Which is just as well, what with teachers constantly needing to meet targets, nag parents a lot and generally concentrate on keeping authoritative adults happy.
It seems, now that Husband has become plain Husband again - back at work, out of my hair and reasonably healthy - and I've got some time to myself to chase up work and think about writing, that I've got the time and mental space to start becoming Angry from Norfolk again. Which always happens in the case of me and school. It did while I was there and it's worse now that I'm not but my child is.
Is it just me? Or does it seem to anyone else that schools, thwarted of the right to power-trip over kids anymore, now pick on the parents?
Not only do we get terse, snitty little letters home about how crap we are because we don't basically sign over the equivalent of a mortgage payment and seal a document in blood allowing them rights over our time, but two days ago, I turned up at school to find a couple of policemen taking down people's number plates during the morning school run.
Then, yesterday, a pompous, threatening letter home informing parents that those who flout parking 'rules' will be fined, slapped with penalties and, should they dare flout again, have their car taken away. A tad strong, I feel, for a village cul-de-sac road with no lines and no signs.
Not to mention that it is the school's policy to have a mere 10 minute window for parents to drop their kids off. I know. I KNOW. The answer is blindingly obvious. But the Acting Head, failing to be convinced that to open the gates for even an extra 10 mins a morning, might just help with congestion a little, refuses to accept this. Apparently, they can't afford to staff the playground for an extra hour a week, and they need all their time to get ready for the day.
I hate to sound like I have a problem with parochialism, but have these people forgotten what life in a city is like?
This is a village school with 110 kids. There's no breakfast club and no after-school club. And while it might be a great little school, it hardly boasts the same workload as a junior in inner city London, Manchester, Birmingham, or even, for the love of God, Norwich. There isn't even one child in the school who doesn't have middle-class English as its first, probably ONLY language. (And I don't care what teachers say about how hard it is. You do a short day and get 13 weeks of paid holiday a year, so you have plenty of time to recover, don't you?)
Lordy mama. If it's not paperwork, or trying to make you bring or buy something, remembering tokens, spellings, homework, keeping up with your 'bills', attending the assemblies, sports days, plays, party, fete, barbecue, fundraisers, booksales, it's outright threats.
Vive la revolution!
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Thursday, May 10, 2007
If 50 is the new 30, what's 40?
Does that mean 40 is the new 20? 30 the new 10? I'm confused. One minute we're all being told that 40 is the new 30, thanks to the likes of Madonna et al and all their vampiric avoidance of sunlight, carbs and anything remotely fun, and now we're being told 50-somethings live like 30-somethings. Probably having a better time, if anything. None of that career angst or inner turmoil about relationships and whether or not you should be freezing a few eggs for the future.
But 40 being the new 20? Purlease. Like I want to go back to being a naive, binge-drinking, diet-obsessed, angst-ridden, bad-choice-making bag of insecurity. When I can have wrinkles, sagging, food intolerances, fungal issues, hormonal civil war, more than a healthy curiosity about Tena Lady pads, and total and utter confidence annhilation thanks to encroaching middle age and being out of the workplace to child-rear for what seems like eternity.
But I've had a break. A week's holiday without the kids. The equivalent then to about 6 weeks with them, it being one of life's great oxymoron's: A Holiday With The Children.
And I needed that break. Husband has almost lost his moniker. Soon he will stop being Recovering Husband (in about four days' time) and become simply Husband again. Or, because he's starting a new job, some other title that will reflect how he copes. Bearing in mind that his default setting under stress is usually Rage, it will be interesting to see.
But anyway, I went to have some bloods done this morning - I think after the negligence with which they handled Recovering Husband's illness, they're intent on doing absolutely everything they can to and for both of us (would it be cynical here to think about shutting gates when horses have bolted?) in the form of some kind of MOT - and got chatting to the phlebotomist about this being the year in which she and I both turn the dreaded 40. Why do we dread it? It's so irrational. It's only another day. Only a zero on a birthday. Your teeth aren't suddenly going to drop out, or your hair blue rinse itself in the the night, or your clothes magically transform into polyester florals and shoes that can accommodate gout. It's still relatively young, although also the time you really do need to start thinking seriously about your health. (I know. I KNOW. I've made the appointment with the Stop Smoking Service...)
So is it because we're simply half way or more through our lives - and feeling it? Or because you know that change now is going to get harder on any level, psychologically, physically, environmentally? And that you're running out of time. If it needs changing, it needs changing soon or before you know it, you'll be middle aged and watching years pass you by like cars on a motorway while you're stuck on the hard shoulder waiting for the AA and wishing you'd remembered your Tena Ladys.
Whatever, we agreed on one thing. It is bloody horrible.
But 40 being the new 20? Purlease. Like I want to go back to being a naive, binge-drinking, diet-obsessed, angst-ridden, bad-choice-making bag of insecurity. When I can have wrinkles, sagging, food intolerances, fungal issues, hormonal civil war, more than a healthy curiosity about Tena Lady pads, and total and utter confidence annhilation thanks to encroaching middle age and being out of the workplace to child-rear for what seems like eternity.
But I've had a break. A week's holiday without the kids. The equivalent then to about 6 weeks with them, it being one of life's great oxymoron's: A Holiday With The Children.
And I needed that break. Husband has almost lost his moniker. Soon he will stop being Recovering Husband (in about four days' time) and become simply Husband again. Or, because he's starting a new job, some other title that will reflect how he copes. Bearing in mind that his default setting under stress is usually Rage, it will be interesting to see.
But anyway, I went to have some bloods done this morning - I think after the negligence with which they handled Recovering Husband's illness, they're intent on doing absolutely everything they can to and for both of us (would it be cynical here to think about shutting gates when horses have bolted?) in the form of some kind of MOT - and got chatting to the phlebotomist about this being the year in which she and I both turn the dreaded 40. Why do we dread it? It's so irrational. It's only another day. Only a zero on a birthday. Your teeth aren't suddenly going to drop out, or your hair blue rinse itself in the the night, or your clothes magically transform into polyester florals and shoes that can accommodate gout. It's still relatively young, although also the time you really do need to start thinking seriously about your health. (I know. I KNOW. I've made the appointment with the Stop Smoking Service...)
So is it because we're simply half way or more through our lives - and feeling it? Or because you know that change now is going to get harder on any level, psychologically, physically, environmentally? And that you're running out of time. If it needs changing, it needs changing soon or before you know it, you'll be middle aged and watching years pass you by like cars on a motorway while you're stuck on the hard shoulder waiting for the AA and wishing you'd remembered your Tena Ladys.
Whatever, we agreed on one thing. It is bloody horrible.
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