The Name of the Game

Katie Hopkins seems to have caused quite a storm in a teacup, hasn't she. Her unabashed announcement that she judges her children's friends' social status by their Christian names and would never let them play with anyone called Chardonnay, Charmaine or Tyler in case they 'dragged them down' was outright snobbery and I'm sure that her children will be short of  party invites for some time! I had never heard of Katie Hopkins before, not really being a fan of The Apprentice, but she has certainly ignited a right row about the British tendency to make judgements based entirely on social class.

I hope my children are capable of choosing their own friends on the only fair and sensible basis - that of character. I do think though that sometimes parents saddle a child with a name that must hinder their chances of being taken seriously.  If you are not the child of celebrity parents it must be very difficult to pull off a name like Peaches or Apple. North West is sort of amusing, I suppose, but I sincerely hope that Blanket chooses a more adult moniker for himself and that Moon Unit Zappa considers something more earth bound!

It's often only when a child starts school that a name causes problems. I imagine that when Woody Allen and Mia Farrow's son, Satchel, started his education it would not have been a happy experience and it's not surprising that he changed to being known by his middle name, Ronan, as soon as he could. When I started school I had a friend with the very plain name, Alison Plant, which doesn't seem that funny but we all found it hilarious when she was referred to as A Plant! When S started school we were living near Glastonbury and her class mates sounded more like the cast for A Midsummer's Nights Dream with names like Aurora, Raven and Titania.

As a teacher I often come across unusual names and sometimes I've been guilty  of making unfair assumptions about a child or their family before meeting them. In my years of teaching I have come across a Promise, a Blue, a Thursday and a Taome - which I thought must be an ethnic variation until her parents enlightened me by explaining that this stood for 'The Apple Of My Eye'. Then there are the weird spellings to deal with - Leesah (Lisa) and Mykel (Michael) not to mention the dyslexic nightmare of Celtish names such as Siobhan or Niamh or Ruairidh.  Don't get me wrong though, I like all of these names, well maybe not Promise so much, especially as her promises to behave were endlessly broken!

It's tricky this naming business.  I remember with our firstborn that not everyone was enamoured with our choice of name, feeling it was very old-fashioned and we faced criticism again when we gave a French first name to our youngest. Names do tend to reveal your age and the influences of the time. I rarely meet another Helen who isn't around my age and I wonder how many boys currently are called Gale or Peeta or girls called Primrose or Katniss. Of course, sometimes well-intentioned first names are given that only become funny through marriage; I'm thinking of an ex colleague called Beverley who then married and became, would you believe, Beverley Hill!  

Names should have, I feel, some importance or significance even if it's just that you've always liked it. So I guess if you want to call your daughter after your favourite grape variety or your son after the place of conception then that's your prerogative. It is easy to change the name you are given, even if not officially, why else would so many forms have a 'known as' box. What isn't so easy to change is the abhorrent attitude of Katie Hopkins - stubborn prejudice and narrow-mindedness seem all too common.

Joining in with The Monday Club hosted by Hello Wall and Diary of the Dad.

The Tyranny of Tupperware

Do you have a cupboard like this in your house?

No matter where we live and how super duper the kitchen, the plastic containers will not be contained and spew and overflow across shelves, a ramshackle pile of lids spilling out on to the kitchen floor as soon as I open the door.  It is a small gripe, perhaps, but a source of great irritation for me and badly behaved tubs would go in my Room 101. I do wish that there was an aesthetically pleasing storage system for, well...storage.

It's hard to believe that at one time the Tupperware Party was the highlight of the social calendar. Your prowess as housewife supreme in the 1960s was measured by the quality of your polypropylene. We are still ever enthusiastic about plastic, though just in a different guise. You can see the obsession in all its glory with just a quick glance at the catalogue of 'home of creative kitchenware' - Lakeland. They have plastic storage in every form for every available use -  onion dome, cereal dispenser, bacon box, salad crisper, cheese preserver...there's even a special two section 'breakfast to go' container for your muesli and yogurt with a inclusive spoon in the lid!

I confess to having bought several varieties of food storage including the 'lunch cube' which was so cleverly designed that I never really got the hang of using it. It was quite tiresome filling up all the different compartments and when at lunchtime I finally remembered how to open the wretched thing it would spring open, invariably upside down, and I'd end up with hummus and carrot sticks on my lap.  The prize for the most stupid name though has to be Lock & Lock. Do you think they just gave up trying to think of something creative or inspiring or is it an in-company joke? Maybe they meant to call it 'Load n Lock' but the managing director misheard. Their containers certainly keep things airtight but once locked (twice) there's no getting it open again is there, not without ripping a nail off anyway.

