We are a Grandmother!

At half past seven this morning, there was still no news on the baby front. I was getting decidedly antsy at this stage; Lord knows how Leane was feeling.

Anyway, off I sloped to school, feeling like it was the last place in the world I wanted to be.

And then, at 1.30, came the call.

'Hello Granny,' said Chris.

She was here!! Baby Kayleigh Louise arrived at 1.07 p.m weighing 7lbs 13 oz, a ten fingers, ten toes, new moon Pisces baby.

HURRAH!!!!!

Off for a visit this evening. She is a very cute baby; even Andy said so, and he is usually very disparaging about new babies, likening them to wizened old men/ Yoda/ E.T and various types of wrinkled fruit. She has Chris's flared nostrils so will be able to continue the family tradition of Kenneth Williams impersonations. She has Leane's chin and eyebrows. She is smooth and pink and robust. She has a good set of lungs and, at only a few hours old, has her Dad already finely trained in the 'squawk -n-pick-me-up' method of parent control.

And that's all for today. This is Granny Denise and Grandad Andy saying night-night sleep tight, there's a new life in the world tonight.

A Much Malarkey Waiting Game

Last night, Chris and Leane came around for a spot of birthday dinner. Chris's birthday, to be precise, which wasn't yesterday but is today. We had chicken pie and /or steak pie, roast potatoes, parsnips and artichokes, and broccoli, followed by trifle and /or birthday cake. I said to Chris, 'We'll have to stop the candles this year; I think 24 is the optimum for an eight inch cake.'

And then I said, 'And listen here, over-due Grand-daughter. Don't you think it's about time you made an appearance and faced the world like a...a...girl?'

Did she hear me? Did she take heed of her Grandmother's advice? Hmmm....

Anyway, we had a nice evening, and sent Chris and Leane home with the advice that the best way to get the baby on her way would be a combination of drinking raspberry leaf tea and bouncing up and down on a space hopper over some speed humps.

At 3.30 this morning, Leane went into labour. Andy said, 'I reckon it was the trifle that did it.'

At 5.45 I was up and about, drinking tea and reading a bloomin' awful book called 'A Year in Christine's Garden' about the gardener Christine Walken. Fantastic gardener she might be; writer she ain't. Still, I whiled away an hour or so looking for double entrendres and being aghast at the over-use of commas and exclamation marks. (!!)

At 8.30 I was out in the front garden weeding the borders and digging in compost and trying to decide whether the little willow tree I planted last year was dead or not. My money's on deceased; Andy reckons I should give it a chance to be alive. Either way, I shan't take it out - it can be used as scaffolding for a clematis.

At 11.30 Andy and I went into town for a mooch and some lunch. I bought a 'Baby Record Book.' V. cute.

At 3.30 we were home. I fell asleep on the sofa; waiting for one's first grandchild to arrive is exhausting business.

And here we are at 5 p.m on Mothering Sunday aka Chris's 24th birthday and still no news of baby. I've made some shortbread. And played with the chickens, who are frankly appalled at the time it takes for a human to produce a baby.

Andy is in the living room do some Wii exercise. This is a shock reaction following a visit to the doctor on Thursday to get his ear syringed. The doctor seemed more concerned with Andy's high blood pressure, mentioning things like 'strokes' and 'heart attacks' and 'we need to do something about this,' which Andy and I took to meaning 'lose some weight or else.' Thinking about it, me making shortbread isn't going to help, is it?

I am supposed to be planning lessons for tomorrow, but I can't settle to it. I am baby focused. Will all go well? It is so far. Will baby be healthy and strong? Nothing to suggest during the pregnancy that she won't be anything other. Will she be born today, on her Dad's birthday? Who can tell?

And how am I going to keep 28 Year 11's occupied all day tomorrow during an English GCSE revision day if I don't get on and prepare something? To be honest, that problem is the least important one in the world right now.

After all these years I've been getting it wrong

What a week. I am pooped. I am more pooped than Captain Poop of Poop-City in Poopopolis was when he won the Who's Pooped the Most Championship, 1987.

Monday I intended to leave work fairly sharpish i.e before 5 p.m because I wanted to get into town to buy Chris's birthday present and a Mother's Day gift for my Mum (don't bother getting me anything, love. Okay Mum, but you know I will anyway).

However, I ended up leaving just after 5 because there were umpteen million 'things to be done IMMEDIATELY' at work so I stayed to get them done because I couldn't bear the weight of guilt if I didn't.

