It’s that time of year when the classes start to settle down and I can see who is likely to succeed and who needs a kick up the proverbial! The trouble is I am talking about young adults who should be taking responsibility for their own futures – I am not their mother, their nursemaid or their boss. I am someone who, from time to time, tries to impart bits of knowledge and inspire them to look further at their chosen subject – you could say I am the supplier of a service. This brings me to the real point of today’s missive...the vexed question of tuition fees and the impact they have on the relationship between tutors and students.
Now I must put up a health warning here, the thoughts expressed are those of the author alone and do not reflect university policy or even the opinion of my colleagues – I have not really talked to them about their views. As ever these words are the ravings of yours truly, fuelled tonight by camomile tea.
I come from the generation who did not face tuition fees but had the luxury of a grant – albeit means tested against parents’ income. I went to a girls’ grammar school and it is important to note that not everyone expected a university education. Only the very best would end up at university, the next tier might go to a polytechnic or teachers training college and others might find themselves training at one of the London teaching hospitals to become a nurse. The idea behind grants was to make it easier for anyone to go to university but it is fair to say it was not easy for the working classes to enjoy the privilege of a university education for a whole range of reasons. Anyway the point is that in those ‘olden days’ the relationship between the higher education establishment and the student was much more like that between school and pupil today. I can remember having to go and see the Principal of my college to seek permission to go home a week early because my Mum was in hospital and my Dad needed me to go home and run the house - the conversation did not go well for reasons of education and feminist ideology, but I did get my week off.
Today the students pay a fee to attend university, it does not cover the full cost of their education, but it is a contribution. This has recently caused some students at universities around the country to question what they are getting for their money – class sizes and contact time being the main issues at some of the bigger establishments. I agree this has changed the relationship to one of customer and supplier but with a big proviso, the fee is not just a monetary one.
What do I mean by that? Well, I think that students pay their fee in a number of parts. The first is the tuition fee we all know about but the other parts are less tangible. I believe the other critical parts of the transaction are to turn up to lectures and listen attentively, prepare for seminars either individually or in the relevant groups and then actively participate, read round the chosen subject according to the texts set and to find interesting material of their own and finally to submit assignments on time and completed to the best of their ability. Only when all parts of the transactions are shown to be being carried out can students start to question what they get for their fees.
Now I must close by saying I am not a fan of tuition fees. I think as a state we should pay to educate the next generation – it does mean that students who do not study would face a heightened risk being ‘slung out’ if they take the piss out of their privileged position, but that is fair enough.
Wednesday 4 November 2009
Tuesday 28 July 2009
Из России с любовью
Just a few days spent in Moscow with a day trip out to Vladimir and Suzdal to take a look at bit of ‘normal’ Russia – time well spent?
Entering the country was a bureaucratic challenge of immense proportions. We had to fill in several forms on the flight over and passport control, took forever (it was just as bad leaving!). At the hotel we had to have the paperwork authorised so we could walk around freely. I am glad to report we were never challenged by any of the guards or police but we were rarely without our guide.
I loved Red Square, it is breathtakingly beautiful as the name implies (red means beautiful for those like me that did not realise) and the mixture of architecture just works...but I do not like Moscow, it is too big, too noisy, too busy, too arrogant. The young women all looked like footballers wives or high class hookers (OK not much difference I grant you!) and how they balanced on those heels I will never try to find out, and I include the female guards in this comment! - I know I sound like a grumpy old woman but I guess that’s what I am! The shops we came across were full of designer kitsch and bling, although I confess to dribbling with desire at many of the clothes and shoes in the GUM (pronounced ‘g-oom’) shopping precinct. The older Russian people and families visiting the city looked drab by comparison and the divide between the ‘haves’ and ‘have-nots’ was very clear.
Weddings were everywhere. The tradition is to lay flowers at the tomb of the unknown soldier in Alexander Gardens just off Red Square and to be photographed in the gardens, or in Vladimir you head to the mound outside the main Russian Orthodox cathedral that gives you views across the countryside. The young brides looked very WAG-ish (and very young) and the grooms wore good, but shiny, suits. The best man and bridesmaids were equally well-dressed (see above!) and were distinguished from other guests by a sash not unlike those you see around Lincoln’s bars on hen party night. Other members of the wedding party did not seem to have made much extra effort – other than to ensure they had copious amounts of alcohol at hand! The parents did not seem to be in evidence – whether they attended the official ceremony and post photo party who knows...there were plenty of rose petals strewn at the entrances to restaurants and cafes in the area. It seems you can get out of the army if you have two children; otherwise, I was led to believe, you serve from the age of 18 to 27 - the divorce rate is 50%.
