Well, I have been spending a very happy few weeks doing one of the things I like doing best which is tutoring. I have been doing: English (of course), Maths (cor blimey), Health and Social Care ( also known as 'elf an' soshul care, innit tho?), Geography (or maybe History, but let's not change the subject aha!), and Resistant Materials which means dealing with wood and metal and occasionally a student's head when they aren't quite getting the finer points of sentence structure or turning fractions into percentages, or finding the area of a triangle and using it to discover the perimeter of a square (ooooh, get me!).
And, as I say, I have been enjoying it very much. The hour long sessions fly by, and it is very smile-inducing and heart-satisfying when a student looks at you and says, 'I never got that before, but I understand now.' This is known in the trade as a 'lightbulb moment'; they occur more frequently in a one-to-one or small group situation mainly, I think, because students have to concentrate as they have someone's undivided attention, and it makes them think and use their time wisely, and not for balancing their mobile phones in their laps and trying to text their mates all the time with the latest piece of (non) scandal. Phone balancing in laps always entertains me because it means I get to say, 'Robert...I sincerely hope it's Joshua's phone that you are finding so interesting about his groin, and nothing else.' Teenage boy blushes ensue!
I also get treated as a confidante. It is surprising how quickly the students in your charge come to trust you. I've heard about attempts to give up smoking, horrid siblings, impending house moves, boyfriend/girlfriend troubles, family illnesses, close encounters with the police, night time escapades, favourite foods/music/films/ways of getting out of homework, exam worries, college worries, what-am-I-going-to-do-with-my-life worries, everyone-hates-me-I-hate-everyone moods, and all the latest fights, gossip and scandals in the local teen community.
This morning was good, too. And when I got home, I checked my e-mail, and there I found a communication from a school in Herefordshire. It is a new school opening in September. I found the advert for it last August when we were holidaying in the county, in a local newspaper and I thought, well, I'll register my interest as an English teacher. Might be the touch of Fate that gets us moving.
The e-mail was, indeed, about a job at the school. There was an attached application form for me if I was still interested in applying for the job.
And the job?
Head teacher!!!
Tuesday, 29 January 2013
Sunday, 27 January 2013
Pottering
Yesterday, I was mostly doing housework via the medium of 'pottering' i.e drifting around the house with a duster and a hoover 'doing' a bit every now and then and with no sense of the usual vim 'n' vigour purpose with which I usually tackle housework on a Saturday morning.
The reason for this was that I didn't really want to do housework but I had to do housework because it was Italian Night chez MMM and the Family were going to descend for home made pizza, gnocchi, potato wedges (okay, I know potato wedges aren't authentic Italian fodder, but for some reason we have accumulated loads of potatoes and they needed using up), tortellini, salad and antipasta in the form of very thin slices of dead piggie which had been killed Lord knows how long ago and spent a lot of the afterlife dangling in some dark shed somewhere 'curing' and 'maturing' and whatever else it has to do before it earns the exotic name of pruscettio. (Is that what it's called? I don't know. I might be making that up.) I also made a non-Italian raspberry cheesecake and a bananas in jelly for Kayleigh which she rejected in favour of cheesecake, ungrateful child, so Mum ate it instead. (My Mum, not Kayleigh's mum...cor, it gets confusing when there are 3 Mums and 2 Grans in the kitchen all at the same time.)
Anyway, what would normally take an hour took nearer to four yesterday, because I kept stopping and sighing, and sitting down and reading a bit of a newspaper or book, or flicking on the telly and sighing again at the shocking state of Saturday morning offerings (remember The Multi-Coloured Swap Shop? The Banana Splits?? Puffenstuff???), and jotting down a couple of bits of random writing, and checking e-mail and making a cheesecake and listening to Radio 4 interspersed with Radio Kent...
...apparently, Britain could be heading for a triple dip recession. If we are, can I put in my order now, please? I'd like cheese and chive, garlic and onion and a nice double chocolate chip to finish, all served with sesame seed breadsticks. Thank you...
...and then I pottered into the garden to chicken chat, and then I cleared the rest of the snow and ice from the front path because I didn't want my Mum to go base over apex and fracture anything.
Then Pandora and I practised our act for Britain's Got Talent. I shall get Andy to video it for you and you can see what you think.
No pottering today, though. Today is a Kayleigh Day. I am off to collect her in a mo. We were going to Go Out For The Day, but it is wet and windy here thus far and the only thing on offer indoors in Kent appears to be an Arachnid and Insect Show at Ashford, and given Kayleigh flips at the sight of the mealworms (dead) that Primrose and Daisy have a handful of each day for protein, enormous spiders, giant millipedes and other weird-looking leggy montrosities are probably not the best idea for entertainment.
'Especially,' said Andy, 'as I am likely to scream like a girl, too.'