(image credit: orphankittenrescue.com)

I think the continuing tyranny of tupperware is all down to collective guilt, guilt over how much food we waste.  We don't quite know what to do with an almost half full tin of baked beans or that hardly touched salad and so we hide our shame in a plastic box only for it to be thrown out several weeks later when we've run out of fridge space.  You can see I've been pondering this for some time and in doing so I have also discovered certain universal truths:

1. That no matter how many plastic containers you have, you will always have twice as many lids.  The only exception to this is round lids.  They are the first to disappear.

2. Of all the lids only three will actually fit.  This is because of a strange time-related shrinking process or possibly the dishwasher causing some sort of lid-warping mutation to take place.

3. At some stage in your life you will be guilty of tupperware theft.  This is most likely to happen at a social gathering where your better-plastic-equipped neighbour/friend brings food in a container that you covet and you accidentally on purpose forget to return it or substitute it with a mouldy old one of yours by mistake. 

4. When you are offered something really yummy that you are actually going to eat there will not be even one suitably sized container to put it in. Once yummy offering has gone dry with upturned edges, you will then miraculously find the perfect box (with correctly fitting lid).

5. That men don't really care about tupperware at all.  They are quite content to use your best container (the only one without bolognese pock marks) for storing engine parts in and then, after a quick rinse, use to reheat last night's takeaway.

Linking up this post with Sarah at Hello Wall with The Monday Club.

Hair Brained

Like Luna I am in desperate need of a haircut. Her soft white curls are turning into brown tangles with Rastafarian dreadlocks whereas my hair is turning white in a deeply unattractive witch-like way. Something needs to be done...to both of us.

I'm of the opinion that once you are past a certain age (ahem...) that you need really good hair to get away with having it long. I envy women with lovely locks who seem to be able to just run a comb through it in the morning then look like they've spent half an hour styling it. When I wake up in the morning a glance in the mirror confirms my worst fears - I am a fat-faced version of  Kierston Wareing from Eastenders; her claim to fame must surely be the worst hair on television!  At least though she has other eerr... 'assets' to distract from her less than crowning glory.

Kierston Wareing

Both my sisters are blessed with thick wavy hair while my hair hangs in a lank curtain of lacklustre mousieness.  As I've got older it has developed peculiar clumps of grey, like patches of mildew. Hair dye generally sorts that out but I can't do anything about its texture.  The hair at my temples has thinned to wispy white strands that stick out in all directions; I have seven natural partings including one from ear to ear and my triple crown has joined forces with my cows licks to make styling a mission impossible.

Back in the 70s when I was very little it was at least very blond but also very fly-away and prone to knit itself into terrific knots.  My mother had a pretty eccentric method of hair-washing and up until I was about five I was laid on the draining board and my hair washed in the kitchen sink! Her excuse was it saved her back leaning over the bath; I really hope she didn't use Fairy Liquid! She certainly never used conditioner and trying to get through it when it was wet was fine tooth comb torture.

Perhaps this is the reason for my aversion to going to the hairdressers.  Most of my friends look forward to a bit of pampering but I make an appointment reluctantly and then sit there staring at my disappointing reflection in the many mirrors and trying unsuccessfully to get enthusiastic about fancy hair products. When asked what sort of style I'm after I usually just say, "Do what you can" and "Good Luck".

(Image credit: trifter.com)

I have tried an extensive array of salons and as we've moved so many times my experience is countrywide.  When we lived in one small Scottish town there were no less than 10 hairdressers lining either side of the High Street.  Thinking about them now I am reminded of a game my father and I used to play.  On car journeys we would try and come up with as many creative shop names as possible. Hairdressers were easily our favourite.  You know the sort of thing -  Talking Heads, The Cutting Edge, Fringe Benefits, The Mane Attraction, The Hair Port... I've got you thinking now haven't I?!

Whatever the salon's name, I would normally at least enjoy flicking through Hello, enjoying a complimentary coffee, but I have a terrifically weak bladder and after less than three sips I invariably have to go to the loo; the ease of which depends on how far along in the washing, cutting, blow-drying process you are. The hairdresser loo is like no other.  You see, even in the more expensive upmarket establishments, hairdressers are rather neglected when it comes to their own facilities; the gloss paint and the high spec fittings are for clients only.  If you're just there for a half-hour appointment no-one expects you to need to visit that grubby broom cupboard sized toilet down the back stairs.

