That headline up there is from The Independent. Or should that read The Incredible Inventing Newspaper.
Stupidly, I've always read The Independent by preference.
Heck, I've followed their diet, gained two stone and STILL been loyal, but reading the educational pages of The Incredible Inventing Newspaper on the Badman report requires me to stand upside down on my head with a pair of socks over my eyes just to get a hold on the perspective of the reporting here.
I'd just like to say out loud, in defence, that the education pages of The Independent have always been crap.
That should read TOTAL CRAP by the way. Weak, lacking incisiveness, lacking criticism, lacking any thoughtful independent journalism at all. Probably because they are basically a vehicle for advertising, let's face it, and you can't be independent when there's several thousand pounds being waved at you from the ad manager to crow about an MBA course, or a private school who'd just like a little plug about their carrot scheme.
Well the education pages are like a joke against educational reporting. They should be labelled SCHOOL IS LOVELY LICKY LICKY or something, because there's precious little discussion about education. It's like the editor of that section, possibly Coco the clown, cannot conceive of an education that takes place outside of school. Except when six photogenic toothless 5 year olds do some gardening in the school playground and then it deserves a close up photo opportunity of a cute grinning kid holding a carrot and a double page spread exclaiming VEGETABLES ACHIEVE ASTONISHING LEAGUE TABLE PERFORMANCE.
It's not only the educational feature and news writing in The Incredible Inventing Newspaper which are tediously and relentlessly school arsy licking.
You should read the weekly Educational Quandary sorted out by the smuggymuggy Hilary Wilce. These are hilarious. Really, me and Dig fight each other to get hold of that bit so we can guffaw our way through breakfast. For a start the problems come from people like Mrs Trellis wringing their hands over issues like How many hours homework should a five year old do? and What should happen to chairs in the classroom? Should they go on top of the school desks? and Does this help the cleaner or not?
But this 'news item' about the Badman report really went further out than I have ever seen.
Let's be kind. Coco the education editor who unicycles to work wearing a squirty flower and whizzing bow tie probably saw a press release on home education come in on from the government Ministry of Truth.
Coco pressed COPY and PASTE because the press release fitted in a spare quarter of his empty page. There. That didn't require any questioning, no quizzical finger-on-chin moment to wonder whether these statistics actually exist,* no critical thinking of any type, and no independence either.
Mr Balls is probably delighted by how easy this is, to get crap like this splattered unconditionally in front of hundreds of thousands of readers.
On this basis, I could send Coco an educational press release about how I have a dog called Asparagus who wears pink bootees on his ears and how Asparagus is standing as a candidate in the next general election on a ticket of more lovely schools and bones, and they'd print that.
Of course I can't suspend my reading of The Incredible Inventing Newspaper. Absolutely not. The education pages are simply too much fun. Just wait. Next we'll read
100% of Home Educators are Aliens in Disguise. Certified. True. Honest. And what to do about it, by Hilary Wilce.
* Thank you, Renegade Parent.
Showing posts with label Independent diet. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Independent diet. Show all posts
Sunday, 14 June 2009
Saturday, 2 February 2008
Grit goes alone
I am sticking with this Independent no diet, even though it means shrugging yourself off the sofa, moving out of your comfort zone, and shifting your legs down the road in a quick march brisk walk.
So at 7.30 am, lured by the thought of a shapely behind that could be mine if only I would move it, I manage to lever myself out of bed, reluctantly drape myself all around with a brown skirt and not the black jeans covered in yesterday's clay, and then, smartly dressed for a Grit on a Saturday morning at 9.30, get in the car and drive to Northampton.
Now I know this comes as a bit of a shock to Shark, Squirrel and Tiger, who are used to the comfort zone of having a mamma in scruffy black jeans routinely squeeze 6 feet into 3 pairs of tennis shoes and arrange them in a line to cross the road to the courts at 9.59 for the lesson which starts at 10. Yes, we live that close, and yes, it is bloody marvellous, because on winter Saturday mornings I can still be wearing pyjamas under my coat and holding a cup of coffee in a spot of weekend comfort zoning.
But not today. I'm uncertain about going, about navigating the wilds of Northampton without small fingers to fasten onto, but I'm determined. I think Grit's imminent disappearance takes Dig by surprise too, as I stare at his bare feet in the kitchen, while jangling keys and saying 'I'm going to Northampton. I don't know when I'll be back. Look after the children. Tennis at 10'.
And all this because I am determined to get out of my comfort zone and into Northampton where there is an archaeologists outing. I know I am not an archaeologist, but it doesn't stop me going to their meetings. In fact I broke through that particular comfort zone a couple of years ago when, resenting the imposition of a long-term prison sentence while Dig wandered again about the Middle East, and despairing that I would ever get out of the house alone before the year 2010, I spotted the local archaeology society skulking about the web and joined on the spot.
Come to think of it, I probably challenge their comfort zones too, but now I reckon that is a good thing. I used to think Thank God! The archaeology meeting! It's an excuse to escape the house once a month on a Mondays between 7.30pm and 9pm and not be accompanied by small people minding and criticising and arguing over every decision and footfall. Thank goodness I can walk down a road without glancing nervously behind me to see if anyone needs their hand holding. Marvellous to be free of the terrorist rages that can strike a seven-year old who has not seen the colour green first that morning, so making it a Bad Day when Bad Things must happen.
So Grit is free. And transformed. She drives to Northampton with no one squealing. She parks the car with no one arguing, and pays the machine without worrying about the order the coins go in. Then she sets off with all the walk-about striding energy of a single woman wearing a skirt, who has no one's feet but her own to take charge of. She walks briskly and purposefully to the museum, thinking this is once how she walked everywhere in any urban townscape, and into the museum she strides. This is a museum we know quite well, and have visited over the years, and this is probably the first time Grit has visited it alone.
