run the home like a school; use no lesson plans, nor set work, nor mark work, nor give formal lessons, neither present a blank face with a 'developmental objective', nor make anyone put a chair on a table so you can sweep the floor under the desk: we can simply do away with the desk.
Then yes, I can understand the lack of whatever looks like school combined with a free-range mind can suggest to the hour-tied onlooker a complete state of chaos and bewilderment. I guess they wonder what on earth home educators do, if they don't do a lot of what looks like what they are told to do, in school.
Well, as I said, we can pretty much do anything, anywhere.
To my way of thinking, when each morning opens, the possibilities are so ridiculously endless, the nuances so variable, and the permutations of any action so wonderfully limitless, there is sometimes only one place to pin ourselves down.
If Shark, Squirrel and Tiger are to experience as many states and futures as can be shoe-horned into one day, we must be at the library. Here they can let their minds wander, or they can go looking for an author who holds them long enough to extract their agreement to be held by ink on a page.
But I confess. Today, I have a secret urge.
I have found that I can slip away, even from the freedoms of the library. I can leave my three tender exploring minds for hours in the company of witch dolls, chalk horses, puppet people, and humans fashioned from melting stone - and I can take my own exploring soul down the bewitched back streets of Hong Kong Island.
Leaving their eyes quietly fastened on the endless pages, I can leave the library to aim for a precise slice of Sheung Wan, filled with all the strange practices of the printing of papers; I can peer into the mechanics of print, boards, cardboards and cutters; I can watch the pressers, slammers, stitchers, and loose-leaf folders go about their day.
Printing was one of the biggest industries in Hong Kong, but the biggest book work has upped presses and moved north, leaving behind a business of pamphlet and card print with slam-thunk machinery that would not be out of place in your local museum, Victorian section.
Working these print presses, in the space of your broom cupboard and spilling straight to the street, are the skilled people who always loved handling inks and papers, bindings and glues.
Between them slips the infrastructure they need: stationery stores, paper suppliers, envelope sellers and, most traditional Chinese, chop street. In these tiny booths with knife, stone and wax, your business chops are crafted to grace your freshly-printed letter paper, handmade to your most precise requirements.
Tucked between them, between the paper cutters, any size, and the stationery store with the rolls of green wrapping smelling of ink, is my bone finder. She finds me bones - ask no questions, tell no lies - which she sells to me in pairs, two at a time. These desirable pieces, fashioned to look like yours, half the length of your forefinger, snap it off before your knuckle, I need. I stitch these bone likenesses into leather and wrap them with bleached, pressed paper, making my miniature books. Folded in my bone finder's shop, squeezed between the end-of-line beads and the sinuous twine, strange, which I swear was not there before, I could lose hours.
It is how we free-in-the-heads and learners out-of-doors can choose to spend our days.
By dark, Shark, Squirrel and Tiger are still seated in the library, heads bent, engrossed, each with a pile of books, chosen ones to bring home. In my pocket are my bones.
Monday, 3 October 2011
I found something
Something I like about Hong Kong. The public libraries.
I don't know if the list of books banned on the China mainland applies in full for Hong Kong. (If it does, I'm a smuggler. Guilty. I have my own copy of Wild Swans.)
I bet they do restrict anti-social material, seditious tracts, and see-the-pages-bleed provocative literature. They probably don't stock all the books we'd want, to know our reading was round.
I hear, to view the pornography, you have to make an appointment. I'm tempted to do that, if only to read what confessions they want me to make on the application form.
But despite the limits to our bookish freedoms, I still have to say, the Hong Kong public libraries? They're not too bad.
That's sort of sad to think, really, because I suppose I'm comparing them to the libraries in England.
Here in Hong Kong, unlike at home, these massive public blocks are open every day, seven days a week, many into the evenings until 9pm. And - unlike the impression some prestigious libraries in England put on me when I walk inside - here, in these buildings, there are books.
City Hall is my favourite. They pack too many shelves into that space; they knit them all together, lay them in lines deep into corners, and stack books rising to heights above my head. I must squeeze between the bodies of my fellow bookers to worm my way to History, and that's a treat alone for a middle-aged woman of my circumstance.
Even our miniature local library - the one on the island with all the charm of a concrete-built electric substation - offers, on the inside, bookish people with bookish ways. I like how the librarian - slightly built, flat-chested, with wire-rimmed glasses perched on her nose! - stands behind a large desk made tiny with a frame of piled papers, stacked books, and crates with books inside, balanced one against another. On our side of her wooden shelf, if you can see it, there's a slot over a sliding wooden drawer acting as a fine box. You drop the money in; with barely a glance she might nod to register the fact.
In the grand Central Library, the one with the wide upward sweep of steps, spinning globe, and stone inscriptions, there are ten floors of books, magazines, newspapers, audio, visual, computers, headphones, study desks, communal spaces, comfy reading seats, seats all round.
Best of all, people use this space. Not with sshhhh-reverence, and not with noisy partying either - the only choice of behaviours you'd think exists in England, given our penchant for taking sides, picking fights, and telling everyone else how not to use our public services.
Here, people just use these public book spaces, normally. Without big argument or fuss. They come in pairs and families, student groups and study meets. Libraries are a resource, a place respected as one where of course you go, because doesn't every civilized person need to access books? For meeting, reading quietly, reading to others, private study, homework, discussion, sharing thoughts, or maybe leaning alongside for a gentle and companionable bit of nodding off.
So yes, the public libraries in Hong Kong get something very space-people-social right.
(But if I make it to the pornography section, you can be sure I'll keep that quiet, and all to myself.)
I don't know if the list of books banned on the China mainland applies in full for Hong Kong. (If it does, I'm a smuggler. Guilty. I have my own copy of Wild Swans.)
I bet they do restrict anti-social material, seditious tracts, and see-the-pages-bleed provocative literature. They probably don't stock all the books we'd want, to know our reading was round.
I hear, to view the pornography, you have to make an appointment. I'm tempted to do that, if only to read what confessions they want me to make on the application form.
But despite the limits to our bookish freedoms, I still have to say, the Hong Kong public libraries? They're not too bad.
That's sort of sad to think, really, because I suppose I'm comparing them to the libraries in England.
Here in Hong Kong, unlike at home, these massive public blocks are open every day, seven days a week, many into the evenings until 9pm. And - unlike the impression some prestigious libraries in England put on me when I walk inside - here, in these buildings, there are books.
City Hall is my favourite. They pack too many shelves into that space; they knit them all together, lay them in lines deep into corners, and stack books rising to heights above my head. I must squeeze between the bodies of my fellow bookers to worm my way to History, and that's a treat alone for a middle-aged woman of my circumstance.
Even our miniature local library - the one on the island with all the charm of a concrete-built electric substation - offers, on the inside, bookish people with bookish ways. I like how the librarian - slightly built, flat-chested, with wire-rimmed glasses perched on her nose! - stands behind a large desk made tiny with a frame of piled papers, stacked books, and crates with books inside, balanced one against another. On our side of her wooden shelf, if you can see it, there's a slot over a sliding wooden drawer acting as a fine box. You drop the money in; with barely a glance she might nod to register the fact.
