Combining Teacher Training and Quiz Night

 Last night, our church fielded a team in the local inter-church quiz.  I should probably have been preparing lessons, but instead, I joined.  This quiz has been running for many years and has become a hotly-contested event involving around twenty teams.

"But it’s a church thing", you say, "– surely it can’t be that competitive?"

You’re right, “competitive” is not the word – “internecine” would be better.

And it didn’t look good – there were only six of us rather than the recommended eight, and a couple who had young children to get to bed didn’t even arrive until round two.  But, two of our team members were teachers and recited the classroom mantras,

“Let’s just do our very best,” and “It’s not the winning, but the taking part that counts.”

When hovering between two answers, we were asked to consider “What are the examiners hoping we will put?”

And we were encouraged always to “put something rather than nothing, because you can’t get a mark if you don’t put anything.”

By the end of the evening, I felt I’d received a workshop in good classroom practice.

And the result – we came a creditable third.

Even better, because of our skills in analysing pupil data, we were able to work out that we scored more per person than the winning team!

(Bad losers? Us?)

The Shame Continues

Last night we phoned Pascoe who’s settling in to his PhD at Edinburgh this month.  We could hear from the traffic that he was in the street as he received our call.  He’d just been to the cinema with a fellow researcher.

We were on speaker phone and we chatted about this and that, then Nigel said,

“Did you read Clare’s last blog?”

“Not yet – what’s it about?”

“Oh – don’t tell him,” I chipped in, “Just let him read it for himself.”

But Nigel persisted,

“It’s about Clare sounding as if she’d wet herself in public, in a restaurant.”

“WHAT!” cried Pascoe in disgust, “MUM WET HERSELF IN A RESTAURANT?”

Pause, then, “Oh dear, I said that quite loudly and now people are looking at me.”

“I didn’t!”  I say pathetically, “I didn’t actually wet myself, it just sounded as if I…”

But too late, we had lost signal.

Letting myself down

We dropped off Carenza’s missing bedding at uni on Saturday, then had lunch with our friends Nick and Jackie in the pleasantly crowded café at the Ashmolean Museum.

We swapped family news and Jackie was talking about their tiny grandson and potty-training.  She thought it intriguing that he had said,

’I’ve wee-d because my trousers are wet.’ 

She pondered – “He doesn’t seem to have quite sorted out cause and effect yet.”

I am currently engrossed in training to teach Latin and it may be a sign that I am losing my perspective that I jumped in enthusiastically:

“Oh, that’s a bit like purpose clauses and result clauses in Latin – the words are quite similar and it’s easy to mistake one for the other.  I think, in fact, that your grandson was making sense – what he was really saying was, [and in retrospect, this is the bit where I should have lowered my voice] ‘I know that I have wee-d, because my trousers are wet.’”

Jackie was saying “Oh, that’s an interesting idea,”   But it wasn’t her I was looking at.

I could see past her to the man at the next table.

This man was gaping in open amazement at me – astonished that a middle–aged woman could talk so frankly, so loudly and in such a public place about the delicate subject of her urinary incontinence.

Ready Meals

Nigel and I are both busy at the moment.  Maybe too busy to cook.

While holding the belief that “ready meals are better than they used to be,” I have found the cost and the potential storage problems have meant they weren’t a viable option for feeding a family of five.

But Nigel and I had always said that when, at last, it was just the two of us, we would indulge ourselves by buying some ready meals. 

It would be fun.

So, after dropping off our last child, Carenza, at university, as we reached the outskirts of town, we stopped at a reputable food store known for its ready meals.

But, as we perused the shelves, peering at portions of this and that, all with delicious pictures and descriptions, I began to feel that I had lost my appetite.

I was actually going to miss cooking for five.  And here in the food store, this wasn’t just any sadness I was feeling – it was Marks & Spencer’s sadness.

Bedding

On Sunday we dropped off Carenza at university and the nest is officially now empty.  But possibly not quite as empty as it should be.

Have you ever played “Kim’s Game” – where somebody places a number of random objects on a tray and covers them with a cloth.  They allow you a glimpse, then cover the tray again.  You then have one minute to try to remember the objects you saw on the tray. 

At Carenza’s college we joined her and Hannah and Johnnie for brunch and as we picked at our scrambled eggs, every so often, Carenza would call out the name of a random object. 

Clearly she was playing a version of Kim’s game that involved picturing the things she had left behind on her bedroom floor at home.  This was quite amusing until she said,

“Bedding.  Oh no!  I’ve left behind my entire bedding roll.  Sheets, duvet, everything.”