The reason for this was that I didn't really want to do housework but I had to do housework because it was Italian Night chez MMM and the Family were going to descend for home made pizza, gnocchi, potato wedges (okay, I know potato wedges aren't authentic Italian fodder, but for some reason we have accumulated loads of potatoes and they needed using up), tortellini, salad and antipasta in the form of very thin slices of dead piggie which had been killed Lord knows how long ago and spent a lot of the afterlife dangling in some dark shed somewhere 'curing' and 'maturing' and whatever else it has to do before it earns the exotic name of pruscettio. (Is that what it's called? I don't know. I might be making that up.) I also made a non-Italian raspberry cheesecake and a bananas in jelly for Kayleigh which she rejected in favour of cheesecake, ungrateful child, so Mum ate it instead. (My Mum, not Kayleigh's mum...cor, it gets confusing when there are 3 Mums and 2 Grans in the kitchen all at the same time.)
Anyway, what would normally take an hour took nearer to four yesterday, because I kept stopping and sighing, and sitting down and reading a bit of a newspaper or book, or flicking on the telly and sighing again at the shocking state of Saturday morning offerings (remember The Multi-Coloured Swap Shop? The Banana Splits?? Puffenstuff???), and jotting down a couple of bits of random writing, and checking e-mail and making a cheesecake and listening to Radio 4 interspersed with Radio Kent...
...apparently, Britain could be heading for a triple dip recession. If we are, can I put in my order now, please? I'd like cheese and chive, garlic and onion and a nice double chocolate chip to finish, all served with sesame seed breadsticks. Thank you...
...and then I pottered into the garden to chicken chat, and then I cleared the rest of the snow and ice from the front path because I didn't want my Mum to go base over apex and fracture anything.
Then Pandora and I practised our act for Britain's Got Talent. I shall get Andy to video it for you and you can see what you think.
No pottering today, though. Today is a Kayleigh Day. I am off to collect her in a mo. We were going to Go Out For The Day, but it is wet and windy here thus far and the only thing on offer indoors in Kent appears to be an Arachnid and Insect Show at Ashford, and given Kayleigh flips at the sight of the mealworms (dead) that Primrose and Daisy have a handful of each day for protein, enormous spiders, giant millipedes and other weird-looking leggy montrosities are probably not the best idea for entertainment.
'Especially,' said Andy, 'as I am likely to scream like a girl, too.'
Friday, 25 January 2013
How To Make Your Head Hurt...
...aside from the obvious, like banging it on an open cupboard door, or trying to remember how to do Maths when you thought the last time you would ever have to do Maths EVER again was when you finished your O level exam 31 years ago, well, the other way is to read all the bumff that goes with trying to register yourself as self-employed with HMRC. (Is the Queen self-employed? Does she have to pay her NI contributions and fill out a self-assessment twice a year? Does she claim back the tax on her Corgi food?)
So, this is what I have been doing this afternoon. To be honest, I have probably read a little bit more than I needed to, given that my self-employed status is going to be very simple i.e tutoring as and where I can find it (unless, of course, the three book novel writing deal comes in), and I am anticipating not even reaching the lower levels of income tax liability let alone being able to claim for things like stationery, petrol and lunch time jollies to Pret a Manger.
The registration form, once I had found the correct one to fill in ('Do NOT fill in this form if you are a fisherman,' etc) was very simple. The only bit that flummoxed me was the bit where I was asked the name of my company. My company? Well, my company at this moment in time are Tybalt (frying his head on the radiator), Phoebe (frying her head on the electric heater) and Pandora (frying her head on my backside and thus preventing me from sitting back in the chair properly, having to perch on the front instead so I don't squish the kitty because the kitty rules).
I don't have a name for my company. It is just me. And as the box was not highlighted by a compulsory information red asterisk, I left it blank. I only hope the Inland Revenue don't call and demand I give my company a name because it will lead to undue pressure, then panic and a stupid name like Testy Tutoring Dot Com being plucked randomly from the air.
I have done some writing this morning. But then I got stuck, and was staring into space and thinking that Hugely Perky was a great name for a character. And when things like that happen, it is best to stand back from the keyboard and do something else instead.
Reading next. Because us self-employed people can!
So, this is what I have been doing this afternoon. To be honest, I have probably read a little bit more than I needed to, given that my self-employed status is going to be very simple i.e tutoring as and where I can find it (unless, of course, the three book novel writing deal comes in), and I am anticipating not even reaching the lower levels of income tax liability let alone being able to claim for things like stationery, petrol and lunch time jollies to Pret a Manger.