Mature enough not to hang around in doorways, peeping out behind sculptures to see if her party has arrived, she directs herself straight to the top floor and the archaeological finds, reasoning this is where a party of archaeologists are bound to congregate. And sure enough, they're here. No messing. No weeping on the stairs because someone else put their foot on them first, no complaining about the stairs, no arguing on Level 1 or shouting down the stairs to someone who won't come up them. What's more, I go straight past the toilets, so there's no lingering wait here - two toilets and three children - and no need to play with the hot tap for ten minutes before deciding it really is too hot, let's try the cold, then filling the basin with water and pretending our fingers are fish.
Grit's party of archaeologists shift slightly out of their comfort zone to speak in words of slow syllables to a member of the general public who won't go away. Throughout, Grit has a wonderfully rewarding time, liberated from interruptions and arguments or excited pictures of dolphins and horses, and is able to talk in a mature and dignified way. Not once do any of the archeologists lie down on the floor and cry. None squeal loudly or deliberately lean against the glass to block the view of someone else. Neither does anyone lift up Grit's skirt in what is fast becoming a very irritating and undignified game, even if Grit inadvertently did start it the other day to see if Squirrel was wearing any knickers.
After a couple of hours Grit steps out of the museum, full of enthusiasm for archaeology and vowing to become one in a different life, and even perhaps stop Northampton from falling into the hideous mess that it has become. Still liberated, with an hour left on the parking ticket, I then take advantage of freedom, and buy a new outfit too. Hey ho, with this amount of freedom, I might just fantasise about hiring a nanny and staying out late.
But, as if independence is all too much, I spoil it at the very end in the electrical department of Beatties. I pause to consider Shark's hungry tummy. Dutifully, I buy a slow cooker for the days we're out at the safari park, and there's no time to do the dishes from breakfast before embarking on preparing tea.
And when I get home, I shall probably regretfully change out of the skirt too.
So at 7.30 am, lured by the thought of a shapely behind that could be mine if only I would move it, I manage to lever myself out of bed, reluctantly drape myself all around with a brown skirt and not the black jeans covered in yesterday's clay, and then, smartly dressed for a Grit on a Saturday morning at 9.30, get in the car and drive to Northampton.
Now I know this comes as a bit of a shock to Shark, Squirrel and Tiger, who are used to the comfort zone of having a mamma in scruffy black jeans routinely squeeze 6 feet into 3 pairs of tennis shoes and arrange them in a line to cross the road to the courts at 9.59 for the lesson which starts at 10. Yes, we live that close, and yes, it is bloody marvellous, because on winter Saturday mornings I can still be wearing pyjamas under my coat and holding a cup of coffee in a spot of weekend comfort zoning.
But not today. I'm uncertain about going, about navigating the wilds of Northampton without small fingers to fasten onto, but I'm determined. I think Grit's imminent disappearance takes Dig by surprise too, as I stare at his bare feet in the kitchen, while jangling keys and saying 'I'm going to Northampton. I don't know when I'll be back. Look after the children. Tennis at 10'.
And all this because I am determined to get out of my comfort zone and into Northampton where there is an archaeologists outing. I know I am not an archaeologist, but it doesn't stop me going to their meetings. In fact I broke through that particular comfort zone a couple of years ago when, resenting the imposition of a long-term prison sentence while Dig wandered again about the Middle East, and despairing that I would ever get out of the house alone before the year 2010, I spotted the local archaeology society skulking about the web and joined on the spot.
Come to think of it, I probably challenge their comfort zones too, but now I reckon that is a good thing. I used to think Thank God! The archaeology meeting! It's an excuse to escape the house once a month on a Mondays between 7.30pm and 9pm and not be accompanied by small people minding and criticising and arguing over every decision and footfall. Thank goodness I can walk down a road without glancing nervously behind me to see if anyone needs their hand holding. Marvellous to be free of the terrorist rages that can strike a seven-year old who has not seen the colour green first that morning, so making it a Bad Day when Bad Things must happen.
So Grit is free. And transformed. She drives to Northampton with no one squealing. She parks the car with no one arguing, and pays the machine without worrying about the order the coins go in. Then she sets off with all the walk-about striding energy of a single woman wearing a skirt, who has no one's feet but her own to take charge of. She walks briskly and purposefully to the museum, thinking this is once how she walked everywhere in any urban townscape, and into the museum she strides. This is a museum we know quite well, and have visited over the years, and this is probably the first time Grit has visited it alone.
Mature enough not to hang around in doorways, peeping out behind sculptures to see if her party has arrived, she directs herself straight to the top floor and the archaeological finds, reasoning this is where a party of archaeologists are bound to congregate. And sure enough, they're here. No messing. No weeping on the stairs because someone else put their foot on them first, no complaining about the stairs, no arguing on Level 1 or shouting down the stairs to someone who won't come up them. What's more, I go straight past the toilets, so there's no lingering wait here - two toilets and three children - and no need to play with the hot tap for ten minutes before deciding it really is too hot, let's try the cold, then filling the basin with water and pretending our fingers are fish.
Grit's party of archaeologists shift slightly out of their comfort zone to speak in words of slow syllables to a member of the general public who won't go away. Throughout, Grit has a wonderfully rewarding time, liberated from interruptions and arguments or excited pictures of dolphins and horses, and is able to talk in a mature and dignified way. Not once do any of the archeologists lie down on the floor and cry. None squeal loudly or deliberately lean against the glass to block the view of someone else. Neither does anyone lift up Grit's skirt in what is fast becoming a very irritating and undignified game, even if Grit inadvertently did start it the other day to see if Squirrel was wearing any knickers.