What will happen?  Will she make a giant hamster nest out of all those clothes she hasn’t hung up yet? Or borrow one item of bedding from each of her friends to make a boho-throw bower-bed?

Or should we have purchased her a couple of nice thick Sunday papers so that she could settle herself down, park bench style?

University Friends

On Saturday, we met up with the other FOMMS – Friends Of Malcolm Mladenovic, a university friend who died of a heart attack a few years ago.   As every year since, we attend a science fiction or fantasy film, which is what Malcolm himself would have enjoyed.  This time it was The Hobbit, Part 2.  Afterwards we have dinner at the Cork and Bottle. 

What do we talk about?  Well, we dissect the film we just saw.  You might have supposed we would reminisce about the old times at university, but  that’s not the case.  Amongst the things that Malcolm bequeathed to us were some new friends, Keith and Richard, who we got to know both before and after his death.  And there are other dear friends who’ve become part of our group since university.  If all we did was to sit round talking about the past, I wouldn’t want to go any more.

When we got back home that night, Carenza’s new university friend, Hannah, had come to stay.  They had just been watching a film together and were now discussing it.  Just as we had viewed a film from their era, they had selected one from ours: When Harry met Sally. 

And the verdict on the films.  The Hobbit 2 made me laugh even more than Harry met Sally.  Only thing is – the places in The Hobbit where I was laughing weren’t meant to be funny.

Time's Up

Perran leaves for university today.  He doesn’t seem at all dismayed at the prospect – quite perky  in fact.  Odd that.

We dropped Pascoe off at university yesterday, and in spite of the challenging meteoric conditions, we could see that he had great accommodation in a magnificent city.

Carenza leaves in a week’s time. 

I start back on my PGCE course tomorrow.  I don’t think I can bear to get out the to-do list that I made at the start of the holiday.  Although I’ve worked quite hard, not nearly enough has been crossed off it.

Why didn’t I just write on it “Dec 29^th, Bring about world peace, Dec 30^th, Find cure for cancer (all forms), Dec 31^st, Solution to global warming?” 

I would have had about as much chance of succeeding.

I haven’t yet made a New Year’s resolution, but this year’s should be not to make over-ambitious to-do lists.

I’d better just jot that down at the bottom of the list: “Make New Year’s Resolution.”  I’ll probably have got round to doing it by this time next year.

Mobbed by Crows

When you drop your oldest son off at the university where he expects to study for the next three years, you hope for a bright hopeful day and cheery surroundings.

When we arrived in Edinburgh with Pascoe and all his worldly goods, the sleet was driving in horizontally.  After an hour of searching in the aforementioned sleet, we were able to confirm that the person in charge of the keys for Pascoe’s accommodation hadn’t made it to work that day. 

Passing over the bit where Pascoe managed to get locked inside a deserted building and had to “squeeze out under a door” (his words) we eventually persuaded a nice administrator to don suitably sturdy outerwear, trek to the office and break in to get the keys for us.

When we reached it, the postgraduate accommodation looked as if it might be gorgeous when fully occupied and in sunshine.  But today, it was grey, deserted and windswept. 

We managed to expose each and every item of Pascoe’s belongings to water damage as we heaved them from the car to the flat.  As we finished, I cast around for a little cheer.  Noticing a large park at the bottom of the road, I said, “Nice that you’re so near a green space.”

“Ah yes,” said Pascoe, “I had to cross that park before, when I came up here searching for accommodation…  I got mobbed by black crows.”

Janus

Janus is the Roman god of doorways.  He has two faces so that he can look both ways at once.  Hence the month of “January”, looking back at the old year, forward to the New Year. 

Looking back, it is incredible to me how much has changed so fast – this time last year, I had a house full of children.

Come to think of it, this time this year, I have a house full of children. 

We’ve been cosy – dammit, we’ve even roasted chestnuts on an open fire.

(Although, due to global warming, Jack Frost has not been nipping at our noses.) 

But it’s January, and the cold wind of change is blowing.  Over the next week and a half, Nigel will be back at work and I to my PGCE course, Pascoe to start his PhD in Edinburgh, Perran to his second term at Bristol, Carenza at Oxford.

I heard Cher on the radio this morning singing, “If I could turn back time…”

But, Cher, I’m here to tell you that you can’t.

So let’s look on the bright side:-

·         The vast and extended clothes-drying system which used to be known simply as “the landing” will become bright and spacious once more.