The roads are a total nightmare. The main street that leads to Red Square is four lanes in each direction – though it seems you can personally increase this at will!
There are speed limits and rules of the road but the evidence was scant. When you park you bounce the front two wheels of your imposing 4X4, Merc or Lexus up onto the nearest pavement and, if necessary, to get back into the traffic you just drive down the pavement until it is convenient to rejoin the melee. The motorway is as many as eight lanes in each direction and if you thought it was fast and chaotic in the city “you ain’t seen nothin’ yet!” There are no crash barriers and people walk across the flow of traffic. The peasants – old and young - sit by the side selling cucumbers and watermelons. There are junctions, traffic lights and regular crashes (we saw three in quick succession on the journey out of town).
Fortunately, you need not drive in Moscow thanks to the Metro. When Stalin said he wanted to build the best one in the world he wasn’t kidding. Sadly I forgot to take photos here as too much time was spent trying to make sure we ended up in the right place by cross checking the Cyrillic script against our guide’s instructions to us! It was also designed as a comfortable nuclear shelter hence the depth but the marbled halls and chandeliers were amazing. The cleanliness of the trains and passageways could teach our underground system a thing or two. In fact, everywhere we went was spotless – although some of the loos were a tad primitive!
Vladimir and Suzdal are quieter thank goodness – you can walk across the route of Trans Siberian Railway without hindrance from crossing gates (take note Lincoln station!). Vladimir is not famous for vodka as you might imagine but for exquisite glassware.
Suzdal is a splendid tourist attraction where they have preserved the old wooden buildings and courtyards of the past.
Religion is gaining ground again since 1992 – makes you wonder where it hid all that time. The Russian Orthodox Cathedrals have been rebuilt or re-opened according to their previous fate under Stalin so the icons, paintings, carvings and gold abound. My neck aches from looking up at the various extravagances of the church.
There are strong Italian influences in the architecture and to be honest the look is very reminiscent of most Mediterranean churches I have visited (which are not really that many, just feels like it!) but with a bit more gold and many more personal tributes – Ivan the Terrible springs to mind here.
So, after all this denial of communism we visited Lenin lying in state in his mausoleum. Bit spooky looking at the corpse of a guy about my age and wondering if he had survived what would the world be like now? We dropped by the Kremlin and saw the doors where the photo opportunities take place -another imposing piece of real estate with so many cathedrals! From there we took ourselves off to the less well-promoted Museum of Contemporary Art to get a lesson in the revolution and its legacy. Some interesting artefacts and, comparatively, a lot of space given over to Putin....
The people have embraced capitalism but do not yet have the hang of it; they are too ostentatious, flaunting their newfound wealth. The system does not take account of the elderly or infirm as yet so beggars are never far away. The older people (my generation!) gave me the impression that they miss communism in many ways. OK they did not have the choices they have today but they knew what was there was affordable and would cost the same wherever they went in the whole country. They can also teach us a thing or two about credit crunches! These people have lived through – and survived 300% and 1,000% inflation. Our guide told us her son was potty trained when nappies increased in price – overnight - by 300% and she had just run out! And she was married to a high-ranking soldier so was not one of the ‘have-nots’ by any means.
So – would I go there again? Probably not, but St Petersburg calls.
Did I enjoy the trip? Very much, as I said – Red Square takes your breath away.
Entering the country was a bureaucratic challenge of immense proportions. We had to fill in several forms on the flight over and passport control, took forever (it was just as bad leaving!). At the hotel we had to have the paperwork authorised so we could walk around freely. I am glad to report we were never challenged by any of the guards or police but we were rarely without our guide.