Once when I decided to treat myself to a full head of highlights (£130! I kid you not) I was stuck in the twirly chair for nigh on three hours and had to set off for the lav a second time.  I felt confident that I remembered where it was and pushed open what I thought was the right door only to find myself outside by the bins in an alleyway behind the salon. What was worse was that the door had closed firmly behind me and I couldn't get back inside. I was forced, much to the surprise of the Saturday shoppers, to walk right round to the front entrance in my Darth Vader inspired black cape and tin foil helmet!

I think I may have found a solution to my hairdressing drama. H has become really quite proficient at colouring my hair; there is the added incentive of not wanting to be embarrassed by the state of her mother. And this week a lovely sympathetic mobile hairdresser is coming to my house instead.  I'm hoping to lose at least two inches of split-ends and achieve a more coiffed appearance. Well, that's the hope; I'll keep you posted on the reality.

I'm linking up with The Monday Club and the very talented Sarah over at Hello Wall with this post. 

What?!

H was asked by her slightly nutty English teacher what one word was spoken most frequently at home. She replied without hesitation that it was the word 'what'. After a little confusion and her teacher thinking she hadn't heard the question, H explained how most of her family have terrible hearing. I think, in fact, that I am the only person in the household that hears anything at all, at normal decibel range anyway.

(Image credit: doghearingaids.org.uk)

Many years ago when H was a newborn I came to think of The Wonderful Man as not wonderful at all as he never got up in the night.  Every night like the boxer's count I would drag my heavy head from its horizontal position, stagger about the bedroom in sleep-deprived drunkenness and complain, loudly, about his nocturnal deafness.  Gradually though I realised that he didn't quickly respond to her high-pitch mewing in the daytime either and whatever adult conversation I did manage to have with him, his replies were fairly limited (this of course may well be a male thing).  

I tested my theory that his hearing was completely pants by telling him one afternoon that I intended to change H's first name and have her christened 'Oswald' instead and would that be alright. He scanned my face, presumably lip-reading, and, seeing that I was smiling when I said this, just nodded vacantly in agreement. I made an appointment at outpatients for a hearing test but like many people he wasn't keen on anything remotely connected to a hospital or being examined and simply went to the GP and had his ears syringed instead! So for a long while I resigned myself to having to repeat everything, with actions, and solved the problem of night-time uselessness with a less than gentle shove or the fail-safe method of a sharp pull of the nostril hair - works every time.

It was only three years ago that he finally decided to do something about his hearing and went to see the audiologist and have that test.  I went with him (to make sure he went basically) and it was no surprise to me whatsoever to discover that, for various reasons, some genetic and others self-inflicted, he did indeed have some mild hearing loss in both ears. Mild?! I could clearly hear the beeps he couldn't as they played through his headphones!  He was issued with pretty nifty hearing aids but then much to my frustration he rarely wears them.  You see the problem is that he associates hearing aids with old age and that will never do plus he is, though he won't admit it, incredibly vain and they're just not, in his opinion, attractive. 

Both girls have taken after their father in more ways than looks and have had their issues with hearing too. H in particular has suffered repeated ear infections, though grommet insertion when she was younger helped. Like her dad too, she has bouts of tinnitus which can make good quality sleep difficult. All this goes to explain why 'what?' is such a frequent utterance in our house. Comical confusions and misunderstandings are many especially between similar sounding words. Here are some examples - 'comfy chair' and 'country fair'; 'Lion King' and 'violin'; and, most memorably, an entire and thoroughly baffling conversation about  'Disney' or as L heard it - 'dysentery'! 

(Image credit: m.nmagine.com)

Absurd surds and other maths madness

H wanders into the kitchen, maths revision homework in hand, "Mum, what's an irrational number?" she whines in a pleading voice as though I really might have the faintest idea of an answer. The words go in but are then instantly rejected by my right-sided brain.

"Unreasonable numbers that get upset easily," I venture unhelpfully.  She rolls her eyes, sighs deeply and then states the depressing truth:

"You really are of no use at all when it comes to maths," she complains.

To some extent she's right. Now she's 15 years old and building up to national exams I am of little help.  The problem is she's left me behind.  I can do fractions, decimals, even simultaneous equations. Averages do not faze me at all, percentages - no problem, and I know that Pi has nothing to do with pastry or a film involving a boat and a tiger. But this is a foundation level understanding only and H has moved on to inscrutable topics involving tangents and indices.  I cannot bring myself to look at the chapter in her maths textbook entitled 'Algebraic Expressions and Formulae" without feeling quite dizzy. 