In the grand Central Library, the one with the wide upward sweep of steps, spinning globe, and stone inscriptions, there are ten floors of books, magazines, newspapers, audio, visual, computers, headphones, study desks, communal spaces, comfy reading seats, seats all round.
Best of all, people use this space. Not with sshhhh-reverence, and not with noisy partying either - the only choice of behaviours you'd think exists in England, given our penchant for taking sides, picking fights, and telling everyone else how not to use our public services.
Here, people just use these public book spaces, normally. Without big argument or fuss. They come in pairs and families, student groups and study meets. Libraries are a resource, a place respected as one where of course you go, because doesn't every civilized person need to access books? For meeting, reading quietly, reading to others, private study, homework, discussion, sharing thoughts, or maybe leaning alongside for a gentle and companionable bit of nodding off.
So yes, the public libraries in Hong Kong get something very space-people-social right.
(But if I make it to the pornography section, you can be sure I'll keep that quiet, and all to myself.)
Thursday, 26 August 2010
Hallelujah for the public library
Foremost and finally, first and last, beginning and end, alpha to omega, we joined the public library. Glory Hallelujah. North Lamma Island branch. Open Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, Saturday. Closed for lunch.
When we handed over those application forms, we were duly stamped, computer organised, and given back five library cards to sign (six books each, two week loan, fines as advertised).
In my insanity, I broke down and cried. All those books. All 75 of them, lined up on the English language shelf at Lamma Island next to the ferry, and each and every single one, precious. I had no idea that Yogacise and Think Your Way to Beauty could have the impact they had. I hugged them to my bosom and let the tears flow from glittery eyes. I may do rousing speeches, trumpets, heavenly chorus. People, let our great wisdom of the world begin. Step 1: Close your eyes and say, 'I am beautiful'.
I don't know why North Lamma public library - any public library - has that effect. We have the internet at home. But it does. It exerts a magic power. It can bring reason into a life of madness. Even though it's just a local island library, functionally constructed in charmless citizen concrete. Resembling an electricity sub station on the outside and offering similar space on the inside. But inside! Set against all our recent struggles, it is a globe full of delight for body and mind!
Step 2: Breathe deep. For the lifelines flowing out the books I open. Worlds, ideas, places, possibilities, the familiar and the new: thoughts I never had before. I am lifted away from the walls of home, freed from electronic wire, unwrapped from daughters and husbands and heres and nows.
Then the sensual pleasure! I hear the ruffle of their soft papers, smell the dust from their fibres, see their inks and satins. I feel their touch me, handle me, turn my pages, better than sex. Step 3: Stroke your finger down, between your brow.
And if that is not enough, there is equality to be had, down at your local public library. No preferential treatment, no joining fee, no renewable monthly service contract, no advertising subscription removal clause, no pre-book ticket application process submitted with exact monies to the reference section.
A public library doesn't care who we are, rich or poor, man or woman, peasant or posh. We turn up, join, spend the time we want, weep over the Yogacise book, tell the daughter not to yell because we might rely on the goodwill of the librarian later when we have pissed him off big time, then stand in line. Like everyone else. Our books are stamped, handed back to us. The fines are all the same, so come back before the 8th with the Cat Stories to Touch Your Heart.
Then we set out with our treasure on the journey home, buying grape juice and bananas along the way, filled with the possibility of a beautiful body, a rich and peaceful mind, and the amazing thought that one day our lives might be touched by a cat called Ebony.
That is our achievement for today. Joining the public library. It's nothing in itself, and yet it's everything. It's our way out of the house with a troubled child. It's our community, our neighbours, our access to China, our way in, our way through. Here, there are books to loan for us all, for Grits, Sharks, Squirrels and Tigers. We are all better placed to start tomorrow.
You can tell I have not yet lived in China long enough to report back to you on controlled knowledge, circulating stories of news management and restricted access. I am still flushed with the possibility of Cat Stories, or Yogacise, even though I practise that without the Yoga, or the cise. Squirrel is delighted by her fairy trash, and Shark with Reef Fishes of Hong Kong. And Tiger, temporarily lifted to normality by Rowling and the rest.
So I want to say to you people in the UK, please look after my public libraries while I am not there. I value the freedom they give me. And I will want to come back to them. An open public library is the essential jigsaw piece of a sane mind.
Just look here. I should know.
When we handed over those application forms, we were duly stamped, computer organised, and given back five library cards to sign (six books each, two week loan, fines as advertised).
In my insanity, I broke down and cried. All those books. All 75 of them, lined up on the English language shelf at Lamma Island next to the ferry, and each and every single one, precious. I had no idea that Yogacise and Think Your Way to Beauty could have the impact they had. I hugged them to my bosom and let the tears flow from glittery eyes. I may do rousing speeches, trumpets, heavenly chorus. People, let our great wisdom of the world begin. Step 1: Close your eyes and say, 'I am beautiful'.
I don't know why North Lamma public library - any public library - has that effect. We have the internet at home. But it does. It exerts a magic power. It can bring reason into a life of madness. Even though it's just a local island library, functionally constructed in charmless citizen concrete. Resembling an electricity sub station on the outside and offering similar space on the inside. But inside! Set against all our recent struggles, it is a globe full of delight for body and mind!
Step 2: Breathe deep. For the lifelines flowing out the books I open. Worlds, ideas, places, possibilities, the familiar and the new: thoughts I never had before. I am lifted away from the walls of home, freed from electronic wire, unwrapped from daughters and husbands and heres and nows.
Then the sensual pleasure! I hear the ruffle of their soft papers, smell the dust from their fibres, see their inks and satins. I feel their touch me, handle me, turn my pages, better than sex. Step 3: Stroke your finger down, between your brow.
And if that is not enough, there is equality to be had, down at your local public library. No preferential treatment, no joining fee, no renewable monthly service contract, no advertising subscription removal clause, no pre-book ticket application process submitted with exact monies to the reference section.
A public library doesn't care who we are, rich or poor, man or woman, peasant or posh. We turn up, join, spend the time we want, weep over the Yogacise book, tell the daughter not to yell because we might rely on the goodwill of the librarian later when we have pissed him off big time, then stand in line. Like everyone else. Our books are stamped, handed back to us. The fines are all the same, so come back before the 8th with the Cat Stories to Touch Your Heart.
Then we set out with our treasure on the journey home, buying grape juice and bananas along the way, filled with the possibility of a beautiful body, a rich and peaceful mind, and the amazing thought that one day our lives might be touched by a cat called Ebony.
That is our achievement for today. Joining the public library. It's nothing in itself, and yet it's everything. It's our way out of the house with a troubled child. It's our community, our neighbours, our access to China, our way in, our way through. Here, there are books to loan for us all, for Grits, Sharks, Squirrels and Tigers. We are all better placed to start tomorrow.