I loved Red Square, it is breathtakingly beautiful as the name implies (red means beautiful for those like me that did not realise) and the mixture of architecture just works...but I do not like Moscow, it is too big, too noisy, too busy, too arrogant. The young women all looked like footballers wives or high class hookers (OK not much difference I grant you!) and how they balanced on those heels I will never try to find out, and I include the female guards in this comment! - I know I sound like a grumpy old woman but I guess that’s what I am! The shops we came across were full of designer kitsch and bling, although I confess to dribbling with desire at many of the clothes and shoes in the GUM (pronounced ‘g-oom’) shopping precinct. The older Russian people and families visiting the city looked drab by comparison and the divide between the ‘haves’ and ‘have-nots’ was very clear.
Weddings were everywhere. The tradition is to lay flowers at the tomb of the unknown soldier in Alexander Gardens just off Red Square and to be photographed in the gardens, or in Vladimir you head to the mound outside the main Russian Orthodox cathedral that gives you views across the countryside. The young brides looked very WAG-ish (and very young) and the grooms wore good, but shiny, suits. The best man and bridesmaids were equally well-dressed (see above!) and were distinguished from other guests by a sash not unlike those you see around Lincoln’s bars on hen party night. Other members of the wedding party did not seem to have made much extra effort – other than to ensure they had copious amounts of alcohol at hand! The parents did not seem to be in evidence – whether they attended the official ceremony and post photo party who knows...there were plenty of rose petals strewn at the entrances to restaurants and cafes in the area. It seems you can get out of the army if you have two children; otherwise, I was led to believe, you serve from the age of 18 to 27 - the divorce rate is 50%.
The roads are a total nightmare. The main street that leads to Red Square is four lanes in each direction – though it seems you can personally increase this at will!
There are speed limits and rules of the road but the evidence was scant. When you park you bounce the front two wheels of your imposing 4X4, Merc or Lexus up onto the nearest pavement and, if necessary, to get back into the traffic you just drive down the pavement until it is convenient to rejoin the melee. The motorway is as many as eight lanes in each direction and if you thought it was fast and chaotic in the city “you ain’t seen nothin’ yet!” There are no crash barriers and people walk across the flow of traffic. The peasants – old and young - sit by the side selling cucumbers and watermelons. There are junctions, traffic lights and regular crashes (we saw three in quick succession on the journey out of town).Fortunately, you need not drive in Moscow thanks to the Metro. When Stalin said he wanted to build the best one in the world he wasn’t kidding. Sadly I forgot to take photos here as too much time was spent trying to make sure we ended up in the right place by cross checking the Cyrillic script against our guide’s instructions to us! It was also designed as a comfortable nuclear shelter hence the depth but the marbled halls and chandeliers were amazing. The cleanliness of the trains and passageways could teach our underground system a thing or two. In fact, everywhere we went was spotless – although some of the loos were a tad primitive!
Vladimir and Suzdal are quieter thank goodness – you can walk across the route of Trans Siberian Railway without hindrance from crossing gates (take note Lincoln station!). Vladimir is not famous for vodka as you might imagine but for exquisite glassware.
Suzdal is a splendid tourist attraction where they have preserved the old wooden buildings and courtyards of the past.Religion is gaining ground again since 1992 – makes you wonder where it hid all that time. The Russian Orthodox Cathedrals have been rebuilt or re-opened according to their previous fate under Stalin so the icons, paintings, carvings and gold abound. My neck aches from looking up at the various extravagances of the church.
There are strong Italian influences in the architecture and to be honest the look is very reminiscent of most Mediterranean churches I have visited (which are not really that many, just feels like it!) but with a bit more gold and many more personal tributes – Ivan the Terrible springs to mind here. So, after all this denial of communism we visited Lenin lying in state in his mausoleum. Bit spooky looking at the corpse of a guy about my age and wondering if he had survived what would the world be like now? We dropped by the Kremlin and saw the doors where the photo opportunities take place -another imposing piece of real estate with so many cathedrals! From there we took ourselves off to the less well-promoted Museum of Contemporary Art to get a lesson in the revolution and its legacy. Some interesting artefacts and, comparatively, a lot of space given over to Putin....
The people have embraced capitalism but do not yet have the hang of it; they are too ostentatious, flaunting their newfound wealth. The system does not take account of the elderly or infirm as yet so beggars are never far away. The older people (my generation!) gave me the impression that they miss communism in many ways. OK they did not have the choices they have today but they knew what was there was affordable and would cost the same wherever they went in the whole country. They can also teach us a thing or two about credit crunches! These people have lived through – and survived 300% and 1,000% inflation. Our guide told us her son was potty trained when nappies increased in price – overnight - by 300% and she had just run out! And she was married to a high-ranking soldier so was not one of the ‘have-nots’ by any means.