In my role as a learning support teacher I often have to think of creative ways to explain mathematical concepts. In the junior school, for instance, there is great job satisfaction to be had when after marching around the edge of the playground a pupil finally understands perimeter or when the mystery of fractions are revealed by cutting up cakes. Even at secondary level I find the idea of a lift and floors below ground level helpful for the concept of negative numbers  (I know, I know, the proper term is 'integers' but what help is that!)  and I have always associated the hypotenuse with a hippopotamus - being the biggest side (ok, ok, the longest side - but you get the idea) *Pythagoras turns over in his grave several times*

My brain is all about words and pictures and I do not make logical connections. When H explains that she is asking about irrational numbers because it is to do with something called 'surds' I am none the wiser. This is an entirely new piece of vocabulary to me and I can't help but think about Serbs instead and have visions of human-sized numbers dressed  up in Serbian national costume running around the Balkans being irrational. I turn to the dreaded textbook which informs me that 'All real numbers are either rational or irrational'.  Are there unreal numbers then?!  I read on: 'Roots of rational numbers which cannot be expressed as rational numbers are called surds.'   Arrhh, all is clear...as mud. Seriously, what on earth does that sentence mean? They may as well have put 'the answer's a lemon' for all the explanation it provides.

I turn to the fountain of all knowledge - Google -  and come across a video on youtube made by some geeky guy in his bedroom. I didn't know that 'maths porn' like this existed and it proves enlightening. He explains in his nasally voice (and helpfully demonstrates on his scientific calculator) that surds are really just 'nasty square roots'.  It doesn't matter that I don't share his opinion that there are nice square roots, I have made progress and H and I solve the first three questions together.  The white wine seems dangerously low though at the end of it and I think it's time we employed the services of a professional, and sober, tutor rather than rely on social media, alcoholic sustenance and my maths-confuddled brain. 

I've been driving in my car...

(credit: animalphotos.com)

To borrow the lyrics from 'Madness' I have indeed been driving in my (new) car this week and though "it's not quite a Jaguar", it is a great improvement on my last one.  Friends and family will have heard my frequent complaints about the Renault Tragic that I used to drive (ok, it was a Scenic but apart from the views out the windows, everything else about it was a tragedy). It really was a dog of a car and I experienced almost every one of its 'known faults'.  It was even recalled once for what was described by the manufacturer as a 'necessary upgrade to the electronic parking brake computer'; in other words some lucky drivers had experienced the handbrake suddenly going on while travelling at speed down the motorway!!  

The on-board computer and overly complicated dashboard were responsible for many a stressful calamity during my commute to and from work. Drive over the slightest bump or minor pothole and the entire dashboard would light up with warnings such as 'Check Emissions'. How would I do that exactly? Sniff the exhaust pipe maybe?! The perplexing 'Gearbox Fault' was another frequent error message which meant the car went into disconcerting 'limp mode'. This is like some kind of crisis management system, meaning that you are stuck in second or third gear  with absolutely no acceleration.

I was hopeful of some kind of answer when I paid my £70 (plus VAT) to the specified garage just to connect to the Renault diagnostic computer. But all the enigmatic computer system could give was a further cryptic code which clearly meant nothing to the Scottish mechanics even if they did have very smart yellow overalls and were trained by a 'reputable' Renault dealership.  I did not need to connect my useless vehicle to the fault finding mainframe to know that (excuse  my French) - il est fait enculer. 

The devilish dashboard spawned so many mysterious messages it was as though it had a menacing mind of its own like some kind of French version of the Stephen King novel 'Christine'. The final straw was when I lost the dashboard display completely.  This happened on the A1 one dark evening.  Initially the dashboard display decided to flash on and off intermittently and, rather worryingly, informed me, when it did illuminate briefly, that I was doing 104 miles an hour.  I knew this to be highly unlikely as even the police have been known to overtake me as I drive so slowly. Then in its final moments of life it lit up like Heathrow's busiest  runway with every error message it could muster for a final flourish.  Finally, all was blackness and then the radio stopped working too just for good measure.  There I was with no real idea of what speed I might be doing, or how much petrol I had, or indeed whether the whole engine was about to explode at any moment. I drove on with my surreal Final Destination-like interior and reached home somewhat shaken and determined to be rid of the dastardly machine once and for all.