You can tell I have not yet lived in China long enough to report back to you on controlled knowledge, circulating stories of news management and restricted access. I am still flushed with the possibility of Cat Stories, or Yogacise, even though I practise that without the Yoga, or the cise. Squirrel is delighted by her fairy trash, and Shark with Reef Fishes of Hong Kong. And Tiger, temporarily lifted to normality by Rowling and the rest.
So I want to say to you people in the UK, please look after my public libraries while I am not there. I value the freedom they give me. And I will want to come back to them. An open public library is the essential jigsaw piece of a sane mind.
Just look here. I should know.
Friday, 22 May 2009
The new regime down at the library
What is your name and address?
Shark looks at the librarian, blankly. And so do I. The librarian stares at the computer screen in front of her where she's had this information stored for eight years.
What is your name and address?
Whoa. I don't like this. This is way off script. Is that librarian on drugs, or what? Why does she need a name and address? Shark's borrowing a book. I know it's Philip Pullman but steady on.
What is your name and address?
My God! The woman's still asking! Staring her in the face and blinking didn't work! What does she want here? Is she coming round to visit us?
What is your name and address? Do you know your address?
Now STOP THERE. I don't want my children to expect that for every ordinary public service encounter they must first prove their identity to anyone who asks. Time to wade in.
Is this necessary? We don't normally have our personal details checked to borrow a book.
It is the system. (Smiles sweetly.) We have to ask every two years.
I'm sure we've not been asked this before. Why do you need it now?
It is the system. We have to check every two years.
WELL PLEASE DON'T GIVE ME A STRAIGHT ANSWER.
Why do you need to ask every two years?
We're trained to ask every two years.
Why?
It is the system. We have to check every two years. Would you like a comment form?
Grit goes to a place where she screams and kicks and hammers her fists on the desk and grabs the pathetic minded arseface who instituted this system and turned a normal thinking librarian into an automaton because it seemed like such a fantastic public service idea to wipe any sense from our brains and routinely call us to account for who we are, where we live, what is our business and intent and when questioned on this even avoid the courtesy of a straight answer. And I take that tosser and smack their faces on the desk until the plastic veneer screams in mercy.
Then I feel much better and say No thank you. I have a blog.
Shark looks at the librarian, blankly. And so do I. The librarian stares at the computer screen in front of her where she's had this information stored for eight years.
What is your name and address?
Whoa. I don't like this. This is way off script. Is that librarian on drugs, or what? Why does she need a name and address? Shark's borrowing a book. I know it's Philip Pullman but steady on.
What is your name and address?
My God! The woman's still asking! Staring her in the face and blinking didn't work! What does she want here? Is she coming round to visit us?
What is your name and address? Do you know your address?
Now STOP THERE. I don't want my children to expect that for every ordinary public service encounter they must first prove their identity to anyone who asks. Time to wade in.
Is this necessary? We don't normally have our personal details checked to borrow a book.
It is the system. (Smiles sweetly.) We have to ask every two years.
I'm sure we've not been asked this before. Why do you need it now?
It is the system. We have to check every two years.
WELL PLEASE DON'T GIVE ME A STRAIGHT ANSWER.
Why do you need to ask every two years?
We're trained to ask every two years.
Why?
It is the system. We have to check every two years. Would you like a comment form?
Grit goes to a place where she screams and kicks and hammers her fists on the desk and grabs the pathetic minded arseface who instituted this system and turned a normal thinking librarian into an automaton because it seemed like such a fantastic public service idea to wipe any sense from our brains and routinely call us to account for who we are, where we live, what is our business and intent and when questioned on this even avoid the courtesy of a straight answer. And I take that tosser and smack their faces on the desk until the plastic veneer screams in mercy.
Then I feel much better and say No thank you. I have a blog.
Saturday, 21 March 2009
I wanted the Fairy Stories. But Iva Ibbotson won.
I don't know whether to laugh out loud or shoot myself. Whichever, there is something spooky going on.
Are you school choosing folks happy that Ed Balls will tell your children what they can and can't read in school? Is that normal? I thought state prescribed textbooks were the mark of a totalitarian society.
Anyway, soon it will affect us all, no matter what we do. The government might set up a free service to tell me what colour coded clothing I should put on today. Or what days I can eat beans. And is there a state approved hotline I can call about the length of hair you can sprout from your ears? I think Dig is well out of bounds there.
Bah. Do I care. Life is short. My job here is to tell you about our daily life in home ed land. Just in case it might be normal, and somewhat close to yours. Or different, in which case you should get out more. Especially if you have to live with Ed Balls coming home in your child's satchel.
Ed Balls, this sight is for you. The gritlets took over two metres square of the library floor today and spread out all the audio CDs they could lay their hands on, then whittled that choice down to two. Tsk. Choosing for themselves. I might have to beat them when we get home.
Are you school choosing folks happy that Ed Balls will tell your children what they can and can't read in school? Is that normal? I thought state prescribed textbooks were the mark of a totalitarian society.
Anyway, soon it will affect us all, no matter what we do. The government might set up a free service to tell me what colour coded clothing I should put on today. Or what days I can eat beans. And is there a state approved hotline I can call about the length of hair you can sprout from your ears? I think Dig is well out of bounds there.
Bah. Do I care. Life is short. My job here is to tell you about our daily life in home ed land. Just in case it might be normal, and somewhat close to yours. Or different, in which case you should get out more. Especially if you have to live with Ed Balls coming home in your child's satchel.
Ed Balls, this sight is for you. The gritlets took over two metres square of the library floor today and spread out all the audio CDs they could lay their hands on, then whittled that choice down to two. Tsk. Choosing for themselves. I might have to beat them when we get home.
Thursday, 9 October 2008
Why home educate? (9) The Library
Despite weeing on the floor, destroying the audio tapes, fighting on the stairs, shouting, screaming and generally creating merry hell before having the effrontery to point a finger to the stairs and utter the magic words 'health and safety' to demand a children's handrail (it worked); all this, and routinely being so appalled at our own lateness in returning the library books - making it cheaper to buy the ruddy Dolphin Diaries outright and remove them from the library stock forever - I would still say, hand on heart, that the library is a very good reason to home educate. Because looky here:
All these ordinary photos could be snapped on any visit to our library these days. And I would say it is all thanks to the patience and goodwill of Linny and the many librarians who know us, and have grown older alongside us, and who weekly exclaim My! Haven't they grown!' and recall three babies at baby storytime, when really, they only saw us last week, but are just saying the equivalent of Hello! Welcome! How lovely to see you!'
And this gets us to the heart of home education in so many ways; it is community education. The resources are all outside, all around us, in the community, and only require us to ask for them, and engage with the people who can help us use them. Only a fraction of our education is done at home, or round a kitchen table. Most of our education relies on the goodwill, patience, and welcoming pleasantries of ordinary people in everyday jobs in the community around us. And this has to be integration into a community at its most practical, fulfilling and satisfactory level.