So – would I go there again? Probably not, but St Petersburg calls.
Did I enjoy the trip? Very much, as I said – Red Square takes your breath away.
Friday 5 June 2009
oy, do you like 'ospital food?
A number of things have probably raised my blood pressure to dangerous levels over the last few days and I think I should let off steam before I write the official complaint. Although the immediate sight of ‘he who thinks he should be obeyed (hbo)’ battling with the cat on his lap (Mao) that has his kitty foot on 'hbo's' IPod and the dog (Ralph) with his nose up said cat’s arse in true doggy greeting is relieving a lot of stress!!
I digress...it has been a tough few days with my Mum being taken very ill (as only an 84 year old can) on bank holiday Monday. And I guess that is what has spurred me to the main topic of my rant.
Now I am an ardent supporter of our beloved NHS – I worked within it for a few years and OK like all great institutions it has its faults and creaks in places but, on the whole, when you are in dire need it pulls out all the stops to help you. However, these last few days there is one thing that has depressed rather than angered me about this beloved regime of care.
A few years ago in a great flurry of positive PR Lloyd Grossman set about hospital food and now all the daily menus have dishes with a little chef’s hat next to key dishes designed to delight the patient. Mum is not really in the mood for food at the moment (a worry all itself but that’s the personal stuff and not for this occassion) but then again, like all sick people she needs nourishment as part of the healing process and so it should be a key part of her treatment plan. She can’t make her own choices presently but I do know the kind of food she enjoys. So pen in hand I fill in the little blocks on the menu to pick out some tasty morsels for her. Because of her current condition it is hard to find out if she enjoys my selections, but I think I know now...
Today, for a variety of reasons, I was allowed special visiting privileges and found myself at her bedside when lunch arrived. I had selected haddock with parsley sauce (and chef’s hat), peas and carrots to tempt her followed by an apple. OK the plate had exactly that order on it...but I think you know the reality. The fish was rock hard, the sauce a solid blob, the peas a dull green and shrivelled more than the majority of the patients on the ward but oh joy, the carrots looked pretty. Oh yes, the apple was a pale yellowish green and looked like the journey from France began with the Normandy landings we are currently celebrating. Needless to say the few mouthfuls I tried to get her to eat returned rapidly giving me faith that she is not completely detached from reality.
BUT HOW THE HELL WILL SHE GET BETTER IF THIS IS WHAT SHE IS EXPECTED TO EAT?
You might try to tell me today was blip but we all know it wasn’t – and anyway one of the ladies who is at the stage where she can communicate told me it was the norm – she had been made sick by the previous day’s offerings. I will have to say something but I know it won’t change much, mass catering is beyond us as a nation. My plan is to ask the Trust Board to make an unannounced visit to the wards and see if they would be willing to partake of the chef’s hat.
Watch this space for the results.
Cat and dog now asleep, ‘he who thinks he should be obeyed’ is nodding patiently.
I digress...it has been a tough few days with my Mum being taken very ill (as only an 84 year old can) on bank holiday Monday. And I guess that is what has spurred me to the main topic of my rant.
Now I am an ardent supporter of our beloved NHS – I worked within it for a few years and OK like all great institutions it has its faults and creaks in places but, on the whole, when you are in dire need it pulls out all the stops to help you. However, these last few days there is one thing that has depressed rather than angered me about this beloved regime of care.
A few years ago in a great flurry of positive PR Lloyd Grossman set about hospital food and now all the daily menus have dishes with a little chef’s hat next to key dishes designed to delight the patient. Mum is not really in the mood for food at the moment (a worry all itself but that’s the personal stuff and not for this occassion) but then again, like all sick people she needs nourishment as part of the healing process and so it should be a key part of her treatment plan. She can’t make her own choices presently but I do know the kind of food she enjoys. So pen in hand I fill in the little blocks on the menu to pick out some tasty morsels for her. Because of her current condition it is hard to find out if she enjoys my selections, but I think I know now...