Tuesday was staff training after school. Staff training is where you get to sit in a cold room after a busy day's teaching and listen to a number of people telling you where you are going wrong and how many hoops you need to jump through in order to teach properly. Except we're not allowed to teach any more - we have to 'facilitate learning.' I told my Year 11's of this new concept. They thought it was a hoot. Now, when I see them, they say, 'What aren't you going to teach us today, ma'am?' and then we all have a laugh. I said, 'For those who wish to see a dying art form, I shall be teaching poetry after school tomorrow in a revision session.'

Wednesday - I taught an after school poetry revision session. And then I stopped off at Sainsbugs on the way home to get the weekly shop I should have got the previous weekend. Still needed to get Chris's birthday present; inconsiderately, the town shops are closed by the time I pass through of an evening.

Thursday - another after school staff training session. More of the same - don't do it like that, do it like this. More jargon, more faff. More feeling de-skilled, de-constructed. All this serves to underline my growing conviction that although students learn successfully from my classroom ramblings, teaching is not where I'm meant to be. Managed to get Chris's birthday present on way home, but only because Thursdays are late night shopping days in town.

Friday - that'll be today. Staff INSET day. No children to teach. One hour of 'don't teach like this, learning facilitate like that,' followed by one hour of trying to get to grips with the complexities of an interactive whiteboard. Emerge feeling like a Luddite/ dinosaur/ my Mum (what would I want a computer for? I can manage life perfectly well without a computer. We couldn't afford technology in my day.) Followed by four hours of marking and moderating this year's GCSE coursework. Moderation is a subjective activity. You might just as well pick random numbers from a hat. And it's dire, too, especially when half the girls turf out creative writing a la Enid Blyton on hormone replacement therapy.

This week I planned to use my evenings for turning half a hundred weight of Jerusalem artichokes into soup, making a birthday cake for Chris's birthday on Sunday, reading some of the many books that are awaiting my attention, starting off a new compost bin, writing some more 'Indigo Antfarm, Violet and Blue', catching up with the housework and doing a bit of knitting for now overdue Grand-daughter.

I have done none of these things.

Teaching is getting in the way of my life.

Time for a career change.

And I have 'A PLAN'!!

Vegging Out

Yesterday, I planted the asparagus in the new asparagus bed. Some green stuff, and some purple stuff. This means we now have to stay in this house for at least two more years because the first year after planting asparagus you have to leave any spears that grow alone, in order that the newly planted crowns (that's a technical term y'know) can build up their strength. And then in year two you are supposed to do only a light harvest, so you don't really get to pig out on asparagus until year three.

And I have to say that planting the crowns was a bit of a faff. First you have to dig a deep trench. Then inside the big trench you make a little ridge and then you drape your crowns over the ridge as though you were balancing a many legged cowboy on a particularly wide horse. And then you back fill your trench. Have you ever seen an asparagus crown? Weird looking things. If you attach one to your chin, you can do an impression of an Ood from Doctor Who. I know this because I tried and then I surprised Andy by sticking my head around the kitchen door and saying, 'Look at me! I'm an Ood!!'

He said it was a very impressive impersonation. Like an Ood was ACTUALLY there in person. Or Oodson.

Anyway, the asparagus is in and I shall wait with nervous trepidation for signs of greenery lest I have killed it/ planted it upside-down/ got my trench-ridge ratio completely skew-whiff /covered it up so deeply that it will ne'er more see the light of day.

And because the greenhouse was positively tropical I also planted some salad leaves in the hope we're going to be getting a summer this year.

Next, the allotment. Gave the polytunnel a good spring clean. Dug up a hundred-weight of Jerusalem artichokes before the whole plot became over-run with them. I tell you what, if you want a crop that requires minimum effort for maximum output, the Jerusalem artichoke's your man. Bucketfuls of the things we've got.

Pulled up some leeks. And located the parsnips at last. That's the problem with parsnips, I find. If you don't get the blighters out of the ground before their foliage dies back, you've lost them. Still, a bit of judicious prodding in the vicinity of the area where I thought I'd planted them soon produced success, and after that it was just a case of following a straight line upwards to get them all out of the ground. And on the subject of parsnips, I'm going to try chitting the seeds before I plant them this year. They can be tricky to germinate and you can lose a lot of space through no-growing seeds. Putting them on damp kitchen roll (in the manner of growing mustard and cress) can get them started and then you concentrate on planting the seeds that show signs of life and consign the dud ones to the bin.

And so we embark on year 4 of allotmenteering.

The only new growth that isn't appearing at the moment is the Baby-Bug Grand-Daughter. She was due to arrive today. It is half past eight in the evening. No sign of any action as yet. I wish she'd get a move on. I want to buy her a mini-gardening kit and take her allotmenteering with me.

