Three Blind Mice

That’s the fifth time, now, I’ve told the eldest boy off for singing “Three Blind Mice” as three members of the family return from the opticians, with new glasses.

With three in the family currently needing glasses and three not we have a laugh about it and apparently being short-sighted is not a disadvantage or disability, but means that you have “insight”.  You have greater discernment if you are short sighted than if you are full sighted, I’m told.

Still I didn’t expect this little insightful individual to be looking like she should be one of the Malory Towers characters.

 

Summer Hath Spoken

Forget the Jubilee, it would seem that a celebration of summer has spontaneously taken place in this house, this week.  We’ll keep Jubilee Celebrations to the weekend designated.  These are some anecdotes from our celebration of summer, to date.

The Mayor took My Peaceful One for a walk yesterday, while I taught a violin lesson and the other three had gone for a bike ride and picnic tea. The Mayor told me this morning that they played imaginative games the whole way around the walk including Indians and Horses.  But the best was the name she gave him in their game: Jungle Man.   The title Mayor is now synonymous with Jungle Man.  I found Jungle Man wreaking havoc on the trampoline when I had finished my lesson and the others had returned from their picnic.  It’s amazing what a bit of sunshine does to people.

The tree house has become a den of secrecy and frequent play again as the sycamore it is in has suddenly filled out with leaf.  I was recently informed of a club that meet in the tree house.  The club (The Treehouse Survival Gang) has a President, Secretary, and Clerk.  All decisions are proposed, seconded and voted upon, and members consist of the other children who come to play.  Apparently, the President nominated himself to be President and then took off up and down the track on his bicycle while the others took five minutes discussion to decide whether they accepted his nomination.

I had a laugh with the postman the other morning, about the weather.  It is little wonder that in Britain we frequently discuss the weather because it is so varied.  We’ve gone from feeling wintery cold, still lighting the fire in May, to summer – just like that, overnight!  Where spring went I’m not too sure.  I think it went that way and I missed it.

This morning, the postman and I discussed the arrival of our Olympic tickets.  He was very interested to know what we were going to.  He told me that someone else he had delivered tickets to was going to see a dressage event.  I said, I would have liked to have gone to see the Dressage or Rowing, but as it is we’re going to watch Britain play football.  I think the Jungle Man’s northern heritage came out victorious over my Henley-on-Thames upbringing!

One of the children (not mine, I hasten to add, just a day visitor) threw a mud bomb at the postman’s vehicle as he was leaving, and hit it.  So tomorrow, I will be  apologising to the postman, in whatever conversation I have with him as the said child wasn’t discouraged from his actions by any of my children.

But as the weather has been so beautiful these last few days and the frustrated postman took the wrong week off, I did encounter this:

One Who fights for Justice: “I propose we have and hour long break.  Anyone second that?”

The norm is half a hour break time.  I thought but didn’t say “Fat chance, Mate!”

While they have been outside in shorts and T-shirts, enjoying the now summer I have to sternly tell myself that nothing bad is going to happen.  Yes, that’s residue from Tim’s accident, I know, but I’m being very firm with those thoughts that sneak up from behind.  Still,  One Who Searches for Wisdom came in the other day and said, “I slid down a bank of loose stones and dried mud.”

“Yes, and…?”  was my reply, thinking he’d grazed himself.

“And I broke this, so I thought I’d better give it to you” holding out an orchid!  What a gentleman!

Warmer weather has meant a better exercise programme for my out of condition horses and for myself.  My muscles keep reminding me I’m out of condition.  But the other day I couldn’t find my clean Jodhpurs, so dug out a dreadful pair of breeches.  They may have a leather seat, but they are way too big for me.  Still for the sake of keeping up horsey appearances, I wore them.  I was stalked by comments from the Jungle Man.

“Those trousers need to be thrown out.”

“You look really dumpy in those.”

Even though this is a cliché, I couldn’t stop laughing for the way he said it,

“They make you look like a sack of potatoes.”

So warmer weather and some wonderful fun combine to bring laughter again to our household.

Please keep speaking Summer, we’re loving the sound of your voice!

Home Education

Home education means some other things get forgotten or postponed until holiday time, in this house:

A Little Help Please

My wonderful mother made a suggestion in passing that has set my mental cogs in motion.  Her comment coincided with some encouragement from others which seemed to oil the cogs.  She suggested that I write a book about Tim’s year as Mayor.