Today, for a variety of reasons, I was allowed special visiting privileges and found myself at her bedside when lunch arrived. I had selected haddock with parsley sauce (and chef’s hat), peas and carrots to tempt her followed by an apple. OK the plate had exactly that order on it...but I think you know the reality. The fish was rock hard, the sauce a solid blob, the peas a dull green and shrivelled more than the majority of the patients on the ward but oh joy, the carrots looked pretty. Oh yes, the apple was a pale yellowish green and looked like the journey from France began with the Normandy landings we are currently celebrating. Needless to say the few mouthfuls I tried to get her to eat returned rapidly giving me faith that she is not completely detached from reality.
BUT HOW THE HELL WILL SHE GET BETTER IF THIS IS WHAT SHE IS EXPECTED TO EAT?
You might try to tell me today was blip but we all know it wasn’t – and anyway one of the ladies who is at the stage where she can communicate told me it was the norm – she had been made sick by the previous day’s offerings. I will have to say something but I know it won’t change much, mass catering is beyond us as a nation. My plan is to ask the Trust Board to make an unannounced visit to the wards and see if they would be willing to partake of the chef’s hat.
Watch this space for the results.
Cat and dog now asleep, ‘he who thinks he should be obeyed’ is nodding patiently.
Thursday 5 March 2009
Knowing when to stop....
Careers are funny things if mine has been anything to go by. My career planning started as a small child dreaming of being a school teacher, lining up my toys for lessons each day in front of my small blackboard and making my long suffering younger and later school almost phobic cousin participate in pretend lessons during the school holidays – sorry! So, I did all the right things, work experience at my old primary school before heading off to do one of those new fangled B.Eds. Then came my first teaching practice...I HATED it! But I carried on regardless, got my degree and headed off to work in a related industry where I discovered publicity...I now know that was social marketing and Public Relations. I followed this path through a variety of roles for many happy years working long hours, enjoying myself trying to get the work life balance right when my young son asked why I couldn’t be at the school gate like other Mums and so on.
Then one day I realised I had really done enough and was no longer contributing as effectively as I used to...I hadn’t quite done a Campbell and become the story but I wasn’t doing my organisation any favours either. It took me quite a while to realise this and there was a lot of anger and heart searching on the way, a bit like going through bereavement only this time I was grieving for the person I used to be and could no longer be. It never ceases to amaze me now how much of my ‘identity’ was wrapped up in what I did each day, how much of ‘me’ was my career. I won’t bore you with the gory details of what went on and how I felt over a period of some 3 years suffice to say I can now look back with the wisdom of hindsight and wish there was a way of helping others who have reached this point but still don’t realise that.
It may be that some of these colleagues, friends - whomever - are facing a cross roads in their lives through age, health, boredom, fatigue; it doesn’t really matter. What does matter is the recognition of this point and how they eventually come to terms with it. I often remember the dreadful moment when a former boss of mine suffered a stroke in his mid forties and really struggled to come to terms with the fact that he would never return to his career as he knew it then. Very much younger than when many of us face this turning point he spent a long time in denial but eventually good sense prevailed and he realised he owed his family the respect of trying to slow down so he could enjoy more time with them rather than struggling on and shortening his life even further.
There are others who just don’t have that realisation and keep trying to return to their career, refusing to give in to whatever the circumstances might be – “I’m not going to be beaten” you hear them exclaim bravely – or is it selfishly? Let me explain my harsh statement...
The guy who has been overlooked in reorganisation after restructuring after service re-engineering becomes bitter and twisted by the perceived demotions. But he does nothing to move on either physically or mentally harms the working relationships with colleagues and former friends, puts undue pressure on his family as he slips into a black depression is no better than the people he sees as being to blame for his slide from favour. The woman whose ill health is not so bad to make the organisation pension her off but who can no longer do her job as well as she used to ends up taking advantage of her colleagues’ goodwill – while it lasts – and shortens her own life expectancy to the detriment of her loved ones is frankly, plain selfish. The leader who starts to run out of steam and coasts towards retirement avoiding innovation and change brings down their organisation or team leaving them behind the competition and ruining young careers on the way through.
These examples and many others are symptomatic of the way we fail to manage our workforce as it ages and matures. Organisations do not think about ways to make it easier for people to downshift without losing face. If we took a more constructive approach, we could help people ease into a new identity without killing them or embittering them – or their colleagues. We should allow them to support the upcoming generation of leaders and pioneers as we teach respect for the work life balance.