·         If I put something in the fridge, it will still be in the fridge next time I open the door and look for it.

·         Perran, Pascoe and Carenza will continue to make their perilous way home from late-night venues but, since I will know nothing about it, I shan’t have to worry.

Has this banished my regrets? 

‘Fraid not.  

Perran back from university

Before Christmas Nigel asked,

“Can we go out for the day on Saturday?”

“Not sure.  What if Perran arrives home from uni in the middle of the day and we’re not in?”

I rang him.

“I’ll be home at 7, maybe 9.”

“P.m.?”

“Yeah.  Evening. Then is it okay if I go out?  Everybody’ll be home and we’re all going out on the town.”

Hmmm.

“Well,” I said to Nigel, “Although Perran is clearly missing us desperately, he feels that he can just about bear it if we go out for the day.”

Falling Standards

Much has changed chez nous.  The twins have been away for a term and probably, if they thought of home at all, they thought of it carrying on much as before.  However, as I am studying for my PGCE and commuting many miles each day, my focus has not been domestic. 

After a day or two back home Carenza said plaintively “All my friends said that when I got home you would make a fuss of me!”

By my standards, I had made a fuss of her: I had put sheets on her bed and cleared a path through her belongings so that she could get to it.  What more could she want? 

Apparently a cup of tea and a biscuit would have been nice. 

She has clearly become spoilt.

Last Shout

My friend Diane said, “Christmas doesn’t seem as Christmassy this year.” 

Eventually we worked out that it was because we no longer had the usual school events marking the countdown to December 25^th – the seasonal fair and concert and charity fancy dress day hadn’t happened for us.

But last week there was one last shout – the annual school prize-giving. Ex-students returned to pick up their A level /B-tech certificates.   Not all of them were there – not everybody had returned their reply; not everybody was back from university  (including Perran).

But Carenza took us along.  It was lovely to see both old friends and former teachers again.  Hard not to feel nostalgic for us, but for Carenza even more so.  Before we set off, she took a peek at her old head girl badge, then sighed and put it back in its box.  She wouldn’t be wearing it this year. 

“I’m going to have to ask the people on either side of me to hold me down so I don’t get up, grab a bunch of flowers and make a speech,” she said.

Accommodation

It doesn’t seem five minutes since we got Perran sorted out with accommodation for this year, but already he is having to make plans for next year.  He seems to have found a group that he wants to be with, a good selection of different subjects, nationalities and sexes. 

Moving into a rented house will be an exciting time.  By one week in, Perran and his friends wil be beginning to realise the shortcomings of the plumbing.  By two weeks in, the shortcomings of each other.  Calls to the landlord and to us await.

Being Bristol, it will be much more expensive than Pascoe’s accommodation was in Norwich, but there is one thing that is true of both places  - almost before the ink is dry on the latest contract, it’ll be time to make arrangements for the next year.  

Planning the Holidays

As my PGCE term finishes, I keep thinking about the holiday ahead.  I have three weeks, Nigel and the children at home too for longer or shorter periods, with timings overlapping to a greater or lesser extent.  I keep counting the days ahead like golden coins.  It looks right now as if the stack is tall, but I realise that, in my plans, I have already pre-spent them several times over. 

There are holiday trips to town, country walks, and of course the non-negotiable excursions to see grandparents at the farthest edges of the country.  There are hobbies and reading and watching old films.  There are friends to entertain.  And there’s Christmas cooking and gifts to buy and wrap.

Not to mention reading ahead for our academic courses.

I guess what I need to do most is to scale back my plans and enjoy each day as it comes.

Christmas is where the Heart is.

One of the largest pieces of evidence that the twins have found new families at university is that Christmas at home is not enough for them.  Last Saturday, when we picked Carenza up from her college, there was a wreath on the college door and a Christmas tree in the foyer.  I had thought only shops and families with small children  got their decorations up this early.  But apparently, the students have been celebrating Oxmas, a sort of ersatz pre-Christmas, because it would just be too painful not to celebrate Christmas with your wonderful new friends. 

When we delivered Carenza to spend the weekend at Perran’s flat, later the same day, the kitchen looked festive – the flatmates had pooled resources to buy a fake tree. I was more impressed with what they had done with the multiplicity of advertising flyers which are constantly dumped in student accommodation – they had folded them, then cut them up to make “snowflakes”. 

After the excitement of Christmas with friends, how can we possibly compete at home? 