Indeed, we find so much routine acceptance of our chosen life, down the library, at the cinema, in the shops, at the community halls, in the sports halls, at the discovery park, and from all the people we meet while booking workshops and inquiring about student rates, that I have to conclude there isn't, right now, a deep social suspicion of home educators - who we are or what we do. There is simply the feeling that home education is now, something quite ordinary, and we are accepted for who we are and respected for what we do.
And that is probably something quite extraordinary. Thank you, Linny, and so many others in our community, for making that happen.
All these ordinary photos could be snapped on any visit to our library these days. And I would say it is all thanks to the patience and goodwill of Linny and the many librarians who know us, and have grown older alongside us, and who weekly exclaim My! Haven't they grown!' and recall three babies at baby storytime, when really, they only saw us last week, but are just saying the equivalent of Hello! Welcome! How lovely to see you!'
And this gets us to the heart of home education in so many ways; it is community education. The resources are all outside, all around us, in the community, and only require us to ask for them, and engage with the people who can help us use them. Only a fraction of our education is done at home, or round a kitchen table. Most of our education relies on the goodwill, patience, and welcoming pleasantries of ordinary people in everyday jobs in the community around us. And this has to be integration into a community at its most practical, fulfilling and satisfactory level.
Indeed, we find so much routine acceptance of our chosen life, down the library, at the cinema, in the shops, at the community halls, in the sports halls, at the discovery park, and from all the people we meet while booking workshops and inquiring about student rates, that I have to conclude there isn't, right now, a deep social suspicion of home educators - who we are or what we do. There is simply the feeling that home education is now, something quite ordinary, and we are accepted for who we are and respected for what we do.
And that is probably something quite extraordinary. Thank you, Linny, and so many others in our community, for making that happen.
Saturday, 12 July 2008
Grit meets her match
On my To Do List (now as long as both my arms and the weight of a small baby hippo), I add Russian Revolution.
Eager to start, I tell Shark, Squirrel and Tiger (but not Dig), that today in the house we will be running autocratic control. I bagsy autocrat. I say we can swap over later, when the actual revolution comes. Then I can be Lenin. Everyone agrees.
I like being the autocrat. I order everyone in the car. I say the next step is to go to the library to find out what actually happens when the revolution comes. Then we can think about whether being Tsar Nicholas II was really such an idea worth fighting over.
We have to drive to the Big Library because, for the Russian Revolution, Smalltown will have nothing. 'Russian Revolution?' the young woman on the library apprentice scheme will enquire. 'Uh? We have Handling your Menopausal Budgie, Death and Your Cocker Spaniel, or Tea and Cakes in the Yorkshire Dales: the hilarious saga of moving house and taking the nanny and children with you – but nope, nothing on the Russian Revolution. Which country did it happen in?'
At Big Library, there are no books on the Russian Revolution either. I feared this before we left the house. But if there is one thread which runs through Grit's day, it is hope. I ask Linny, with whom we are on surprisingly good terms after several years of home education and Shark weeing on the floor in the children's section.
'We can do the Tudors', sniffs Linny. Then she starts, and she's even worse than me. 'How many books do you want on the Tudors?' she adds sarcastically. 'We can do six thousand of those'. OK, I've touched a nerve. 'If it's not the Tudors, then it's the Second World War' she continues. I detect a whiff of pissed off librarian. She tells me her son just completed A-level history and, she adds disdainfully, he just did two years of German history.
Even with Linny on side, we can't find anything about the Russian Revolution. And she's right. Because the Russian Revolution is not on the National Curriculum. One of the great powers on earth and here we are in the UK as ignorant as a flea on the backside of a mongrel.
After an hour I have cleaned out the entire library. I have a guide to life in Russia today from the children's library and an Eyewitness book which is good to look at, and has pictures of onion domes. From the adult library I have two studious volumes on the years 1895 to 1949, both of which are heavily annotated in pencil; probably by the same exam-taking university student.
I console Linny. I say it could be that round here everyone's just been to see Fiddler on the Roof and are now desperate to find out about the Jewish experience in Russia circa 1905. She looks doubtful, and adds sorrowfully that two years of German history wouldn't be so bad if it didn't just follow ten years of The Tudors.
Eager to start, I tell Shark, Squirrel and Tiger (but not Dig), that today in the house we will be running autocratic control. I bagsy autocrat. I say we can swap over later, when the actual revolution comes. Then I can be Lenin. Everyone agrees.
I like being the autocrat. I order everyone in the car. I say the next step is to go to the library to find out what actually happens when the revolution comes. Then we can think about whether being Tsar Nicholas II was really such an idea worth fighting over.
We have to drive to the Big Library because, for the Russian Revolution, Smalltown will have nothing. 'Russian Revolution?' the young woman on the library apprentice scheme will enquire. 'Uh? We have Handling your Menopausal Budgie, Death and Your Cocker Spaniel, or Tea and Cakes in the Yorkshire Dales: the hilarious saga of moving house and taking the nanny and children with you – but nope, nothing on the Russian Revolution. Which country did it happen in?'
At Big Library, there are no books on the Russian Revolution either. I feared this before we left the house. But if there is one thread which runs through Grit's day, it is hope. I ask Linny, with whom we are on surprisingly good terms after several years of home education and Shark weeing on the floor in the children's section.
'We can do the Tudors', sniffs Linny. Then she starts, and she's even worse than me. 'How many books do you want on the Tudors?' she adds sarcastically. 'We can do six thousand of those'. OK, I've touched a nerve. 'If it's not the Tudors, then it's the Second World War' she continues. I detect a whiff of pissed off librarian. She tells me her son just completed A-level history and, she adds disdainfully, he just did two years of German history.
Even with Linny on side, we can't find anything about the Russian Revolution. And she's right. Because the Russian Revolution is not on the National Curriculum. One of the great powers on earth and here we are in the UK as ignorant as a flea on the backside of a mongrel.
After an hour I have cleaned out the entire library. I have a guide to life in Russia today from the children's library and an Eyewitness book which is good to look at, and has pictures of onion domes. From the adult library I have two studious volumes on the years 1895 to 1949, both of which are heavily annotated in pencil; probably by the same exam-taking university student.
I console Linny. I say it could be that round here everyone's just been to see Fiddler on the Roof and are now desperate to find out about the Jewish experience in Russia circa 1905. She looks doubtful, and adds sorrowfully that two years of German history wouldn't be so bad if it didn't just follow ten years of The Tudors.
Saturday, 10 May 2008
Grit is a criminal
It's definitely that time of month again. Time to check the library cards. I have fallen into the routine of asking the librarian to scan the library cards and reveal whether we are criminals for having lost Dolphin Diaries for the fifth time running, or whether I am a good, clean, honest library user and returned all the books, including those stuffed down the back of the radiator and under the sofa.