After a couple of hours Grit steps out of the museum, full of enthusiasm for archaeology and vowing to become one in a different life, and even perhaps stop Northampton from falling into the hideous mess that it has become. Still liberated, with an hour left on the parking ticket, I then take advantage of freedom, and buy a new outfit too. Hey ho, with this amount of freedom, I might just fantasise about hiring a nanny and staying out late.
But, as if independence is all too much, I spoil it at the very end in the electrical department of Beatties. I pause to consider Shark's hungry tummy. Dutifully, I buy a slow cooker for the days we're out at the safari park, and there's no time to do the dishes from breakfast before embarking on preparing tea.
And when I get home, I shall probably regretfully change out of the skirt too.
Saturday, 19 January 2008
Ho hum
Grit is all sad and lethargic. Perhaps it is because she has failed at the Independent no diet task. Today it is to be more conventional, or less conventional; which ever one is opposite to what you are normally.
This is difficult. I don't know whether I am conventional or not. For example, I like eating Indian take aways. Perhaps I should change it to Chinese. I like wearing black jeans. Perhaps I should wear white jeans. And I like reading the Independent. Perhaps I should read the Guardian instead. In fact they might have a diet to try too.
Well, it could be any number of things. Including this.
This is the door into the yard that fell on me last year. Look, there's the accident-prone window cleaner just appearing with his ladder now. Seconds after this photo was taken he managed to knock over the milk and bring down the washing line.
Or perhaps it is the sight of this. Dig has decided to mend the toaster. It is in bits all over the kitchen.
This is difficult. I don't know whether I am conventional or not. For example, I like eating Indian take aways. Perhaps I should change it to Chinese. I like wearing black jeans. Perhaps I should wear white jeans. And I like reading the Independent. Perhaps I should read the Guardian instead. In fact they might have a diet to try too.
Well, it could be any number of things. Including this.
This is the door into the yard that fell on me last year. Look, there's the accident-prone window cleaner just appearing with his ladder now. Seconds after this photo was taken he managed to knock over the milk and bring down the washing line.
Or perhaps it is the sight of this. Dig has decided to mend the toaster. It is in bits all over the kitchen.
Thursday, 17 January 2008
Clean and tidy
Grit is pleased. Grit is smug. Thanks to not getting distracted every two minutes by Tiger, Shark and Squirrel, Grit has been able to apply herself properly to today's task in the Independent No Diet. And she has brought shape and structure to Thursday.
In fact Grit has achieved something today that she has been too distracted, lethargic and can't-be-arsed to do for the last two years. She has cleaned up her desk. Grit is even now looking for the bison sweeping across the great plains of emptiness around her keyboard after removing a 30cm pile of paper layered over the vast acreage of fake wood. It is sad to say that for the last two years she has propped the keyboard up on this paper cemetery and it has been very uncomfortable. But now, thanks to the Independent No Diet, she has optimised her flexibility, ignored the children, surely lost a pound in weight and achieved no-desk-clutter success!
Look! Grit's desk Before!
And Grit's desk After!
Unfortunately, to celebrate, Grit is drinking a large glass of white wine and contemplating that last year's home-made plum jam goes very well on toast.
In fact Grit has achieved something today that she has been too distracted, lethargic and can't-be-arsed to do for the last two years. She has cleaned up her desk. Grit is even now looking for the bison sweeping across the great plains of emptiness around her keyboard after removing a 30cm pile of paper layered over the vast acreage of fake wood. It is sad to say that for the last two years she has propped the keyboard up on this paper cemetery and it has been very uncomfortable. But now, thanks to the Independent No Diet, she has optimised her flexibility, ignored the children, surely lost a pound in weight and achieved no-desk-clutter success!
Look! Grit's desk Before!
And Grit's desk After!
Unfortunately, to celebrate, Grit is drinking a large glass of white wine and contemplating that last year's home-made plum jam goes very well on toast.
Monday, 14 January 2008
Busy busy busy
Grit is feeling a bit woozy now what with stabbing herself in the hand while dancing to the Levellers in the kitchen. Perhaps dancing while slicing bread is not a good example of multi-tasking.
But, oh my! Has Grit been multi-tasking today!
9am. Everybody: finish reading Tintin and the Shooting Star. Read about Humboldt's South American journey and scientific explorations of the nineteenth century from the lovely new library book that Grit might have to pretend to lose so she can steal.
11am. Get Tiger upstairs sewing the bat. Get Squirrel downstairs doing some maths. Get Shark in the schoolroom doing goodness knows what with some masking tape and string.
Midday. Eat cheese toasties. Changeover. Send Squirrel upstairs to work out her Shipwreck dance and Tiger downstairs ready to go to the bank while Shark researches dolphin names around the world, fired up by Trevor.
1.30pm. Get Squirrel downstairs, past the painter in the middle flat who Grit gets hold of so she can nose about the flat, find out whether it's up for sale and whether the painter wants a cash in hand job for the bathroom upstairs. Offer Squirrel some art with a block of wood and some felt tips. Send Tiger back upstairs to listen to The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe. Get Shark to sew some of her dolphin.
3pm. Everybody. Watch The Secret Garden and call it Film Studies.
5pm. Eat jam sandwiches. Take Squirrel down to ballet and Shark and Tiger to a new drama group that Grit is not impressed by but, hey, it's in walking distance and the fresh air does them good.
7pm. Back for cooking more than sandwiches and consider that today I have not done the Independent diet task because I have not had time. Think it would probably not be wise because it is 'Change how you behave in a group'. I did non-organising yesterday and nothing got done.
9pm. Drink wine and promise to do tomorrow's task. Tomorrow's task is 'Change your energy level'. That gives me licence to loll about on the sofa slurping Martinis and learning how to smoke cigars.