Perhaps just by being very quiet and very cosy. Does anybody know whether The Great Escape is on the telly this year?

Commute

I have just finished my first PGCE placement.  It was at Buntingford in the distant north of Hertfordshire.  I had to set off at 7:30 each morning to allow an hour for the commute.  Sometimes that was plenty of time, sometimes, congestion around an accident meant it was a narrow squeak.

Both my favourite and my least favourite section of the journey was the single lane road between Baldock and Buntingford.  It could be magical with dawn’s rosy fingers filtering between autumn gold trees or it could be lethal with clinging fog.  The route felt as if it had been selected by somebody who craved more excitement in their life.  It was a complete switchback of ninety degree bends and blind rises.

I had three driver’s prayers – that I didn’t hit any of the local wildlife; that I didn’t end up with the point where I’d failed to negotiate the corner and slewed off the road marked by a dozen bunches of flowers; that it didn’t snow.

How did I do?

No snow, stayed on the road, even at corners, avoided the deer, avoided the farmer’s dog in the mioddle of the road… hit the pheasant, but it was pretty much a case of kami kazi.  Only regret – the road was too dangerous to stop and pick it up.

Catching the Post

When I was at uni, every so often, I’d ring my mum and once we’d got the tiresome “How are you?” bit out of the way, I’d demand she sent me my warm jumper or my mittens or such like in a parcel.  In those days, the royal mail was cheap, efficient, but brutal, so the parcel normally arrived mummified in brown tape to prevent the escape of its contents. 

I thought that as the mother of new undergraduates I would be sending an assortment of similarly over-wrapped parcels through the post, but times have changed.  Thirty years ago, “stuff” cost more than postage.  Nowadays, however, for the price of posting a small second class parcel, one could buy an entire new wardrobe.

But this week I finally found myself trekking twice to the special post box nearly a mile away which has a nice wide mouth.  Perran needed his proper dance gear for a competition on Saturday, and I also posted Carenza a pair of woolly tights to make her smile.

Of course, I was expecting conventional thank you notes to arrive by post through our own letter box, but what did I get in return?  Just two texts:-

:D

:-)

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Twin Telepathy

When I spoke to Perran recently, I wanted to know how much he and Carenza were talking to one another now they were at separate universities, and the answer was “Not much”.

I asked Carenza the same question.  She replied – “Well we’re twins, so we have this natural telepathy.”

Hmmmm.

I guess there are lots of other exciting things to do, new people to get to know and old friends to stay in touch with.  Perran and Carenza are close enough to know they won’t lose each other, and they’ll both be back under the same roof at Christmas, after all.

 “How’s that going then, Carenza?  The telepathy?”

“I don’t know: I’m still waiting for a reply.”

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Sexist Fox Hunt Thwarted

Oxford Student Fashion Shoot

After a traumatic week, the “Fox Hunt” did not take place in Oxford due to a united front by St Hugh’s authorities and student body.  The chaps concerned have now apologised, as no doubt they did when reprimanded in 2008 and 2012.

http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/ben-goldstein/oxford-university-drinking-society_b_4280306.html?utm_hp_ref=uk

http://www.mirror.co.uk/news/uk-news/sexist-oxford-university-drinking-society-2794229

Before all this blew up, Carenza had also been in a (terribly repectable) fashion shoot for the Oxford Student and that was also published this week.

https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.553084418104477.1073741838.298626573550264&type=3

But Carenza had a much needed change of focus yesterday when Sasoon visited Oxford and took her to see the fabulous Loucin Moskofian, singing with Leeds Uni Big Band - her rendition of Etta James’ At Last was stunning. 

But after an eventful week, there’s no denying that the main thing for Carenza is to get her Monday essay in on time.  Easier if she hadn’t succumbed to a bad bout of the Week Five Flu.  Get well soon love – you’re my hero.

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A Blow against Misogyny

St Hugh's JCR overwhelmingly supported Carenza's motion to disassociate themselves from the Black Cygnets secret drinking society.
Hooray.
Tellingly, the small but inevitable backlash of bitchy comments on student sites is almost entirely anonymous and based on the dreary, flaccid argument "it's just a bit of fun".
What I really want to know is why my wonderful daughter is still having to face very much the same male chauvinist types that I did a generation earlier at Cambridge - jolly buffoons on the surface, but in reality ruthlessly enforcing a pernicious set of mysoginist values through the inclusion/exclusion techniques of bullying.
Well done, Carenza.
The full story in Cherwell
The Telegraph
Daily Mail

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Sexist Drinkers Hit on the Wrong Feminist

Invitation to an event designed to flatter pretty female freshers,
then get them drunk and "capture" them.