I have owned a succession of dodgy automatics (I seem unable to manage the multitasking involved with three pedals and a gear stick).  I was fond of my little gold colour Volkswagen Golf but it had a tendency to overheat and once stalled on a level crossing.  We had a great blue Saab which we had many an adventure in driving through France but the dog eventually ate its way through the back seat and then I couldn't get it to go into reverse. I drove it (forwards) to a local garage where L managed to convince the owner to part exchange. My absolute favourite and most reliable car though was a Subaru.  It was fantastic...but I managed to write it off while not even being in it!  I discovered that a car can travel quite some distance, at speed, when you park on a hill, leave it in neutral and neglect to put the handbrake on.  Now though, I begin a new era in my little Nissan and I'm really hoping that it's a very uneventful experience. The dashboard is remarkably simple, the dog's banned and I have added my own warning message on a post-it to remind me to check the handbrake.

Sizzles: The only dog allowed 

I think I might add some eyelashes like these. What do you think?
(credit: the-riotact.com)

Back to uniformity

Going back to school this week was quite a shock.  We have had two weeks of no schedule and if it hadn't been for visitors I suspect there wouldn't have been even one day where we were properly dressed. When I put my work shoes on on Monday morning I actually thought there was something wrong with my ankles until I realised that I was simply unused to the sensation of wearing heels and any sort of supportive footwear; I have been wearing bed socks with my wellies,  bouncy fake Uggs and furry slipper socks. There were collective sighs all round as we dragged out school bags (although I suspect that L's sigh was one of relief as he gets to enjoy peace and quiet again). Even the brand new fully-stocked pencil cases, supplied by Santa & Co, couldn't lift the 'back to school' gloom.

H & S in younger days

When the alarm went off at 6am on Monday it honestly felt like I was coming round from a general anaesthetic.  I immediately consulted the calendar and worked out though that there were exactly five weeks of school-led structure left and then we get another mid-term break so there really is very little to moan about.  It is perhaps one of the only monetary benefits of being a teacher - all those paid weeks of holidays.

As a teenager I was desperate to leave school.  One of the main reasons for hating it so much was the capital A-line grey skirts and maroon striped ties of the uniform. I've never been one for conformity so it seems quite ironic to me that I have ended up back at school all this time later with all the rules and regulations that extend to teaching staff too.  At formal events we are even required to wear academic gowns though I have to say they are very good for smuggling whole bags of illicit sweets into assembly or for concealing a hot water bottle to make sitting in the freezing chapel more bearable.

The UK has a long history of school uniform dating right back to Henry VIII.  Then the long blue trenchcoat-style jackets had some practical and cost saving benefits, though I'm sure they must have been heavy and most certainly humbling to wear.  The supporters of uniforms have a long list of purported benefits - suggesting that they somehow instill discipline and even improve results. Of course, the most common given reason for uniform is that it is a great social leveller, but there are so many other just as obvious ways to display your wealth or lack of it; a quick glance at mobile phones, shoes and school bags for example.

Pupils at Christ's Hospital School in West Sussex

The school I teach in has a distinctive uniform that I have to concede the children seem proud to wear.  They still have their complaints though, not least about the wide unfashionable trousers and stiff wool blazers that smell like wet dog the minute they become the slightest bit wet - which is all the time in Scotland. Older girls will attempt to shorten their kilts by rolling over the waistband but this results in a deeply unflattering pleated tutu - a bit like a tartan version of a Greek dancing skirt.  They're lucky in having a fairly kind ensemble. They could have ended up with a Tudor-era uniform complete with Malvolio-inspired yellow socks or a ridiculous ribboned straw hat.

"Am I bovvered"

You can probably tell, I'm not really an advocate of uniforms; I find them restrictive, impractical and, well, a bit bizarre. Ties especially I think are nasty germ-ridden things and girls in ties? - what's that about!  I was very surprised when S really liked her tie when she started school in Yorkshire, but then I realised that this was only because she found it very useful to use as reins when playing horsey games with her friends in the playground! The boys at her school preferred to tie them around their heads Rambo-mode. Older teenagers would attempt to tie the biggest knot possible, not a Windsor or a half-Windsor but a full on Windsor Castle knot which they would then leave askew in the style of  Lauren Cooper. My colleagues try to persuade me to the merits of uniformity saying, 'It will prepare them for the real world of business'.  Put that off for as long as possible I think - I have no desire to see that my children are 'ready for work'.  No! Back to weekend rebellion say I - bring out the fuzzy leopard boots, the hoodies and the onesies and let's turn our backs on the real world, for 48 hours at least.

This post is linking up with 'Oldies but Goodies' blog hop hosted by Suzanne at 3 Children and It