The registration form, once I had found the correct one to fill in ('Do NOT fill in this form if you are a fisherman,' etc) was very simple. The only bit that flummoxed me was the bit where I was asked the name of my company. My company? Well, my company at this moment in time are Tybalt (frying his head on the radiator), Phoebe (frying her head on the electric heater) and Pandora (frying her head on my backside and thus preventing me from sitting back in the chair properly, having to perch on the front instead so I don't squish the kitty because the kitty rules).
I don't have a name for my company. It is just me. And as the box was not highlighted by a compulsory information red asterisk, I left it blank. I only hope the Inland Revenue don't call and demand I give my company a name because it will lead to undue pressure, then panic and a stupid name like Testy Tutoring Dot Com being plucked randomly from the air.
I have done some writing this morning. But then I got stuck, and was staring into space and thinking that Hugely Perky was a great name for a character. And when things like that happen, it is best to stand back from the keyboard and do something else instead.
Reading next. Because us self-employed people can!
Tuesday, 22 January 2013
Awesome Roasties, Deux Oeufs and Other Things
Now, firstly, Primrose has again today laid two eggs. I Googled 'can hens lay 2 eggs in a day?' and Google said 'yes' and then Andy pointed out that of course they can because Primrose does, and we have the proof because it is what made me do the Google in the first place, and I felt a bit of a fool because when he put it like that, it just went to show how my thinking brain backfires sometimes...doh!
Secondly, I have been pushing along the story of Minerva Thing today. I managed another thousand words, but it was a bit of an effort, except one bit which I felt was goodish; I suspect that I shall be cutting most of what I wrote today, but such is the writing process. What is really bothering me is that it is turning into a murder mystery, a genre that has never connected with me before, even as a reader. I tried an Ian Rankin once, and even managed to finish it, but it was very irritating, and it was very obvious who dunnit. This could mean, of course, that I have a latent detective mind and maybe murder mystery could be my 'thing' (or Minerva's 'thing' Ahahahahahahahaha!). Time will tell.
(You might be wondering about my odd choice of surname for my anti-heroine. But there is method in my selection as there is a Thing in my ancestry. My great-great-great-great-great grandmother was Elizabeth Thing, marrying Christopher Hallpike in 1814. They lived in Clerkenwell, London. There are other Things in my history, but here is neither the time, the place nor the appropriateness to go into them. Maybe when I am a famous writer and need the injection of a good scandal to boost publicity...)
Thirdly, since when did roast potatoes become 'roasties'? Stop it...NOW! A roast potato is a roast potato. It is not a roastie. Nothing is a 'roastie.' It is a made up marketing work, laziness in the extreme, and unless it has anything to do with Shakespeare I do not want to know. Roast potato, do you hear me? Roast potato!
And whilst we are talking extremities, cease and desist with the 'awesomes' too. I can slightly understand teenagers using the word 'awesome' as a colloquialism, because they are teenagers and often use words out of context, but when adults start using it to describe something which is basically just ordinary or maybe just a little bit good, well, again...STOP IT! Over the top! Unnecessary! Sets my teeth on edge! (Like misuse of the word legend...'and here, in the studio tonight, the legendary explorer Sir David Attenborough.' He isn't legendary! He is there, in front of you. Look...he exists. Reach out and touch him. Not legendary. Now...try and reach out and touch King Arthur...see, you can't...he is legendary...and dead...)
Byeeee!
Secondly, I have been pushing along the story of Minerva Thing today. I managed another thousand words, but it was a bit of an effort, except one bit which I felt was goodish; I suspect that I shall be cutting most of what I wrote today, but such is the writing process. What is really bothering me is that it is turning into a murder mystery, a genre that has never connected with me before, even as a reader. I tried an Ian Rankin once, and even managed to finish it, but it was very irritating, and it was very obvious who dunnit. This could mean, of course, that I have a latent detective mind and maybe murder mystery could be my 'thing' (or Minerva's 'thing' Ahahahahahahahaha!). Time will tell.
(You might be wondering about my odd choice of surname for my anti-heroine. But there is method in my selection as there is a Thing in my ancestry. My great-great-great-great-great grandmother was Elizabeth Thing, marrying Christopher Hallpike in 1814. They lived in Clerkenwell, London. There are other Things in my history, but here is neither the time, the place nor the appropriateness to go into them. Maybe when I am a famous writer and need the injection of a good scandal to boost publicity...)
Thirdly, since when did roast potatoes become 'roasties'? Stop it...NOW! A roast potato is a roast potato. It is not a roastie. Nothing is a 'roastie.' It is a made up marketing work, laziness in the extreme, and unless it has anything to do with Shakespeare I do not want to know. Roast potato, do you hear me? Roast potato!