This is a routine that had to be. Being smart home educators we borrow 40 books at a time. Anything and everything from the History of Dust to I am a Frog. Being disorganised and chaotic, we only take 20 books back. I was handing over the children's inheritance once a month in library fines. Add the cost of lost books and I could have handed over my bank cards and the pin numbers. A monthly check up is one way to avoid bankruptcy.
And I nearly am organised. Normally I take the cards to our local branch but we have a busy week and I am passing a library branch right now. I've never used this branch before. I decide to go in, and I feel good about that, because I feel organised, in a haphazard sort of way.
But something is not right. The door does not open. This is confusing to an elderly Grit who is standing outside a closed library door in the drizzle. The library says it is Open and look! The door is locked! I spy a hand written notice on the door. Buzz bottom left. Grit searches for buzzers to her left bottom and indeed finds a grimy button that she would like to spray with a sanitizer before she actually touches it. Unable to do so she wraps a tissue round her finger. Not that I am phobic about germs you understand, it's just that you never know, and it does no harm to wipe the door handles with Dettol when there are children around. I mean, would you drink the same water that a toddler has been drinking? Have you seen what they can put back in there?
Anyway, it takes some time to get in. A minute. A minute and a half. I should have taken seconds. Well, the time I have taken to get inside the open/closed library has marked me out. I am Trouble.
A ferocious-looking lady with grey hair and tight, beady eyes is standing behind a Formica desk just inside. She is The Librarian. And she is Not Happy. She picks up a mouse and bangs it up and down on a mouse pad, tutting, focusing on the screen to one side. So I stand, quietly, in what I hope is a posture that says I'm sorry for interrupting, but...
'Yes' she snaps, not looking at me. Clearly I haven't got any books to return, so I am wanting something else. I am unnerved. I may be aged 9 again and confessing that it was me who took the apple. I am used to Lindsey, our local librarian. Lindsey is lovely, and she is tolerant of us when we lounge about the children's section at 11 o'clock in the morning like it's our front room. She doesn't mind. In fact she often laughs. Sometimes a bit too long and sorrowfully when we have rearranged all the carpets, cushions and chairs and made big piles of books, and said 'Today we want to take out 60 but we're not taking the Magic Kitten out again so make that 59', but never mind. She is on Our Side.
'I'm sorry but could you check these cards to see if we have anything overdue?' I say. I'm trying to be nice. I don't want a punch in the face. Mrs Ferocity tuts, loudly, dropping the mouse, turning to take my cards. Only now I can't get them out my purse. I am clearly incompetent. They just won't come out the little holder. I don't know why. Perhaps it is a conspiracy. I've noticed that inanimate objects do that, once a month. They gang up on me. Well I'm taking too long, that's for sure. She sweeps her eyes around the room as if summoning the books to agree with her, with a look that says 'Is this woman as thick as pig shit or what?' A man browsing classic cars glances up woefully and the tips of my ears burn.
In a darting look where flowers would wither and contempt for Grit would turn her hair greyer than it already is, The Librarian raps a finger on the desk while I finally free one of the plastic cards from my purse and hand it over.
The scanner goes 'blip'. I am captured. '£2.69' she barks, and slaps the card face down on the desk. 'Diplodocus. You can't take any books until you pay.'
I am criminalised. Meekly I hand over the money. And another £1.80 for a book about castles. And a further 56p for an Eyewitness guide to armour. She takes the coins slowly, counting them up, one by one before rattling them into her cash till. I almost expect her to bite the 5 pence pieces between her teeth, because I look like that sort of library user.
When all the cards are swiped, the fines are paid, and I am prosecuted, convicted, punished and made miserable at the thought that somewhere my crimes will be forever database-stored and held against me in the event of any further convictions, at least I can heave a big sigh of relief that somewhere we are still liked and our criminal activities are not judged too harshly. At our local branch we can still take out 40 or more books again, mess up the furniture, argue about the Magic Kitten and chat with Lindsey.
I apologise, slip away, out the door, into the rain, away from the watching browser of classic cars, and back into the relative anonymity of the street. Possibly here no-one knows I have a criminal record. And although the drizzle has turned to grey studs of rain hammering into the pavement, I'm relieved to have escaped without a further tongue lashing, and I promise myself that next time I will be more organised and make sure it's Lindsey who laughs.
This is a routine that had to be. Being smart home educators we borrow 40 books at a time. Anything and everything from the History of Dust to I am a Frog. Being disorganised and chaotic, we only take 20 books back. I was handing over the children's inheritance once a month in library fines. Add the cost of lost books and I could have handed over my bank cards and the pin numbers. A monthly check up is one way to avoid bankruptcy.
And I nearly am organised. Normally I take the cards to our local branch but we have a busy week and I am passing a library branch right now. I've never used this branch before. I decide to go in, and I feel good about that, because I feel organised, in a haphazard sort of way.
But something is not right. The door does not open. This is confusing to an elderly Grit who is standing outside a closed library door in the drizzle. The library says it is Open and look! The door is locked! I spy a hand written notice on the door. Buzz bottom left. Grit searches for buzzers to her left bottom and indeed finds a grimy button that she would like to spray with a sanitizer before she actually touches it. Unable to do so she wraps a tissue round her finger. Not that I am phobic about germs you understand, it's just that you never know, and it does no harm to wipe the door handles with Dettol when there are children around. I mean, would you drink the same water that a toddler has been drinking? Have you seen what they can put back in there?
Anyway, it takes some time to get in. A minute. A minute and a half. I should have taken seconds. Well, the time I have taken to get inside the open/closed library has marked me out. I am Trouble.
A ferocious-looking lady with grey hair and tight, beady eyes is standing behind a Formica desk just inside. She is The Librarian. And she is Not Happy. She picks up a mouse and bangs it up and down on a mouse pad, tutting, focusing on the screen to one side. So I stand, quietly, in what I hope is a posture that says I'm sorry for interrupting, but...
'Yes' she snaps, not looking at me. Clearly I haven't got any books to return, so I am wanting something else. I am unnerved. I may be aged 9 again and confessing that it was me who took the apple. I am used to Lindsey, our local librarian. Lindsey is lovely, and she is tolerant of us when we lounge about the children's section at 11 o'clock in the morning like it's our front room. She doesn't mind. In fact she often laughs. Sometimes a bit too long and sorrowfully when we have rearranged all the carpets, cushions and chairs and made big piles of books, and said 'Today we want to take out 60 but we're not taking the Magic Kitten out again so make that 59', but never mind. She is on Our Side.
'I'm sorry but could you check these cards to see if we have anything overdue?' I say. I'm trying to be nice. I don't want a punch in the face. Mrs Ferocity tuts, loudly, dropping the mouse, turning to take my cards. Only now I can't get them out my purse. I am clearly incompetent. They just won't come out the little holder. I don't know why. Perhaps it is a conspiracy. I've noticed that inanimate objects do that, once a month. They gang up on me. Well I'm taking too long, that's for sure. She sweeps her eyes around the room as if summoning the books to agree with her, with a look that says 'Is this woman as thick as pig shit or what?' A man browsing classic cars glances up woefully and the tips of my ears burn.