And here's a picture of Tiger wrapped in BacoFoil holding the head of a unicorn.
She tells me she is dressed in her armour. This is for reenactments of the Hundred Years War. The bit under Edward III, obviously. I say one glimpse of that and those Frenchies would surely have surrendered.
But, oh my! Has Grit been multi-tasking today!
9am. Everybody: finish reading Tintin and the Shooting Star. Read about Humboldt's South American journey and scientific explorations of the nineteenth century from the lovely new library book that Grit might have to pretend to lose so she can steal.
11am. Get Tiger upstairs sewing the bat. Get Squirrel downstairs doing some maths. Get Shark in the schoolroom doing goodness knows what with some masking tape and string.
Midday. Eat cheese toasties. Changeover. Send Squirrel upstairs to work out her Shipwreck dance and Tiger downstairs ready to go to the bank while Shark researches dolphin names around the world, fired up by Trevor.
1.30pm. Get Squirrel downstairs, past the painter in the middle flat who Grit gets hold of so she can nose about the flat, find out whether it's up for sale and whether the painter wants a cash in hand job for the bathroom upstairs. Offer Squirrel some art with a block of wood and some felt tips. Send Tiger back upstairs to listen to The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe. Get Shark to sew some of her dolphin.
3pm. Everybody. Watch The Secret Garden and call it Film Studies.
5pm. Eat jam sandwiches. Take Squirrel down to ballet and Shark and Tiger to a new drama group that Grit is not impressed by but, hey, it's in walking distance and the fresh air does them good.
7pm. Back for cooking more than sandwiches and consider that today I have not done the Independent diet task because I have not had time. Think it would probably not be wise because it is 'Change how you behave in a group'. I did non-organising yesterday and nothing got done.
9pm. Drink wine and promise to do tomorrow's task. Tomorrow's task is 'Change your energy level'. That gives me licence to loll about on the sofa slurping Martinis and learning how to smoke cigars.
And here's a picture of Tiger wrapped in BacoFoil holding the head of a unicorn.
She tells me she is dressed in her armour. This is for reenactments of the Hundred Years War. The bit under Edward III, obviously. I say one glimpse of that and those Frenchies would surely have surrendered.
Saturday, 12 January 2008
Grit grump
Today's task is to be nice to people and do a random act of kindness.
Huh.
Now I know that carrying out a random act of kindness was in my original resolution list for 2008. Actually, I was working on it. I'd made this cute cloth bag to give away to the next person behind me in the queue at Tesco. I was planning to write on it in big letters 'This bag is not by Anya Hindmarch. It is a not-for-profit random act of kindness. Bloody well enjoy it'.
And then my attempt was subverted by Tiger. Stupidly, before writing my kind message, I handed over the cloth bag to Tiger to decorate one side with a picture of a horse with her fabric pastels. But then she went and scribbled over both sides and it looks crap all over. So I'm using it for library books.
After that, I began to think that I do kind things everyday. Yeah, actually, I do. I run baths for other people. I cook food for other people. I do laundry for other people. I get shoes from upstairs under the beds for other people. I say hello to the postman. I say thank you at the Co-op. Even yesterday I let the old woman with the shopper get up out of the road where she'd fallen over before I drove on. I think I do my bit.
So now that I read the next step on my Independent no diet plan is to be kind, I'm sort of pissed off. I've half a mind to go round and see if I can insult and offend everyone.
Anyway, as I'm feeling bolshy, here's a list. And I'll be bloody kind in my own time.
1. Aunty Dee has arrived. Apparently she has been to a dental appointment and routed back to see us. This is actually a six hour drive. The way Aunty Dee drives, it should take twelve.
2. Winter tennis lessons have started.
3. I put the phrase 'my carrots look like a bag of shrunken willies' on a cookery discussion list.
4. When the next person says 'Triplets! I've not seen triplets before!' I'm going to shout 'Pedophile!'
5. Thank God the Evangelical Christian home educator didn't get hold of me again. I gave her the slip last time and she came round with a flyer for a kid's party when really it was a cover about being led to Jesus.
6. Lolling about in bed this morning scoffing chocolate digestives I read last Sunday's Independent and saw that someone in London thought that Margaret Thatcher was the best prime minister ever. Yes, that's what Grit says now. Bring her back! Bring her back!
Grit will probably be back to normal tomorrow.
Huh.
Now I know that carrying out a random act of kindness was in my original resolution list for 2008. Actually, I was working on it. I'd made this cute cloth bag to give away to the next person behind me in the queue at Tesco. I was planning to write on it in big letters 'This bag is not by Anya Hindmarch. It is a not-for-profit random act of kindness. Bloody well enjoy it'.
And then my attempt was subverted by Tiger. Stupidly, before writing my kind message, I handed over the cloth bag to Tiger to decorate one side with a picture of a horse with her fabric pastels. But then she went and scribbled over both sides and it looks crap all over. So I'm using it for library books.
After that, I began to think that I do kind things everyday. Yeah, actually, I do. I run baths for other people. I cook food for other people. I do laundry for other people. I get shoes from upstairs under the beds for other people. I say hello to the postman. I say thank you at the Co-op. Even yesterday I let the old woman with the shopper get up out of the road where she'd fallen over before I drove on. I think I do my bit.
So now that I read the next step on my Independent no diet plan is to be kind, I'm sort of pissed off. I've half a mind to go round and see if I can insult and offend everyone.
Anyway, as I'm feeling bolshy, here's a list. And I'll be bloody kind in my own time.
1. Aunty Dee has arrived. Apparently she has been to a dental appointment and routed back to see us. This is actually a six hour drive. The way Aunty Dee drives, it should take twelve.