And whilst we are talking extremities, cease and desist with the 'awesomes' too. I can slightly understand teenagers using the word 'awesome' as a colloquialism, because they are teenagers and often use words out of context, but when adults start using it to describe something which is basically just ordinary or maybe just a little bit good, well, again...STOP IT! Over the top! Unnecessary! Sets my teeth on edge! (Like misuse of the word legend...'and here, in the studio tonight, the legendary explorer Sir David Attenborough.' He isn't legendary! He is there, in front of you. Look...he exists. Reach out and touch him. Not legendary. Now...try and reach out and touch King Arthur...see, you can't...he is legendary...and dead...)
Byeeee!
Monday, 21 January 2013
Murder Most Horrid
Well, I have been writing pretty much all day so far, with periodic breaks for tea, soup and toast, jogging on the spot in an effort to avoid deep vein thrombosis, glances out the window at the hens and the snow and the ominous clouds and the snow, and the snow and the snow, and chewing the edge of my woolly shawl in ponderous thought, and checking my email and the blog of a friend in South-West France who is currently tolerating some pretty scary and fearsome looking flooding on her smallholding and I am concerned that she and her hubbie and their assorted menagerie are going to become a modern-day Noah's Ark.
Anyway, in between all that I have been writing. You see, I started a story a couple of weeks ago. It heaved its way to around 800 miserly words, then ground to a halt. I was a bit annoyed because when the thought for the story materialised I was very excited about it, which is usually a sign for it being a go-er. But it turned out it wasn't, and I got tense with it, hence the dive into the knitting displacement activity.
And then, in the early hours of this morning, when I was suffering the effects of too much potato consumption over the weekend, I suddenly had another idea involving the main character from the story, but putting her in a different situation and killing off her irritating niece who was buttering her up for a pair of £200 designer jeans. And so far this change has resulted in the banging out of nearly 4,000 words!
Now, you might think I should be rightly pleased with this progress, and I am but the problem is that I think this character is turning into a murderess. Yes, indeed. Minerva Thing (for that is her name) might, just might, have murdered her brother. I don't know yet. I hadn't intended for him to be murdered. He is dead, because he tried to retrieve a tobacco tin from a road and got hit in the head by a passing car, but then, as the story unfolded, it suddenly became clear to me during the post-mortem, that he, Clive, might have sustained a fatal injury BEFORE he got hit by the car. Of course, 'twas the car wot did for 'im to your casual bystander, BUT I think there may have been something suspicious occurring beforehand.
I had reached the point where Min has just broken down the door to his study (she is a substantial character - no messing with Minerva Thing) and I don't know what she is going to find. I had to stop and do some medical research into subarachnoid haemorrhage, its causes and effects, and my research has brought me very much to the conclusion that there is more to the death of Clive Thing than would first appear.
Well, Min is waiting for the decorators to arrive. Not sure how she is going to explain the broken study door to them, or to DS Phillips who is going to make a visit around tea time.
But then that's the fun thing about writing - you never know quite where it's going to take you!
Anyway, in between all that I have been writing. You see, I started a story a couple of weeks ago. It heaved its way to around 800 miserly words, then ground to a halt. I was a bit annoyed because when the thought for the story materialised I was very excited about it, which is usually a sign for it being a go-er. But it turned out it wasn't, and I got tense with it, hence the dive into the knitting displacement activity.
And then, in the early hours of this morning, when I was suffering the effects of too much potato consumption over the weekend, I suddenly had another idea involving the main character from the story, but putting her in a different situation and killing off her irritating niece who was buttering her up for a pair of £200 designer jeans. And so far this change has resulted in the banging out of nearly 4,000 words!
Now, you might think I should be rightly pleased with this progress, and I am but the problem is that I think this character is turning into a murderess. Yes, indeed. Minerva Thing (for that is her name) might, just might, have murdered her brother. I don't know yet. I hadn't intended for him to be murdered. He is dead, because he tried to retrieve a tobacco tin from a road and got hit in the head by a passing car, but then, as the story unfolded, it suddenly became clear to me during the post-mortem, that he, Clive, might have sustained a fatal injury BEFORE he got hit by the car. Of course, 'twas the car wot did for 'im to your casual bystander, BUT I think there may have been something suspicious occurring beforehand.
I had reached the point where Min has just broken down the door to his study (she is a substantial character - no messing with Minerva Thing) and I don't know what she is going to find. I had to stop and do some medical research into subarachnoid haemorrhage, its causes and effects, and my research has brought me very much to the conclusion that there is more to the death of Clive Thing than would first appear.
Well, Min is waiting for the decorators to arrive. Not sure how she is going to explain the broken study door to them, or to DS Phillips who is going to make a visit around tea time.
But then that's the fun thing about writing - you never know quite where it's going to take you!
Snow Hens
No tutoring today, as the school is closed for snow. So, your intrepid reporter ventured into the snowy wastes of the back garden here at MMM to interview Hens of the Antarctic aka Primrose and Daisy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)