In a darting look where flowers would wither and contempt for Grit would turn her hair greyer than it already is, The Librarian raps a finger on the desk while I finally free one of the plastic cards from my purse and hand it over.
The scanner goes 'blip'. I am captured. '£2.69' she barks, and slaps the card face down on the desk. 'Diplodocus. You can't take any books until you pay.'
I am criminalised. Meekly I hand over the money. And another £1.80 for a book about castles. And a further 56p for an Eyewitness guide to armour. She takes the coins slowly, counting them up, one by one before rattling them into her cash till. I almost expect her to bite the 5 pence pieces between her teeth, because I look like that sort of library user.
When all the cards are swiped, the fines are paid, and I am prosecuted, convicted, punished and made miserable at the thought that somewhere my crimes will be forever database-stored and held against me in the event of any further convictions, at least I can heave a big sigh of relief that somewhere we are still liked and our criminal activities are not judged too harshly. At our local branch we can still take out 40 or more books again, mess up the furniture, argue about the Magic Kitten and chat with Lindsey.
I apologise, slip away, out the door, into the rain, away from the watching browser of classic cars, and back into the relative anonymity of the street. Possibly here no-one knows I have a criminal record. And although the drizzle has turned to grey studs of rain hammering into the pavement, I'm relieved to have escaped without a further tongue lashing, and I promise myself that next time I will be more organised and make sure it's Lindsey who laughs.
Sunday, 15 July 2007
How to choose a video
Squirrel, Shark and Tiger are in the front room, deciding what video to watch. I've sent them in there to chose a video while I get peace enough to start chopping onions and opening a tin of tomatoes. The decision making over what video to watch will occupy about 15 minutes, by which time the water will be ready for the pasta.
But today there's a lot of noise. Squealing, shrieking, shouts of 'No! No! No!' Banging floorboards. More squealing. Thumping and whooping with joy.
So I go into the front room. There are knickers strewn about the room, on sofas, carpets, bookcase. Squirrel is in the middle, spinning round like a top, as fast as she can go. Shark and Tiger are on the sofa, excitedly shouting and pointing 'There!' 'No!' 'Now! Stop! No! No! NO!'
Squirrel shudders to a halt, swaying over a pair of blue knickers which she swoops to grasp and brandish high above her head, her arm outstretched and her face in a Whoop! of delight. 'Lion King!' she shouts, like she's the winner of the last golden ticket. Tiger and Shark launch themselves about the sofa in excitement. Squirrel hurls the blue knickers over the back of the TV and starts spinning again.
If this is the new means to select a video, let's hope we don't use it in the public library in town.
And the last knickers were for Roald Dahl's Matilda.
But today there's a lot of noise. Squealing, shrieking, shouts of 'No! No! No!' Banging floorboards. More squealing. Thumping and whooping with joy.
So I go into the front room. There are knickers strewn about the room, on sofas, carpets, bookcase. Squirrel is in the middle, spinning round like a top, as fast as she can go. Shark and Tiger are on the sofa, excitedly shouting and pointing 'There!' 'No!' 'Now! Stop! No! No! NO!'
Squirrel shudders to a halt, swaying over a pair of blue knickers which she swoops to grasp and brandish high above her head, her arm outstretched and her face in a Whoop! of delight. 'Lion King!' she shouts, like she's the winner of the last golden ticket. Tiger and Shark launch themselves about the sofa in excitement. Squirrel hurls the blue knickers over the back of the TV and starts spinning again.
If this is the new means to select a video, let's hope we don't use it in the public library in town.
And the last knickers were for Roald Dahl's Matilda.
Thursday, 21 June 2007
Midsummer Storytelling
We're all off to the park to listen to the storytellers. This is Midsummer Storytelling, and we all think it's a jolly imaginative thing to do, even though it's raining, and cold, and we're wrapped up in blankets, complaining about it being June and not April.
The storytelling is fun, too, even though the storytellers make us walk around a bit so I have to keep rolling up the groundsheet I've brought along to stop Squirrel complaining that her bottom's wet. And the storyteller doesn't throw us in the lake, like he threatened to do last week.
I'm not sure he was joking, actually. I walked down to the library last Tuesday with Shark, Squirrel and Tiger to return the overdue books that should've been returned the previous Friday, but we weren't here, and the library's shut on Mondays. When I get in, the kids all run off to look for fairy books and I spot Bal, the local storyteller, standing in the queue to return his copy of War and Peace. I seem to have known Bal a very long time, some 15 years, although I feel he regards me with suspicion, like he thinks I might be up to something, and he doesn't know what. This always makes me wonder if I am up to something, but I don't know what. If I was up to something, I wouldn't tell him. I'm sure he suspects that. So he's cautious with me, and I'm cautious with him.
But we're polite, of course. I ask Bal if he's involved in the Midsummer Storytelling that we've just booked tickets for. He says he is, but he doesn't know what stories to tell yet. Then he spies that I am clutching a thick stack of fairy books to return. 'Perhaps we could tell stories about evil fairies', he suggests. I laugh and say that would be a good idea because it might put my children off wanting the rubbish I have to read, what with 'Strawberry cup cake fairy' who's lost her strawberry cup cake, and 'Buttercup fairy' who cries when her favourite buttercup got picked.
Then he doesn't smile, but says he doesn't know whether to tell the stories to a large group or to lots of small groups. He adds that if we were in his group he might take everyone to the lake and throw them in.
Now I am starting to think he doesn't really like me again, suggesting gratuitously that he would throw me in the lake. But since I am a self deprecating sort of person I suggest I might throw myself in anyway. Then I think I've insulted him, suggesting I'd throw myself in the lake rather than listen to his storytelling. He eyes me with suspicion then.
It always seems to go like this. I recall that when we met him at the Bumblebees and Dragonflies do he suggested sticking our heads on poles. So I said I might have to get the triplets to do that to him first. And then in the woodland walk he said he was going to hide behind the trees, jump out and scare everyone, so that we'd all run away. I suggested I might have a sharp stick to stab ambushers and highwaymen.
Perhaps we just don't like each other. Or perhaps when we see each other our imaginings always get the better of us.
The storytelling is fun, too, even though the storytellers make us walk around a bit so I have to keep rolling up the groundsheet I've brought along to stop Squirrel complaining that her bottom's wet. And the storyteller doesn't throw us in the lake, like he threatened to do last week.
I'm not sure he was joking, actually. I walked down to the library last Tuesday with Shark, Squirrel and Tiger to return the overdue books that should've been returned the previous Friday, but we weren't here, and the library's shut on Mondays. When I get in, the kids all run off to look for fairy books and I spot Bal, the local storyteller, standing in the queue to return his copy of War and Peace. I seem to have known Bal a very long time, some 15 years, although I feel he regards me with suspicion, like he thinks I might be up to something, and he doesn't know what. This always makes me wonder if I am up to something, but I don't know what. If I was up to something, I wouldn't tell him. I'm sure he suspects that. So he's cautious with me, and I'm cautious with him.