I’ve thought and thought about this…and I’m still undecided.  ”A Year with the Mayor” – hmmm?  I’m not sure.  But while I’m still thinking about it, I thought I’d start by keeping a journal of the journey and then the more I’ve thought about that, I’ve felt like I’d like some feed back from people who have read what I’ve written previously in my blog.  I’d love some people who would give me feed back on style; skill; where to improve; what’s good; what’s not; what they’ve enjoyed/disliked; where I’m making consistent mistakes etc.  In short, I’d like some good old fashioned English teachers to mark my work!  I feel like I need that sort of a spring board to jump from and dive into this next project.

I’d love help from anyone who reads what I write, but there are a few people who keep blogs that I follow, whose expertise and advice I particularly crave, as I truly respect and trust your skill.  If you have time and care to comment, I’d love to hear opinions from:

Mrs Sargent (without the eye shadow); a wonderful librarian (who is full of quiet wisdom); a Doctor of Literature (who has yet to show the world what is stored up in all the words inside of her); a gifted story teller (whose gift developed during a childhood of disobedient talking after lights out and stayed with him because he never wanted to grow older than ten); an incredible author (who is so original she made “ClothKits” cool, and for as long as I have known her, has stood head and shoulders above me – in skill and stature); and a talented craftswoman (who crafts with words – and scrapbooks).

Just a little something…

…of the fun from last night when Daddy was inaugurated as the Mayor.

They’re not used to having to dress smartly and we might need a few lessons in etiquette or ‘how to behave at functions’.  But they did very well.  Here they are ready:

Dog came too and was very well behaved although I think he might have eaten too many strawberries.

Tim and I were given some pretty fancy necklaces and I was given these. They were accompanied with Tim’s quick quip that now I can’t say he’s never given me flowers and unanimous hilarity in the chamber.  They are beautiful!  I can’t help it.  I always photograph flowers to capture some of their beauty because they’ll soon be gone.

I Was Almost Made Redundant

With the election results concluded, my husband has been putting his slippered feet up, growing a beard and reading John Le Carre and an obscure book on cats!

We have joined in the relaxation by adding a couple of days off school to the bank holiday and incorporated Tim’s birthday into the celebration.  But on Tuesday the youngest still had her riding lesson, and rather than the usual routine I took her with me shopping after her lesson.  When we returned home, the kitchen was immaculate, the draining board clear of clean pots, food was whipped out of the oven and a chairs pulled up for Jemimah and I to eat.  While I ate, the shopping was brought in and the frozen stuff put away.  I then had a half hour violin lesson to teach and by the time I had finished all the shopping had been put away and dishes from tea either washed or stacked in the dishwasher.  Again the kitchen looked immaculate.

It would be wonderful to assume that I am describing the handiwork of my husband (and he is frequently thus domestic, beyond the call of duty), but no!  I’m not.  He was still sat with his slippered feet up and “The Tailor of Panama” balanced in front of his face.  It was all the work of the eldest and his instructions to the others.  I was so surprised that I asked him if he wanted to be “Mum” too.  He proved that he has excellent managerial  skills and as I complimented him, he seemed to read the small print and told me that although he enjoyed doing it all, he didn’t want to do it too often!  And no, he didn’t want to be Mum.

But it seems to have instigated a few days of beautiful culinary creations at the hands of all the children.  Simeon is the passionate chef and for his birthday had asked for a recipe book that was based on his favourite series of novels.  All the recipes in it are wonderful.  We had a Beatrix Potter Recipe Book, when I was little, inspired by the Beatrix Potter stories but this is much more creative and I love what the author has written in the Preface:

When I was a young fellow, food was short because of World War II.  Everything was on ration, and lots of things folk liked were just unobtainable.  So, there I was, reading through my mother’s old cookery books, my mouth watering at the coloured illustrations of delicious recipes.  And the books I’d read in the library…It really annoyed me when I’d come to a passage where somebody ate a marvellous feast.  There never seemed to be any description of it.  Afterward, the hero would ride off on his white stallion, thanking the King for the wonderful dinner.  WAIT!  What did it taste like?  What did it look like?  How was it made?  Did he really enjoy it?  Questions that even to my young mind required much answering.  That is why the fare at Redwall Abbey is featured so prominently – I’m trying to put things right!  In my stories, the food has as much a part of the saga as the battle, the quest, the poems, the riddles, and the songs.  So enjoy it, mates!  But in moderation – don’t try to be a gluttonous hare.  Also, make sure you have proper supervision in the handling of knives, hot stoves, and things like that.  I hope you enjoy the recipes.  They all work, you know.  Wot wot!   Brian Jacques

How lovely to make a feast of the imagination come alive!  We had “Crispy Cheese and Onion Hog Bake”  the other evening for tea.  And it was quite delicious.  What is more, I didn’t have to assist in making it, at all!  We had “Hot Mint Tea” on Daddy’s birthday.  That was very nice, accompanied by “Dibbun’s Delight”, which were indeed delightful.  We’ve been treated to “Autumn Oat Favourites” (biscuits) , “October Ale” and “Summer Strawberry Fizz”.  Considering the shopping list I was sent shopping with and the ingredients yet to be used, there are plenty more delicacies to come.