2. Winter tennis lessons have started.
3. I put the phrase 'my carrots look like a bag of shrunken willies' on a cookery discussion list.
4. When the next person says 'Triplets! I've not seen triplets before!' I'm going to shout 'Pedophile!'
5. Thank God the Evangelical Christian home educator didn't get hold of me again. I gave her the slip last time and she came round with a flyer for a kid's party when really it was a cover about being led to Jesus.
6. Lolling about in bed this morning scoffing chocolate digestives I read last Sunday's Independent and saw that someone in London thought that Margaret Thatcher was the best prime minister ever. Yes, that's what Grit says now. Bring her back! Bring her back!
Grit will probably be back to normal tomorrow.
Friday, 11 January 2008
One step ahead
Another diet day! Another task! Today's task is to get up one hour earlier than normal and use the hour productively.
This does not mean Grit sloping back to bed and slurping an extra cup of delicious black coffee while reading the wonderful Independent. Neither does it mean weasling and fibbing that she does not normally loll around in bed so today she can. No. This task is to be done properly.
And I do get up earlier. And I do not read the newspaper. Much. And I do use the extra hour productively. I make a To Do list. It has 57 things on it. And I'm noting this achievement on the blog.
Amazingly, on achieving and completing this recording task, I see that by the logic of my blog diary I have got to Friday, even though I am writing this post on Thursday. Which just goes to prove how truly effective is the Independent no diet. It can actually transform time itself.
Of course it could not possibly be that I am unable to read, organise or maintain a simple diary, and have, as a consequence, already messed up the days of the week and the tasks that I have been doing, so today's task was yesterday, and tomorrow's is today.
Meanwhile, until everybody else gets to Friday, here are some pictures.
This is Tiger in the woods with a picture of a lizard jumping up to a tree branch on her face. It's not a crocodile.
This is Shark with two dolphins jumping out of the sea. They are not killer whales.
Both are very good attempts by Mummy Grit with the face paints box.
This does not mean Grit sloping back to bed and slurping an extra cup of delicious black coffee while reading the wonderful Independent. Neither does it mean weasling and fibbing that she does not normally loll around in bed so today she can. No. This task is to be done properly.
And I do get up earlier. And I do not read the newspaper. Much. And I do use the extra hour productively. I make a To Do list. It has 57 things on it. And I'm noting this achievement on the blog.
Amazingly, on achieving and completing this recording task, I see that by the logic of my blog diary I have got to Friday, even though I am writing this post on Thursday. Which just goes to prove how truly effective is the Independent no diet. It can actually transform time itself.
Of course it could not possibly be that I am unable to read, organise or maintain a simple diary, and have, as a consequence, already messed up the days of the week and the tasks that I have been doing, so today's task was yesterday, and tomorrow's is today.
Meanwhile, until everybody else gets to Friday, here are some pictures.
This is Tiger in the woods with a picture of a lizard jumping up to a tree branch on her face. It's not a crocodile.
This is Shark with two dolphins jumping out of the sea. They are not killer whales.
Both are very good attempts by Mummy Grit with the face paints box.
Thursday, 10 January 2008
Walking, briskly.
Task number 4 on the Independent no diet regime is to go for a brisk 15 minute walk.
Grit started this at 6.47pm. At this time it is all dark and cold and stormy. Shark, Squirrel and Tiger are all locked up safe and warm in the house watching a DVD about two baby boy tigers who are separated at birth and have lots of adventures before being reunited as big tigers.
Hopefully the ending to the film won't be that the two tigers meet and fail to recognise each other and then proceed to rip great big chunks out of each other's throats in a battle to the death over territory and girl tigers. I won't know the end because I am heading hot-foot down the post office where the late collection is 7pm.
Actually, I would prefer my 15-minute walk to be other than a last-minute dash to the post box, holding a letter of appeal to Vinci car parking services, from whom today I have a parking ticket and a fine of £60.
This is typical. I actually have a car parking pass valid for today and was unable to put it on the vehicle thanks to the person holding it having disappeared and Tiger having a big scream outside Kentucky Fried Chicken. When I got back to the car with the pass that I'd managed to track down and saw the parking ticket I then went off hunting the warden who'd put it there.
On consideration, what with the walking about looking for the parking pass and then the traffic warden in the freezing cold outside the shopping centre, perhaps I can add another 30 minutes to today's brisk walk.
In a way it was quite energising. In fact I might try the same again tomorrow, only without the parking involvement.
Grit started this at 6.47pm. At this time it is all dark and cold and stormy. Shark, Squirrel and Tiger are all locked up safe and warm in the house watching a DVD about two baby boy tigers who are separated at birth and have lots of adventures before being reunited as big tigers.
Hopefully the ending to the film won't be that the two tigers meet and fail to recognise each other and then proceed to rip great big chunks out of each other's throats in a battle to the death over territory and girl tigers. I won't know the end because I am heading hot-foot down the post office where the late collection is 7pm.
Actually, I would prefer my 15-minute walk to be other than a last-minute dash to the post box, holding a letter of appeal to Vinci car parking services, from whom today I have a parking ticket and a fine of £60.
This is typical. I actually have a car parking pass valid for today and was unable to put it on the vehicle thanks to the person holding it having disappeared and Tiger having a big scream outside Kentucky Fried Chicken. When I got back to the car with the pass that I'd managed to track down and saw the parking ticket I then went off hunting the warden who'd put it there.
On consideration, what with the walking about looking for the parking pass and then the traffic warden in the freezing cold outside the shopping centre, perhaps I can add another 30 minutes to today's brisk walk.
In a way it was quite energising. In fact I might try the same again tomorrow, only without the parking involvement.