Carenza is now just in her fifth week at Oxford, but it's never too early to take a stand.
She applied to St Hugh's because she loved its history as a college founded to educate women from non-wealthy backgrounds.
A reprehensible minority has been threatening the college ethos.  Despite having been banned by the college authorities, a secret all-male drinking society continues to operate at St Hugh's.  They call themselves the Black Cygnets, presumably because they're not mature enough to be considered swans.
With support from the responsible majority of undergraduates, both male and female, Carenza has spoken out against them.
Read more: Oxford Student Article on Black Cygnets

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Visit

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Having visited Perran earlier in half term week, today was Carenza’s turn. 

She is not the only wildlife in her room under the eaves.  As she showed us, there are also spiders and wasps.  But nothing compared to a student we once met as we toured an open day at Hull University.  This girl had been unable to resist the fee offered for opening her room up to visitors, but had failed to take into account the difficulty of keeping secret her pet rabbit, strictly illegal according to Hull rules.

Remembering that it was the wardrobe where that Hull student had stashed her rabbit, I did take a stealthy peek in Carenza’s.

“Why are you looking in my wardrobe, Mum?”

*casually* “Just wanted to see your clothes, dear.”

“They’re the same as before, Mum.”

Note to self: never peek in daughter’s wardrobe while she is actually watching you.

BUT, it was a pleasure to see Carenza snug in a cosy room with a great view across the grounds and to meet some of Carenza’s new friends including Toby, Betsy, Olivia, Taylor and Dave.

Fireworks

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It’s the time of year when we usually play our annual game of Where’s Wally.  To make it more interesting, we do it in the dark.

On a windy hillside.

Next to a lake.

Surrounded by many thousands of people.

All there to watch the huge municipal firework display.

In spite of the fact that vast crowds of spectators are there, milling about in the pitch dark, we have often been amazed to find ourselves standing next to either Perran or Carenza and their group of friends.

Even when we haven’t, Nigel has still made it his business to text them saying “Hi – we can see you!” just to foster a healthy degree of paranoia in our offspring.

This year, we attended the event with Pascoe and friends Dan, Pippa, Graham and Ollie.  But , however much we played “Where’s Wally”, there were no twins to be seen, of course. 

Nigel asked “Shall I send them the ‘We can see you’ text anyway?”

“Oh, go on then.  At least, if they’ve reached the stage of term where they feel a bit homesick, it’ll remind them how good it is to be at university miles and miles away from their parents.”

Agenda

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I am driving down the M4 with an agenda.

It’s not going to be the kind of meeting where it would be acceptable to lay down a bullet-pointed schedule of items to be covered, but in my head, I definitely have a list.

The main points are:

Nutrition

Finance

IT backups

Transport

Date of Next Meeting.

In fact, the occasion is a visit to Perran in Bristol. 

He meets me from lectures looking handsome and happy; we have a delicious lunch at the Boston Tea Party, a wander round the museum, trawl a few charity shops for vintage clothing (Perran) and Latin books (me), then go back to his flat.

There is only one functioning light bulb in the kitchen.  Perran tells me they’re waiting for the maintenance man, but I secretly wonder if he has carefully removed the bulbs so I can’t see the true state of the kitchen – which actually looks fine by twilight.

We’ve had a lovely afternoon, but it’s time to go.  And the agenda? 

All points covered satisfactorily.

Halloween

2012 Perran carved a potato after I forgot the pumpkin

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Every year, I have bought a large pumpkin and it has magically turned into a lantern.  This year I bought one and left it on the kitchen surface as usual, but nothing happened.  Even a day after Halloween, it still has no grin.

And this year, there was no gaggle of blood-spattered teens congregating at my house to polish up their scars before going on to some zombie social event.  Instead, they will have been plastering white face paint on each other in the comfort of their own student accommodation.

“You look really undead, Perran.”

“Aw, thanks.”

However, as night fell, a new generation of tiny witches did find their way to our door.  Some years we have hardly any visitations and are left sucking the Halloween lollies moodily on our own.  But this year, we had loads.  The sweets were soon used up and we were forced, lamely, to open a pack of biscuits.  Thank goodness they were chocolate and not rich tea – we might have been turned into frogs by our disgusted callers.

Oh well, time to start magically transforming the pumpkin into soup for the weekend.  