So I seem almost out of a job with “The Redwall Cookbook” inspiring one son and a display of excellent organisational skills from the other.  Maybe, I could sit back, relax, grow a beard, read John Le Carre, and get the children to do all the work, like the duck in “Farmer Duck”.  “How goes the work?  QUACK!”  I think not.  That wouldn’t suit me!

However, I have decided this week, that next time someone asks me what I do, instead of saying that I am a “stay-home Mum, who home educates four children”, I am going to say that I am a “Governess”.  It sounds a lot more exotic.  I did think I could say that I am a governess, nanny and mother but I think that’s too much a mouthful and will be received with furrowed brows and quizzical looks.  Admittedly, saying I am a governess might get the same response, but I think the impact of a single word will be more impressive!  I’ll gauge a response to my new job title at my husband’s inauguration as Mayor.

He’s finished John Le Carre and his book of Cloister Cats and and is drawing inspiration (or not, as the case is more likely to be) from a biography of Boris.  But it’s back to shaving, smart shirts and polished shoes, this week!  The party is over.

It’s The Leg-Work That Counts

While our kind neighbour came and sat with the children and did their school work with them, I went as a candidate’s guest to the counting of votes for the County election.  It’s a fascinating moment where democracy levels people to a plain and every candidate stands in the same position.  Yesterday, I observed the congeniality with which people greeted and conversed.  There was a sense of wishing each other well on the surface, but hidden beneath was a competitive blade trying to cut through the veneer.  Out it came with each successfully elected candidate; the blade of victory.

The congeniality and polite interest was so British, but I felt the scorpion sting was waiting in the wings.  Sifting out the authenticity of who genuinely meant well is done by the sieve of experience that comes from serving on the council and working alongside these candidates, in trying to bring the best to local communities.

Four years ago, when I stood beside Tim in that same room observing the council workers behind sheep hurdles, counting crosses on a piece of paper,  it was all very new.  This time, I was very glad to be there, but I could have fallen  asleep.  I lacked the adrenalin rush of last time and sat discussing babies with my mother-in-law and pregnant sister-in-law.

This time, I took time to observe and noticed that under the glare of neon light my husband’s tan gave the impression of lavish trips abroad, not of standing for 12 hours at the polling station door.  This time, who is who in the old boys club, who is respected, who isn’t, how it works, what to watch for and the interweaving of networks was more familiar.  It meant I was introduced to many new faces.

A conversation with a gentleman about getting a good job done whatever party you stand for was instigated by him asking me with which party my sympathies lie.  I hadn’t a clue who he was so played my cards close and the conversation was sprinkled with much humour.  As not everyone had their colours nailed to their chests, I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised that he asked me.  Afterwards, Tim told me how staunch that particular gentleman is in his views and how much they oppose his.  I still maintain that it’s about getting a good job done.  My convictions are no greater than that.

Counting was slow.  Not actually tallying numbers, but all the administration that comes with it.  We laughed and reminded ourselves that as slow as it was, it was a far cry from the corruption some other countries have to tunnel through at election time.

The press were there to create a window to the outside world.  I enjoyed watching their antics as much as the candidates.  I watched a dynamic reporter position himself in front of the camera and snap into mode with a click, making dramatic statements about results versus expectation.  The other side of the camera is a familiar picture to the average British public and I enjoyed seeing it from the ordinary every day journalist doing his job perspective.

It had been my prediction that it would be a day for independent candidates to taste success from the mixing bowl of apathy and disillusioned public.  And indeed it was.

While we had a Chinese take away, Daddy explained to the children how extremely hard work for a number of weeks has reaped the reward in the long term – 5 years, to be precise.  And that hard work was not done alone.

Unless you see behind the scenes (as I did), you never see the incredible team of volunteers who serve to propel their candidate into the public eye.  You never see the crowd of shoulders an individual candidate surfs to success but without those shoulders there would be no success!  You never see the hours sacrificed or the miles walked.

The shifting sands of British politics are shaped by the wind of public opinion and we live in admiration or disgust at the dunes that are created by the system, but rarely notice the individual grains of sand.  From the level plain to shaping new dunes yesterday, I am glad we turn to a new page.  Our town has some different people to represent it but for us life will now return to normal.  This weekend, we can relax having ridden the shoulders of the nameless “Great” who work hard to make Britain just that.  Great!