Come Into The Garden Maud

Well, it was about time I got into the garden. It's been a long, wet, snowy winter, and the garden (both front and back) is on the point of neglect.

'Where are we going?' asked Andy, suspicious that I was up with the lark this morning, singing and looking decidedly perky.
'Garden centre,' I said. 'I am spending the day in the garden and I need stuff.'
'I hurt my back at work yesterday,' said Andy.
'Not good enough,' I said. 'We are going to the garden centre.'

So off we hopped, to the garden centre where Number One son Chris works, so I could avail myself of his staff discount.
And we returned with a pair of heavy duty secateurs, some long-cuffed leather gardening gloves, a spade, a wheelbarrow, some knee pads (pink, v. nice) and two lovely blue pots.

Number One on the list of things to do was to empty and move the compost bin from Cluckinghen Palace. I had been having nightmares about finding nests of rats in said bin, having seen a furry visitor run away from it a couple of weeks ago and disappear under the fence to next door. Immediately, I'd been out and laced the rat traps with fresh bait, but I wasn't going to rest until the bin was emptied and moved.

Andy set about moving the bin. He was very brave - he didn't even tuck his trousers into his socks. I wasn't so brave. I had everything tucked into my wellies. No rat was disappearing up my drain-pipe, no sirree. Luring the hens into the North Wing by using copious amounts of grapes, Andy was able to close the double gate that divides the North Wing from the South Wing, whip the bin into the air and let the contents (rat-filled or otherwise) spill over the ground. Result? Lovely compost - no rats!

The compost was moved to the raised bed you may remember the hens built last year for the purpose of salad growing; this year it is going to become 'The Asparagus Bed.'
'I like asparagus,' said Mrs Miggins.
'You've never tried it,' I said.
'Isn't it the stuff that makes your wee turn purple?' said Miggins
'That's beetroot,' I said.
'Oh,' said Mrs Miggins. 'But I don't like beetroot.'
'Quite,' I said.

Whilst the compost was being shifted by a brave Andy-with-an-achey-back using the new wheelbarrow, I set about trying to murder the buddleia with the new secateurs. I tried murdering the buddleia last year but despite my vicious pruning, it sprung back even bushier and full of flower than before. I had studied the buddleia pruning guide in this month's Gardeners' World magazine, but decided my way was the best way so disregarded any advice to 'look for new buds' and hacked away regardless.

The result was that a lot more light appeared in the garden.

And there will be even more light in a couple of months' time, because we have decided the eucalyptus tree must go. It's about 25 feet tall now, and dominating the skyline. And heaving up our small scrap of lawn with its roots. A call to the tree surgeon is in order, methinks.

In the front garden, I applied a similar pruning regime to the rose bushes, and oops, accidentally tugged the cordeline shrub a little too hard and pulled it from the ground.
'You've never liked that shrub, have you?' said Andy.
'No,' I said. 'But as it came out of the ground so easily, it was probably nearly dead anyway.'

All in all, a good gardening day was had. The asparagus bed is ready to receive the asparagus. The empty compost bin is ready to receive a new supply of compostable material. There are a couple of potential spaces available to receive a bee hive. The space vacated by the compost bin is available to receive Andy's next building project of a new conservatory for the hens for extra shelter during the rain. (Or, if Mrs Slocombe has her way, a purpose built rat hotel.)

And the chives, mint and clematis are starting to sprout in their pots, the bluebells are nosing up in the front borders, and there are little tiny leaves appearing on the rose bushes.

Spring is here. At last.

Poultry News

News from Cluckinghen Palace - Mrs Pumphrey is on the job again. No, not that one (minds out of the gutter, please) - the other one. The one involving laying eggs. For two days on the trot we have been back to 3-eggs-a-day production. The girls are on top form. And given that Mrs Miggins is now in her third season, I think that is pretty good going.

'I am great chicken,' says Mrs Miggins.
'Indeed you are,' I say.
'One day there will be a statue erected in my honour,' says Miggins.
'No doubt,' says I. And I am in no doubt because Mrs M has already furnished me with the plans and instructions, and the threat that if I don't see to the aforesaid monument immediately after her demise she'll be back to haunt me.
'It's a particularly fine statue, don't you think?' says Miggins. 'I especially like the fact it is of me perched on a hugh pile of eggs and wearing my best Dame Edna spectacles.'

So here we are, chicken keepers of nearly two years now. I have decided that keeping chickens is one of my favourite things. Even the part that involves winter morning forays into the garden in jim-jams and wellies to carry out chicken breakfast duties. Because when the girls come hippity-hopping from their pod and gather round me for a double handed feeding session, it means my cold hands are smothered by three feather duvets, all warm from a night's toasting.