Half Term

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It’s half way through my first PGCE term and we get a week’s holiday, er, I mean, Reading Week. 

To celebrate, I decided to contract a messy cold.  It makes me feel like a real teacher as I understand it’s a bit of a tradition in the profession to stagger up to the holiday in reasonable health, then, just as you relax, so does your immune system. 

I was supposed to be visiting my parents this week, but it turns out they also have a cold so don’t want a visitor.  Although I’m sorry they’re unwell, maybe it was for the best as I was due to set off on my five hour drive first thing on Monday, just when the gale was raging. 

Instead, Monday was like having a snow day but without the inconvenient white stuff.  Nigel couldn’t get to work due lack of trains, so we had a cup of tea in bed, watched the trees thrashing in the wind and played “guess the name of the large object we can hear blowing about on the patio”.

When the storm abated, Nigel went out to check the damage.  He returned saying,

“Clare – it’s utter devastation out there.”

“Oh?”

“Two of my kale plants are now leaning at a slight angle.”

Skype

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Through my childhood, sci-fi TV series had characters using video phones, but now, for several years video calls have actually been within reach of many of us.  We are living in the future.  So why does it still feel a bit crap? 

I guess, in Star Trek , the dramatist would love the shot of somebody reporting a disaster by video link.  The character’s anguished face made the news about Klingons more dire. 

BUT the handsome chaps on the video screen reporting to their crew were actors, so they were experts at looking engaged and interested.  You never saw them glancing at the time or furtively doing a little word-processing. Unlike the rest of us defective human beings.

I find a conventional audio phone suits my fidgety nature much better.  I am able to indulge in one-handed housework, but try to avoid doing jobs that involve standing on wobbly chairs as I would hate my parents or children to hear my final expletives as I tumble to my death.  It could scar them emotionally. 

But it’s Skype for us at the moment.  Nigel, Pascoe and I line up on the sofa and call Perran or Carenza.  Perhaps if we were better organised we could use two laptops, Skype them both simultaneously and have a conference. 

But even then there would still be the slightly crap anti-climax where we wondered what to talk about, did a little word-processing, checked our watches and picked our noses.

All dressed up

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The Picasso version of matriculation

Carenza had her matriculation ceremony!

Shouldn’t I have been there?  After all, it was an official rite of passage in my daughter’s young life.  Apparently not.  The word is that she is an adult now.  Parents will be allowed back in a few years’ time for the graduation ceremony, once there is a decent level of separation and they can be trusted not to lick their hankies in order to clean their offspring’s face.

Carenza was obviously able to picture me at home wearing my twin-set and pearls; my court shoes and matching handbag and hat gleaming as I stood by the front door waiting eagerly for my invitation to plop onto the door mat, so she sent us some pictures as compensation.

Perran also appeared all dressed up in the Bristol student newspaper, but didn’t send us the photos.  But I found them anyway!  Ha ha! (Manic laugh.)

http://bristol.tab.co.uk/2013/09/29/fresher-style/

Hanging on the Telephone

Hanging on the Telephone

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When I was an undergraduate, my room was next to a landing at the head of a staircase.  On the landing was a rare public payphone.   

The first two times it rang, I answered it and dutifully toddled off to find the person for whom the bell tolled.  The first time, I wasn’t sure who the student in question was and had to make enquiries; the second time, I knew exactly who they were but they seemed to have given their mother the number of the phone furthest from their room, perhaps in the hope that she would give up ringing them.  I walked miles and then they were out.

The third time, and every time thereafter, I ignored the phone as I judged time-consuming phone-answering duties to be incompatible with the serious business of studying for a degree.  Who knows what love affairs ended, what mothers wiped away a lonely tear, as a result of my phone-refusal.

And how glad I am that my own communication with my offspring is not dependent on some hard-hearted undergraduate who is able callously to filter out telephone bells. 

The twins may have Skype switched off and their mobiles set to silent, but sooner or later, a text from me will get through.  And the two keystrokes that it takes for them to draw a smiley will reassure me that all is wellJ

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Nice Peas

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Sometimes you hear successful figures of today on Desert Island Discs saying

“Yah, in our house, there was always a debate going on, always lively argument round the dinner table.”

This makes me feel inadequate as the main subject of dinner debate chez nous is whether it’s okay to put extra salt on food or not.  However, we do always switch the radio off, thank God for the food, and then the silence is somehow filled with chat, even though I could rarely recount to you what we’d talked about. 