Wednesday, 9 January 2008
Tea or coffee?
This is not a good day.
Today the diet task is to change our drinking routine. I realise, in hindsight, I could have interpreted this. I could have drunk a Pouilly Fume, for example, instead of the cheap red stuff I get from the Co-op at two litres for a fiver.
But, foolishly, I did not. Disastrously, I changed morning coffee for tea.
Normally, Grit rolls out of bed and makes strong black coffee and none of that instant crap either. Now I don't know if there are special little connectors between brain and mouth, and they're only activated by strong black coffee, but my brain spends most of today not connected to my mouth at all, thus ensuring a constant stream of incoherent rubbish.
Example 1: Grit has driven Shark, Squirrel and Tiger to art with Hitler. They have unwisely started these art lessons again, even though mummy Grit has told them that Teech is really a witch is disguise and has no toes. It is all to no avail. Shark, Squirrel and Tiger want to go because Em, their little friend is here, and they get biscuits at breaktime. But we are late. And thus, the following as we disgorge from the car in the car park outside the lesson:
Mummy Grit: Quick! Quick! Get down and get in the box! Quick! Quick!
Squirrel: What is the box?
Mummy Grit: What box? Is there a box? Have you brought a box? You haven't brought a box have you? We haven't got time for boxes. Just get in there now. If Hitler asks, say the battery fell out.
Example 2: We are in Hitler's art. It is no better than when we did this before. In fact, it is worse. Hitler holds up a painting of a horse by George Stubbs and all but says 'Look at the gee gee, isn't it a pretty gee gee? Now everyone, this is art, so go and colour in a horse mask. Look! I know you couldn't possibly draw a horse face, so the mask outline is already on your desk! I ripped it off from Enchanted Learning!'
Grit is seething. But there is worse to come. Shark, Squirrel and Tiger quickly finish the colouring in. Teech comes over and gives them a picture of a robot and says 'See if you can do a robot mask'. Grit, who has discovered it is her turn to to the ruddy teas and coffees again, comes in and finds Squirrel drawing a robot. 'What's this?' I ask. Squirrel shrugs her shoulders and replies 'Dunno. It's something she gave us to keep us quiet'. Grit is incensed. Grit is outraged. Perhaps coffee has an effect on her socialisation skills too. Because Grit takes the picture of a robot, holds it up in the air and:
Grit to Hitler (shouting in a very challenging voice): Has this got anything to do with horses?
Hitler: er... it's Epstein... er
Grit (even louder): Is it anything to do with horses?
Hitler: er... no... it's...
Grit (slamming picture of robot on desk): Ha! So it's not a horse! I didn't think it was a horse! It looks nothing like a horse! Does it look like a horse? It doesn't! And it isn't!
Example 3: French starts half an hour after art finishes. Fortunately, it's in the same little town, so we don't have to drive. But today Grit has had to help with the clearing up after art because of the rota that she didn't know she was on, so we are late. Thus, running across the car park towards the zebra crossing:
Grit: Quick! Quick! We are late! Squirrel stop mucking about! Let's get across the table! (pause) Table? Table? Did I say table?
Sadly, this is proof enough that there is no substitute for a good cup of strong black coffee in a morning. On this one, I may just have to gain the pounds.
Today the diet task is to change our drinking routine. I realise, in hindsight, I could have interpreted this. I could have drunk a Pouilly Fume, for example, instead of the cheap red stuff I get from the Co-op at two litres for a fiver.
But, foolishly, I did not. Disastrously, I changed morning coffee for tea.
Normally, Grit rolls out of bed and makes strong black coffee and none of that instant crap either. Now I don't know if there are special little connectors between brain and mouth, and they're only activated by strong black coffee, but my brain spends most of today not connected to my mouth at all, thus ensuring a constant stream of incoherent rubbish.
Example 1: Grit has driven Shark, Squirrel and Tiger to art with Hitler. They have unwisely started these art lessons again, even though mummy Grit has told them that Teech is really a witch is disguise and has no toes. It is all to no avail. Shark, Squirrel and Tiger want to go because Em, their little friend is here, and they get biscuits at breaktime. But we are late. And thus, the following as we disgorge from the car in the car park outside the lesson:
Mummy Grit: Quick! Quick! Get down and get in the box! Quick! Quick!
Squirrel: What is the box?
Mummy Grit: What box? Is there a box? Have you brought a box? You haven't brought a box have you? We haven't got time for boxes. Just get in there now. If Hitler asks, say the battery fell out.
Example 2: We are in Hitler's art. It is no better than when we did this before. In fact, it is worse. Hitler holds up a painting of a horse by George Stubbs and all but says 'Look at the gee gee, isn't it a pretty gee gee? Now everyone, this is art, so go and colour in a horse mask. Look! I know you couldn't possibly draw a horse face, so the mask outline is already on your desk! I ripped it off from Enchanted Learning!'
Grit is seething. But there is worse to come. Shark, Squirrel and Tiger quickly finish the colouring in. Teech comes over and gives them a picture of a robot and says 'See if you can do a robot mask'. Grit, who has discovered it is her turn to to the ruddy teas and coffees again, comes in and finds Squirrel drawing a robot. 'What's this?' I ask. Squirrel shrugs her shoulders and replies 'Dunno. It's something she gave us to keep us quiet'. Grit is incensed. Grit is outraged. Perhaps coffee has an effect on her socialisation skills too. Because Grit takes the picture of a robot, holds it up in the air and:
Grit to Hitler (shouting in a very challenging voice): Has this got anything to do with horses?
Hitler: er... it's Epstein... er
Grit (even louder): Is it anything to do with horses?
Hitler: er... no... it's...