'I'd like to have a go at hatching my own eggs,' I say to Andy, only today.
'I'm not sure that's possible,' says Andy, 'what with you being human and all.'
'You know what I mean,' I say, and give him a playful shove.

I wait whilst he retrieves himself from the floor.

'And quail,' I say.
'What do you think I'm doing down here,' says Andy.
'Ahahahahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaa!!' I say.

(Andy assures me this joke works - at least, he says he gets it. And he didn't have to think about it first.)

But seriously, I would like to have a go at hatching some chicks. I've done some preliminary investigations of incubators, which seem hugely expensive especially as I've got three potential incubators outside. Well, two really. I'm not sure I would trust Mrs Slocombe to be a steady broody hen. But Miggins had a broody patch last year, and I think Mrs Pumphrey would make a fine mother hen.

And I've also been investigating quail. They need investigating; shifty little characters it seems. Some reports suggest they are vicious blighters, other suggest they are endearing little birds who sing a pretty song. But, like bees, I find them strangely fascinating. But you do need four of their eggs to make a decent boiled egg breakfast. And teeny tiny toast soldiers for the dipping.

But if I am going to head into the realms of poultry rearing I need more space. And just yet I don't see how that is going to happen.

However, our continued quest for self-sufficiency takes another step forward in three and a half weeks' time when we go on the bee-keeping course. I hope it goes well. I'm really very keen to be a bee-keeper. And apparently baby quail chicks look like bumblebees. So if we end up getting bees, and the quail have to wait until our small holding introduces itself into our lives, then what I could do is look at some bees through a telescope and pretend they are quail.

It might just work.

Never Rhyme Venus With...

Poetry. Year 7 are doing poetry at the moment. So far we have covered haikus (bless you!), acrostics and limericks. Today we did a spot of Ozymandias. Only a spot, mind, because personally I wouldn't inflict Shelley (Percy Bysshe) on anyone under the age of 35 but hey- ho, follow the scheme of work I must go.

To ease the tension of a class full of eleven year olds trying to get their heads around some weirdo stuff written by a long dead poet, I said, 'In the last ten minutes of the lesson, have a go at writing a bit of your own rhyme.' (The pupils had already told me on no uncertain terms that if it doesn't rhyme it isn't poetry, and no amount of persuasionary tactics were going to convince them otherwise.)

After a few minutes of deeply furrowed brows, sighing and flapping of arms a la 'look at me in my big frilly shirt', Callum beckons me over.

'I've written a poem, ma'am,' he whispers.
'Good,' I say. 'Why are you whispering?'
'Well,' says Callum, 'the poem has a word in it that, er, well, er...' He pauses and I can see he is trying to formulate an explanation. 'It's very scientific,' he declares.
'Okay,' I say. 'Tell me the poem.' And just to be on the safe side, I continue the whispering theme, so as not to risk over-exerting the rest of the class with the loud blurting out of a dubious sounding scientific word.

Callum begins. 'It's about the stars,' he says, by way of preamble. I nod. I am braced.
'I look up to Mars, and I see the stars,' says the embryonic poet. (Or should that be 'embyronic poet??)

I nod. So far so good. Effective use of concise language. Simple rhyme.

'I look up to Venus, and I see a...'

'Okay,' I whisper, with some urgency. 'I can see exactly where this is going, Callum.'

'But it's scientific,' whispers Callum.
'And no doubt biologically correct,' I say. 'But I'm not sure it's wholly suitable to be in your English exercise book.'
'But it's scientific,' Callum insists. I can see he isn't going to let this one go. I can see he is very keen on the piece of poetry he has written.

'Let's think,' I say. 'What if your parents were to open your book and read your poem. What would they think?'

Callum shrugs. 'They wouldn't mind,' he says.
'Okay,' I say. 'What if an OfSted inspector opened your book and read your rhyme.'

Callum shrugs again. This time he does not commit himself to comment. I suspect he thinks it will be my problem.

But should I have let the lad continue on his scientific adventure? Was I being too censorial? (Is that how you spell 'censorial?'). Should I have embraced his freedom of thought, his right to express himself fully in whatever form he wished? Or was I being restrained by my own prudish nature?

Too bloomin' right I was! There are some things I do not wish to see when I am marking, and school boy rhymes with Venus are one of them.

I mean, it's bad enough seeing the pictures the Year 11s draw of Venus rhymes on the covers of their exercise books. Unless they are really pictures of rockets, of course.