Probably trivial gossip.

The great thing is that Perran, Carenza and Pascoe lead much more interesting lives than our middle-aged bunch. 

“So he dumped her by text?  That’s horrendous.”

“Yeah, and then she put a picture of him picking his nose on Facebook.”

Does anybody remember the Spitting Image portrayal of John and Norma Major as a dull, grey couple eating a monotonous meal?  I picture Nigel and I like this after Pascoe has left for Edinburgh:

“Nice peas, Clare.”

“Yes, Nigel, they’re very green.”

And across the town, our various empty-nest friends will be the same. 

So I guess we’ll be inviting them round more often.  Only trouble is, unlike the offspring, we won’t be able to lock them in the kitchen and force them to do the washing up afterwards.

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Pan Fire

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I thought I was doing really well – I have made it to every session of my PGCE course so far, despite a mammoth commute, have handed in my first two assignments on time, have kitted up and seen off two children for university.  The house is a bit of a tip, but heigh-ho. 

In living at home with Nigel, I knew I was going to lose out on university life, but weighed against that are the advantages of retaining family life and links with old friends.

I was doing just this at the church Harvest Supper on Saturday, when in the middle of a speech about African AIDs orphans, I had a mental picture of…SMOKE!

 I realised with a shock that I had left a pan on at home.   I raced back.

I opened the front door on a pall of acrid grey smoke.  I thank God that it wasn’t worse – the house wasn’t actually on fire.

I guess a burning pan is the traditional way for a woman’s unconscious to tell her that she has too much on her plate.  I think I’ve just been told.

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So What Happened to The Tribbles?

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Just before Carenza left for uni, she made a plethora of pom-poms.  Obviously we feared they would take over the house in the way that Tribbles once invaded the Starship Enterprise, but luckily we were wrong.

THIS IS WHAT HAPPENED TO THE POM-POMS

Carenza made them into a rug.

THIS IS WHAT HAPPENED TO THE TRIBBLES

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Bum Dial

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Bum Dial

When friends ask “Has Perran been in touch at all?”

We say “Not much,” then, defensively, “But that’s a good sign – he’d only be ringing us if he was miserable.”

There’s been the odd text, skype, phone call, enough so we know he’s still alive. 

Yet we are content.  The reason?

On Perran’s second day at uni, we were in the kitchen at home each wondering silently how he was getting on.  Then Nigel’s phone rang: it was a call from Perran’s mobile.  Nigel listened for a while, then turned the sound up and beckoned me to come over.  We could hear several voices, amongst them, Perran’s - a group of girls and boys, laughter. 

The conversation was indistinct, but it sounded friendly and happy.  We imagined them in the kitchen of their shared flat.  Clearly Perran’s phone had called us by accident from his pocket.  We smiled at each other and quietly switched the call off.

No deliberate call could have been quite as reassuring as that bum dial.  However much somebody declares “I’m alright!” over-anxious parents can never be sure. 

But hearing that, we could be sure.

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Gone

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Gone.
I had to go to PGCE lectures yesterday, which meant that it was Nigel and Pascoe who drove Carenza and all her goods and chattles to Oxford.   I wasn’t there to help her settle in, hang up her clothes, shove stuff under her bed.  And now I have no mental picture of her in her room . 

However, being the parent who does the drop off is not an easy option either.  Almost before you have heaved the last box up the stairs, other freshers are hanging round ready to chat, and you soon feel in the way.  Quickly you deposit that final fatal crate and depart, still doubled-up, to phone your chiropractor for an appointment.

Last night, as I rubbed ointment into Nigel’s lower back, I was, on balance, pleased not to have been the one to deliver Carenza to Oxford. 

Anyway, there’s something about the webcam that always makes a college room look so much larger when you see it on Skype than in real life, so as long as I don’t visit her, as far as I’m concerned, Carenza will be living in a palace.

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Birthday

“It’s such a perfect day.  I’m glad I spent it with you…”

The mellow sun is low in the sky and Nigel is driving Pascoe, Carenza and myself home from seeing Perran in Bristol while Lou Reed is serenading us from the CD player. 

For my birthday, I like to get the family together, but had thought that it would not be possible this year since everybody is destined to be studying far from home.  But to my delight, we managed it.

Pascoe’s departure for Edinburgh has been delayed until January, Carenza doesn’t set off for Oxford until tomorrow.  So all we had to do was drive all the way to Bristol to be with Perran.  Oh, and celebrate my birthday three days early.