But we're polite, of course. I ask Bal if he's involved in the Midsummer Storytelling that we've just booked tickets for. He says he is, but he doesn't know what stories to tell yet. Then he spies that I am clutching a thick stack of fairy books to return. 'Perhaps we could tell stories about evil fairies', he suggests. I laugh and say that would be a good idea because it might put my children off wanting the rubbish I have to read, what with 'Strawberry cup cake fairy' who's lost her strawberry cup cake, and 'Buttercup fairy' who cries when her favourite buttercup got picked.
Then he doesn't smile, but says he doesn't know whether to tell the stories to a large group or to lots of small groups. He adds that if we were in his group he might take everyone to the lake and throw them in.
Now I am starting to think he doesn't really like me again, suggesting gratuitously that he would throw me in the lake. But since I am a self deprecating sort of person I suggest I might throw myself in anyway. Then I think I've insulted him, suggesting I'd throw myself in the lake rather than listen to his storytelling. He eyes me with suspicion then.
It always seems to go like this. I recall that when we met him at the Bumblebees and Dragonflies do he suggested sticking our heads on poles. So I said I might have to get the triplets to do that to him first. And then in the woodland walk he said he was going to hide behind the trees, jump out and scare everyone, so that we'd all run away. I suggested I might have a sharp stick to stab ambushers and highwaymen.
Perhaps we just don't like each other. Or perhaps when we see each other our imaginings always get the better of us.
Monday, 26 March 2007
Not going
Well, we're not going to the art workshop then. Although I've pleaded with the organiser, I've clearly cut no ice. There are no spaces, probably. That's probably just an excuse. The real reason is that, like dragons, there be triplets here. Triplets take up too much room and too many places. Triplets are odd. They are an eyesore. We are all strange. Nobody wants us. We are unloved. I'm going downhill fast and the only destiny I can see is to drink heavily and die in loneliness.
And I'm not going to forget how it started. When the children were born, or rather wrenched from Grit's old body which was then pushed on a trolley into the Recovery Room where it promptly succumbed to shock and didn't recover for six weeks, one of the nurses cheerily sang out 'That's it now! You won't be going anywhere with these three!'
At that point I made a resolution. I would go anywhere with these three. I got so many bees in my bonnet about it that even the bees had bonnets with bees. I was a campaigner for triplet rights. 'No child shall be denied access to anywhere' I would start off, then with a dramatic pause and a deep inbreath, 'Because she has a sister!'
The first battle was the library. Now who's in charge there? The children's section is on the first floor and the lift to all those lovely children's books is a service lift, secreted away in a dark corner. It doesn't like buggies. Buggies are too big. There is a big commanding notice to leave the buggies downstairs. This is because of the buggy wars that start when irritated mothers and screaming toddlers are elbowing each other to have a go at the lift which will cram in your big buggy but only maybe if you strap Joshua in and tilt everything to the left by 40 degrees. I think the staff probably mopped their brows with relief when it was discovered by accident that the service lift could accommodate one standard wheelchair, but no fingers on the wheels. A shopping bag dangling from the back or the side and you were out and up the stairs, matey. But a triplet buggy? No way.
So I determined as part of my campaign that we had a right to baby storytime at the library and we were bloody well going. First stop, the lift door, and a minor public demonstration. Second stop, the desk and a loud demand for help which was met, as expected, with the old lemon sucker drawing in her lips before telling me tartly that she couldn't possibly leave her rubber date-stamp and I'd have to find someone else. On that occasion I did find someone prepared to carry Shark, a bit uncomfortably at arm's length, but it got us to the first floor. Then I found I had to make a big fuss about floor cushions. Apparently the library staff keep them locked in a cupboard because the children play with the zips and that's probably a heath and safety hazard so Mrs-Make-A-Stink just leave your ruddy babies rolling about on the concrete floor. Preferably near the stairs.
But campaign on cushions aside, I felt the point about the lift was made. Nearly. After the first week, I carried two babies in car seats and one in a sling and used the stairs, loudly, on principle. On the way up I shouted to the desk staff below about how I couldn't fit in the lift. I got in everyone's way on the stairs thanks to the wide berth with a car seat in each hand, so that was a bonus.
For the next couple of years the feeling that we were a nuisance didn't really stop. The staff at the local Tesco staring at me pushing both a trolley and triplet buggy when they could have so easily helped; the bloke in the car park who pipped his horn angrily because it was taking me an age to vacate the parking space; the scowling woman who pushed us out the way, tutting loudly, on our first outing; the constant battle with doors and steps; the National Trust custodian sending us out; the shopkeeper who shouted 'Can't you leave it outside?'; the museum staff who said 'You're not bringing that in here'.
But those days are mostly behind us. Either we're no longer a nuisance, or we still are, and I don't care. Occasionally I'm reminded of our messy, sprawling status as we occupy too much space, too many places, with not enough toilets and lifts that are too small. And so it is with the art workshop. Three places in one go. That's an awful lot of places to give away to a messy family who would probably make a nuisance of themselves and look an eyesore anyway, what with the home-cut hair and the state of the mother.
There's another art workshop in a month's time. I might email the organiser and ask for three spaces; I'll start off, 'No child shall be denied access to anywhere because she has a sister!'
I might get an email back. And if she tells me to shove off I'll go into full campaign mode and get the buggy out.
And I'm not going to forget how it started. When the children were born, or rather wrenched from Grit's old body which was then pushed on a trolley into the Recovery Room where it promptly succumbed to shock and didn't recover for six weeks, one of the nurses cheerily sang out 'That's it now! You won't be going anywhere with these three!'
At that point I made a resolution. I would go anywhere with these three. I got so many bees in my bonnet about it that even the bees had bonnets with bees. I was a campaigner for triplet rights. 'No child shall be denied access to anywhere' I would start off, then with a dramatic pause and a deep inbreath, 'Because she has a sister!'
The first battle was the library. Now who's in charge there? The children's section is on the first floor and the lift to all those lovely children's books is a service lift, secreted away in a dark corner. It doesn't like buggies. Buggies are too big. There is a big commanding notice to leave the buggies downstairs. This is because of the buggy wars that start when irritated mothers and screaming toddlers are elbowing each other to have a go at the lift which will cram in your big buggy but only maybe if you strap Joshua in and tilt everything to the left by 40 degrees. I think the staff probably mopped their brows with relief when it was discovered by accident that the service lift could accommodate one standard wheelchair, but no fingers on the wheels. A shopping bag dangling from the back or the side and you were out and up the stairs, matey. But a triplet buggy? No way.