Grit (slamming picture of robot on desk): Ha! So it's not a horse! I didn't think it was a horse! It looks nothing like a horse! Does it look like a horse? It doesn't! And it isn't!
Example 3: French starts half an hour after art finishes. Fortunately, it's in the same little town, so we don't have to drive. But today Grit has had to help with the clearing up after art because of the rota that she didn't know she was on, so we are late. Thus, running across the car park towards the zebra crossing:
Grit: Quick! Quick! We are late! Squirrel stop mucking about! Let's get across the table! (pause) Table? Table? Did I say table?
Sadly, this is proof enough that there is no substitute for a good cup of strong black coffee in a morning. On this one, I may just have to gain the pounds.
Tuesday, 8 January 2008
Not posting
Grit is not allowed to post today because she must break her fatty habit web.
Grit has got into the very bad habit of sitting down at her desk at the end of a long and tiring day composing a blog entry with a glass of beer / wine / whisky at her side. (Not all at the same time, obviously.) This habit must be broken if I am to do anything about my rear.
So I am not posting about today.
Incidentally, a bit of mail arrived today addressed to Pastry, who left the middle flat in 2006. I see the return address is Alston Hall. I am reminded by that bit of mail that in 1993 I set the fire alarm off in Alston Hall and got the entire fire brigade out at 6am.
Dig was telling everyone about commas that day and had to get up early to write the conclusion to a very important thing he was about to say. I put the kettle on for a morning cup of tea and within minutes all the other guests are out in the yard in their pyjamas. But not Grit and Dig. We had been given a room in the annexe where the fire alarm didn't sound. We only knew the fire brigade were there because at 6.15 three beefy firemen burst into the room while Dig was lying half asleep in bed and Grit was on the toilet.
I think that might have been the day that Dig realised I was the woman of his dreams.
Grit has got into the very bad habit of sitting down at her desk at the end of a long and tiring day composing a blog entry with a glass of beer / wine / whisky at her side. (Not all at the same time, obviously.) This habit must be broken if I am to do anything about my rear.
So I am not posting about today.
Incidentally, a bit of mail arrived today addressed to Pastry, who left the middle flat in 2006. I see the return address is Alston Hall. I am reminded by that bit of mail that in 1993 I set the fire alarm off in Alston Hall and got the entire fire brigade out at 6am.
Dig was telling everyone about commas that day and had to get up early to write the conclusion to a very important thing he was about to say. I put the kettle on for a morning cup of tea and within minutes all the other guests are out in the yard in their pyjamas. But not Grit and Dig. We had been given a room in the annexe where the fire alarm didn't sound. We only knew the fire brigade were there because at 6.15 three beefy firemen burst into the room while Dig was lying half asleep in bed and Grit was on the toilet.
I think that might have been the day that Dig realised I was the woman of his dreams.
Monday, 7 January 2008
Positive steps to a new Grit
And we're off the starting blocks here with the no diet book free from the Independent.
We dieters apparently have to change our bad ways of cruising by the bread bin and knocking up a tasty jam sandwich. We must change our habits through Tasks.
Task 1 of the first week is to change fatty habits by not watching TV.
Grit is smug. Not watching TV is easy. Grit does not normally watch TV because Grit is too busy with the dishwasher, laundry, clearing up, reading about polar explorers, wiping up paint, saying I cannot make a Snow Queen dress because the newsagents have been on the phone again and, what's more, I have to get down the post office to post the Christmas cards etc etc etc.
But today I obviously have to reverse this habit. So I check the listings just in case I'd like to change my ways by telling Shark, Squirrel and Tiger to push off, then lolling on the sofa and watching TV. I see the only thing to watch is Timeteam. Obviously now I've read that, I can't miss it, so I've recorded it. I reason I can watch Timeteam on another day when I'm doing another task and no-one is looking.
Not watching TV is not quite enough of a fatty-habit-changing task for an enthusiastic dieting Grit who does not watch much TV. So Grit does this instead in the hope of dropping two stone:
1. I have thrown out the single Quorn sausage that is in the fridge. Grit, I say, no one is going to eat one sausage which has not even been wrapped and has a best before date of 28th December 2007. (Actually when I went to throw out the sausage I did consider cooking it because it smelled alright. Then I wondered about being poisoned by a Quorn sausage and whether it might be a cause of death and leave the children motherless so better not to risk it.)*
2. I have resolved to stop thinking through the consequences of every action which inevitably leads to death, destruction, pollution of the planet, and the children being put into foster homes where they are beaten, abused, and sent to school where they are bullied by other children and spoken to harshly by the PE teacher.
3. I have, over the last 24 hours, not just been a selfish, whining, self-pitying, misery guts Grit. I have been thinking of the plights of other people and not just tasty jam sandwiches. I have wondered how to sleep eight people in a house that can accommodate seven. I have wondered about mastitis, recorder books, small gardens and big children. I have thought about discount cards, cat poo and toads. All this blog hopping has been life enriching and is not a fatty habit.
4. In the spirit of reversing some habits I have made two pies. I do not normally make pies. One was apple and the other was pecan and maple syrup, except that I substituted the pecans for walnuts and forgot to add the maple syrup. Both were delicious.
I am now well into the lovely Independent life-changing no diet and look forward to Task 2 which is write something. As I do write, everyday, I may have to change this habit task by not writing anything and lolling in front of the TV eating pies.
Soon, it'll be out with the weighing scales.
* I think I made the right decision. The fridge smells a bit better since I took out the sausage.
We dieters apparently have to change our bad ways of cruising by the bread bin and knocking up a tasty jam sandwich. We must change our habits through Tasks.
Task 1 of the first week is to change fatty habits by not watching TV.