Perran was lucky that one of his flatmates also had parents visiting, so tidying the flat had probably been a joint effort.  It looked very civilised.   However, eagle-eyed Carenza triumphantly pointed out a takeaway pizza box on a shelf in the kitchen.

“That,” said Perran with dignity, “Is the cardboard recycling.”

My best birthday present this year was to see that after only two weeks, Perran is settled and thriving at Bristol.

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“The trouble with tribbles”

Carenza is still at home.  She missed Perran desperately when he left, and now Sasoon has gone too. She is enjoying a few get-togethers with old friends, but finally she is ready to be on her way. 

She has chosen an interesting way of expressing her feelings.  She began by making a few pom-poms.   Then she created a pom-pom garden and now she has moved on to a pom-pom empire.  She had better leave soon or we shall be over-run by pom-poms.  

As Nigel drives her to university on Monday, pom-poms will hop and bounce along, squeaking and following the car down the road like the Pied Piper of Hamlyn. 

On second thoughts, perhaps I shall try to persuade the pom-poms to stay with me.  They can snuggle up to me on the sofa when I watch telly at night.  They will be company for me.

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Jack's Song About Leaving Home

The feeling in the air is that it's time to leave home.  Despite a few nerves, and parents who will miss them, Perran and Carenza's friends are ready to move on, some of them to new places, others simply to new challenges.  Jack Wheater (on the right of the picture) expresses the feeling of his generation - to hear his poignant song, click on the link below.

Jack's Song About Leaving Home

Disappointments and Solutions

Since I’ve been blogging about the University application process, I guess my assumption has been that universities make themselves as attractive to candidates as possible and vice versa, followed by a dialogue of applications rejections and acceptances, at the end of which a (hopefully) happy marriage occurs.

However, recently a couple of Perran and Carenza’s contemporaries have met with different outcomes and I thought it was worth airing their stories as it is something that this year’s applicants might like to be aware of.

One had been accepted  for a very particular art course with exactly the right slant for her and was looking forward to starting, only to discover that the course had been cancelled due to a shortage of suitable applicants.   I guess the lesson is to be aware that this could happen in the case of a small “niche” course and ask plenty of questions when applying.

The other had won the place she wanted on the course she wanted, but due to some sort of mix-up, failed to secure accommodation. 

Accommodation is a more common problem, but often, if the undergraduate can make temporary arrangements, empty rooms appear soon after the start of term due to others dropping out.  However, it takes quite a nerve to do this, especially if the individual was already apprehensive about leaving home.  Another potential solution I have heard of is to defer until next year when, because the applicant already has a definite place, it may make it possible to apply early for accommodation.

The good news is that both of these resourceful young women have found other courses to attend and I wish them all the best.

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Exhausted Wallet

Before I started my own PGCE course I was preoccupied with fitting Perran and Carenza out for university life.  I was trying to ensure that they had no need to fret about equipment/toiletries/stationery as they struggled with living independently in a strange city, making new friends and launching on their studies.

In fairness we probably got 90% of our crap together.

Since, however, I started my own process of being beat over the head with course information, college information, placement bumph and assignment rubrics, I have rather taken my eye off the ball. 

That was why, on Saturday, Perran, Nigel and I found ourselves in the Bristol branch of Wilkinsons dragging a trolley heaped high with all the things that we had thought would be in Perran’s room already – lamp, chest of drawers, bin; and a few things that we had left  at home – cushions, sheets, air freshener.

We were not alone.  There were hordes of young people in there, each trailing a trolley of bargain household items, each tailed by one or more harrassed parent. 

“Do you think these are all freshers?” I asked Nigel as we stood in the queue to pay.

Meanwhile the father ahead of us got to the front of the queue.  Nigel peered as he took out his money.

“Thin, well-worn wallet,” he remarked, “Definitely the parent of a fresher.”

When Twins Say Goodbye

I have been apart from Perran and Carenza quite often over recent years, although never for more than a week at a time.

They however, have been parted from each other far less often.  They have often been on the same  school trips and holidays.  Over the years, their once-separate friendship groups have converged and the twins have seen something of each other each day both in school and out.

They make each other laugh and are usually completely on each other’s side.

When they were about four, I was working in the kitchen one day when they marched in purposefully together.

With a grave face, Carenza asked me: ”Mummy, what do you call somebody who isn’t a twin?”

The answer was, “A singleton.”

From now until Christmas, they will both be singletons.  I just hope it doesn’t hurt too much.