So I determined as part of my campaign that we had a right to baby storytime at the library and we were bloody well going. First stop, the lift door, and a minor public demonstration. Second stop, the desk and a loud demand for help which was met, as expected, with the old lemon sucker drawing in her lips before telling me tartly that she couldn't possibly leave her rubber date-stamp and I'd have to find someone else. On that occasion I did find someone prepared to carry Shark, a bit uncomfortably at arm's length, but it got us to the first floor. Then I found I had to make a big fuss about floor cushions. Apparently the library staff keep them locked in a cupboard because the children play with the zips and that's probably a heath and safety hazard so Mrs-Make-A-Stink just leave your ruddy babies rolling about on the concrete floor. Preferably near the stairs.
But campaign on cushions aside, I felt the point about the lift was made. Nearly. After the first week, I carried two babies in car seats and one in a sling and used the stairs, loudly, on principle. On the way up I shouted to the desk staff below about how I couldn't fit in the lift. I got in everyone's way on the stairs thanks to the wide berth with a car seat in each hand, so that was a bonus.
For the next couple of years the feeling that we were a nuisance didn't really stop. The staff at the local Tesco staring at me pushing both a trolley and triplet buggy when they could have so easily helped; the bloke in the car park who pipped his horn angrily because it was taking me an age to vacate the parking space; the scowling woman who pushed us out the way, tutting loudly, on our first outing; the constant battle with doors and steps; the National Trust custodian sending us out; the shopkeeper who shouted 'Can't you leave it outside?'; the museum staff who said 'You're not bringing that in here'.
But those days are mostly behind us. Either we're no longer a nuisance, or we still are, and I don't care. Occasionally I'm reminded of our messy, sprawling status as we occupy too much space, too many places, with not enough toilets and lifts that are too small. And so it is with the art workshop. Three places in one go. That's an awful lot of places to give away to a messy family who would probably make a nuisance of themselves and look an eyesore anyway, what with the home-cut hair and the state of the mother.
There's another art workshop in a month's time. I might email the organiser and ask for three spaces; I'll start off, 'No child shall be denied access to anywhere because she has a sister!'
I might get an email back. And if she tells me to shove off I'll go into full campaign mode and get the buggy out.
Wednesday, 3 January 2007
The Library
The library in the centre of town always brings back memories. Like the time we were asked not to come back. It was six months before I had the courage to show myself. I hoped by leaving it so long the librarian would have forgotten what we looked like. She hadn't. She kept her eyes on us. She has the sort of puckered up lips you might get if you drank raw lemon juice several times a day.
It was when the children were all aged 3. Now with triplets I'm definitely at a disadvantage when they all run off in different directions. And they did. Shark started it by weeing on the floor behind the parent's shelf. I decided a dignified exit might be in order. Shark and Tiger ran off from the childrens area, which is upstairs, and legged it down to the exit, on the ground floor. Only Squirrel wouldn't come. She'd found some audio tapes and she wasn't going to leave them. But I had to run after Shark and Tiger. They were the ones who could leave the building, after all. And this is where I blame the librarian. She made it worse. She seemed to think I'd run off, abandoning my child. As if I would do it in the middle of a library for pity's sake. No, I'd choose a forest or something and frisk her for breadcrumbs. So the librarian ran after me. I thought you weren't supposed to shout in the library. That librarian was doing plenty. Especially when Squirrel sat on the floor and started ripping the cassette tape from the spools.
I needn't have worried about Shark and Tiger running out the library. They were having a fight on the stairs. Tiger seemed to be lying across several steps and Shark had her foot on Tiger's head. There was a huge amount of screaming going on in all directions by then. A bit of motherly physical intervention was called for. One at a time I got them to the ground floor desk and asked the lemon sucker if she could help. 'No' she said. Thank you, Melton Council, for your training programme. So I left Shark and Tiger brawling by the 'Just returned' shelf at her desk and ran back up for Squirrel, by now wrapped in cassette tape and resembling some strange sort of miniature mummy. I got her down the stairs and put her with the other two. They're all screaming and howling and rolling around the floor and I try and take a breather and recover my senses. Suddenly, Squirrel jumps up and runs off out the building. She sets off the alarm as she goes, because she's still holding the cassette boxes. I chase after her, bring her back, and Tiger legs it back up the stairs to the children's library. So I chase after her, bring her back, and find Shark and Squirrel, still wrapped up in her cassette tape, pulling books off the shelf 'Just returned'.
It's still raw, three years later. The horrible details still haunt me. The look of contempt from the lemon sucker and the line of parents with perfect pre-schoolers staring at the floor show. The cassette tape, streaming in the wind.
I suppose I got off lightly. I had to pay £6.99 today for the book we lost in August last year. It was part of our 'Workplace' project, and it was titled, 'Jobs people do: the librarian'. I have a horrible feeling I might have thrown it in the bin, by accident.
It was when the children were all aged 3. Now with triplets I'm definitely at a disadvantage when they all run off in different directions. And they did. Shark started it by weeing on the floor behind the parent's shelf. I decided a dignified exit might be in order. Shark and Tiger ran off from the childrens area, which is upstairs, and legged it down to the exit, on the ground floor. Only Squirrel wouldn't come. She'd found some audio tapes and she wasn't going to leave them. But I had to run after Shark and Tiger. They were the ones who could leave the building, after all. And this is where I blame the librarian. She made it worse. She seemed to think I'd run off, abandoning my child. As if I would do it in the middle of a library for pity's sake. No, I'd choose a forest or something and frisk her for breadcrumbs. So the librarian ran after me. I thought you weren't supposed to shout in the library. That librarian was doing plenty. Especially when Squirrel sat on the floor and started ripping the cassette tape from the spools.
I needn't have worried about Shark and Tiger running out the library. They were having a fight on the stairs. Tiger seemed to be lying across several steps and Shark had her foot on Tiger's head. There was a huge amount of screaming going on in all directions by then. A bit of motherly physical intervention was called for. One at a time I got them to the ground floor desk and asked the lemon sucker if she could help. 'No' she said. Thank you, Melton Council, for your training programme. So I left Shark and Tiger brawling by the 'Just returned' shelf at her desk and ran back up for Squirrel, by now wrapped in cassette tape and resembling some strange sort of miniature mummy. I got her down the stairs and put her with the other two. They're all screaming and howling and rolling around the floor and I try and take a breather and recover my senses. Suddenly, Squirrel jumps up and runs off out the building. She sets off the alarm as she goes, because she's still holding the cassette boxes. I chase after her, bring her back, and Tiger legs it back up the stairs to the children's library. So I chase after her, bring her back, and find Shark and Squirrel, still wrapped up in her cassette tape, pulling books off the shelf 'Just returned'.
It's still raw, three years later. The horrible details still haunt me. The look of contempt from the lemon sucker and the line of parents with perfect pre-schoolers staring at the floor show. The cassette tape, streaming in the wind.
I suppose I got off lightly. I had to pay £6.99 today for the book we lost in August last year. It was part of our 'Workplace' project, and it was titled, 'Jobs people do: the librarian'. I have a horrible feeling I might have thrown it in the bin, by accident.
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