Grit is smug. Not watching TV is easy. Grit does not normally watch TV because Grit is too busy with the dishwasher, laundry, clearing up, reading about polar explorers, wiping up paint, saying I cannot make a Snow Queen dress because the newsagents have been on the phone again and, what's more, I have to get down the post office to post the Christmas cards etc etc etc.
But today I obviously have to reverse this habit. So I check the listings just in case I'd like to change my ways by telling Shark, Squirrel and Tiger to push off, then lolling on the sofa and watching TV. I see the only thing to watch is Timeteam. Obviously now I've read that, I can't miss it, so I've recorded it. I reason I can watch Timeteam on another day when I'm doing another task and no-one is looking.
Not watching TV is not quite enough of a fatty-habit-changing task for an enthusiastic dieting Grit who does not watch much TV. So Grit does this instead in the hope of dropping two stone:
1. I have thrown out the single Quorn sausage that is in the fridge. Grit, I say, no one is going to eat one sausage which has not even been wrapped and has a best before date of 28th December 2007. (Actually when I went to throw out the sausage I did consider cooking it because it smelled alright. Then I wondered about being poisoned by a Quorn sausage and whether it might be a cause of death and leave the children motherless so better not to risk it.)*
2. I have resolved to stop thinking through the consequences of every action which inevitably leads to death, destruction, pollution of the planet, and the children being put into foster homes where they are beaten, abused, and sent to school where they are bullied by other children and spoken to harshly by the PE teacher.
3. I have, over the last 24 hours, not just been a selfish, whining, self-pitying, misery guts Grit. I have been thinking of the plights of other people and not just tasty jam sandwiches. I have wondered how to sleep eight people in a house that can accommodate seven. I have wondered about mastitis, recorder books, small gardens and big children. I have thought about discount cards, cat poo and toads. All this blog hopping has been life enriching and is not a fatty habit.
4. In the spirit of reversing some habits I have made two pies. I do not normally make pies. One was apple and the other was pecan and maple syrup, except that I substituted the pecans for walnuts and forgot to add the maple syrup. Both were delicious.
I am now well into the lovely Independent life-changing no diet and look forward to Task 2 which is write something. As I do write, everyday, I may have to change this habit task by not writing anything and lolling in front of the TV eating pies.
Soon, it'll be out with the weighing scales.
* I think I made the right decision. The fridge smells a bit better since I took out the sausage.
Sunday, 6 January 2008
A New Grit
I am a Changed Grit.
I have read this morning, while lolling about in bed with a bottle of brandy and a box of chocolate biscuits, the Independent guide to being A New Grit.
I realise now that the Old Grit has got into some very bad habits. Lolling about in bed with a delicious selection of broken biscuits from the milk man is one of them. They are bad, Grit, bad. They are a collection of trans fatty things and they are going to do immense harm to your British Museum.
Right. From this moment on I am A New Grit. I am breaking bad habits. I will not eat standing up nor loll about in bed with trans fatties. No. I will not put on the old black jeans every morning either. Nor speak to the children in that off-hand way like 'Be quiet and stop arguing'. I will take time to listen to them and to ask them the important things like 'Now Tiger, tell me. Why did you get Shark on the floor and give her a good thrashing?' Thanks to the Independent and breaking these bad bad habits I will not only be two stone lighter and fit into a size 10 I will be a better mother.
Thus I am resolved. I am so resolved in fact I am going to get out the vacuum cleaner. And here is a picture of Grit's new breakfast in a proper bowl. And here is the skirt and boot combination I am now wearing.
Look! Soya milk and brazil nuts! And banana! This is very good going.
Can you believe it? See what the Independent has done for me. This is the first time I have not worn a pair of old stained jeans since that night I went down to London with Dig and upset that woman who turned out to be the guest of honour and the giver of the prizes. Well I had never heard of her.
It does not matter that these boots are hurting my toes. I am not giving up. I realise, that for the New Grit, comfort and beauty do not always go together. And in a minute I'll be getting down the 'What Not to Wear' book as well.
If this heady mixture were not enough I have found renewed purpose to blog. Golly. I think I might put Tiger onto this.
I have read this morning, while lolling about in bed with a bottle of brandy and a box of chocolate biscuits, the Independent guide to being A New Grit.
I realise now that the Old Grit has got into some very bad habits. Lolling about in bed with a delicious selection of broken biscuits from the milk man is one of them. They are bad, Grit, bad. They are a collection of trans fatty things and they are going to do immense harm to your British Museum.
Right. From this moment on I am A New Grit. I am breaking bad habits. I will not eat standing up nor loll about in bed with trans fatties. No. I will not put on the old black jeans every morning either. Nor speak to the children in that off-hand way like 'Be quiet and stop arguing'. I will take time to listen to them and to ask them the important things like 'Now Tiger, tell me. Why did you get Shark on the floor and give her a good thrashing?' Thanks to the Independent and breaking these bad bad habits I will not only be two stone lighter and fit into a size 10 I will be a better mother.
Thus I am resolved. I am so resolved in fact I am going to get out the vacuum cleaner. And here is a picture of Grit's new breakfast in a proper bowl. And here is the skirt and boot combination I am now wearing.
Look! Soya milk and brazil nuts! And banana! This is very good going.
Can you believe it? See what the Independent has done for me. This is the first time I have not worn a pair of old stained jeans since that night I went down to London with Dig and upset that woman who turned out to be the guest of honour and the giver of the prizes. Well I had never heard of her.It does not matter that these boots are hurting my toes. I am not giving up. I realise, that for the New Grit, comfort and beauty do not always go together. And in a minute I'll be getting down the 'What Not to Wear' book as well.
If this heady mixture were not enough I have found renewed purpose to blog. Golly. I think I might put Tiger onto this.
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