I can recall being enraged I was not being given the chance of the next big job even though I knew my sell by date had been reached some months earlier and my best before was fast approaching! I still had a lot to offer but not at the pace I had to work at up until then, my brain could no longer cope and that in turn caused my emotions to overrule my rational behaviour. I was irritable with my family, OK – more irritable with my family! I became paranoid with colleagues. I retreated into myself. Then I realised that status was not the be all and end all of my life that I could ask to change my lifestyle and downshift. OK financially I was in a position to pay off the mortgage so whatever happened the roof would remain over our heads but once recognised I could still be a whole person without THAT career I found a new spring in my step, my confidence returned, I became the old me – and I was comfortable with it.
So chaps – if you are feeling jaded, if you’ve had spells of ill health, if you are pissed off... stop – for all our sakes!
Then one day I realised I had really done enough and was no longer contributing as effectively as I used to...I hadn’t quite done a Campbell and become the story but I wasn’t doing my organisation any favours either. It took me quite a while to realise this and there was a lot of anger and heart searching on the way, a bit like going through bereavement only this time I was grieving for the person I used to be and could no longer be. It never ceases to amaze me now how much of my ‘identity’ was wrapped up in what I did each day, how much of ‘me’ was my career. I won’t bore you with the gory details of what went on and how I felt over a period of some 3 years suffice to say I can now look back with the wisdom of hindsight and wish there was a way of helping others who have reached this point but still don’t realise that.
It may be that some of these colleagues, friends - whomever - are facing a cross roads in their lives through age, health, boredom, fatigue; it doesn’t really matter. What does matter is the recognition of this point and how they eventually come to terms with it. I often remember the dreadful moment when a former boss of mine suffered a stroke in his mid forties and really struggled to come to terms with the fact that he would never return to his career as he knew it then. Very much younger than when many of us face this turning point he spent a long time in denial but eventually good sense prevailed and he realised he owed his family the respect of trying to slow down so he could enjoy more time with them rather than struggling on and shortening his life even further.
There are others who just don’t have that realisation and keep trying to return to their career, refusing to give in to whatever the circumstances might be – “I’m not going to be beaten” you hear them exclaim bravely – or is it selfishly? Let me explain my harsh statement...
The guy who has been overlooked in reorganisation after restructuring after service re-engineering becomes bitter and twisted by the perceived demotions. But he does nothing to move on either physically or mentally harms the working relationships with colleagues and former friends, puts undue pressure on his family as he slips into a black depression is no better than the people he sees as being to blame for his slide from favour. The woman whose ill health is not so bad to make the organisation pension her off but who can no longer do her job as well as she used to ends up taking advantage of her colleagues’ goodwill – while it lasts – and shortens her own life expectancy to the detriment of her loved ones is frankly, plain selfish. The leader who starts to run out of steam and coasts towards retirement avoiding innovation and change brings down their organisation or team leaving them behind the competition and ruining young careers on the way through.
These examples and many others are symptomatic of the way we fail to manage our workforce as it ages and matures. Organisations do not think about ways to make it easier for people to downshift without losing face. If we took a more constructive approach, we could help people ease into a new identity without killing them or embittering them – or their colleagues. We should allow them to support the upcoming generation of leaders and pioneers as we teach respect for the work life balance.
I can recall being enraged I was not being given the chance of the next big job even though I knew my sell by date had been reached some months earlier and my best before was fast approaching! I still had a lot to offer but not at the pace I had to work at up until then, my brain could no longer cope and that in turn caused my emotions to overrule my rational behaviour. I was irritable with my family, OK – more irritable with my family! I became paranoid with colleagues. I retreated into myself. Then I realised that status was not the be all and end all of my life that I could ask to change my lifestyle and downshift. OK financially I was in a position to pay off the mortgage so whatever happened the roof would remain over our heads but once recognised I could still be a whole person without THAT career I found a new spring in my step, my confidence returned, I became the old me – and I was comfortable with it.
So chaps – if you are feeling jaded, if you’ve had spells of ill health, if you are pissed off... stop – for all our sakes!
Thursday 19 February 2009
Letting go
Half term has been very different this time with the one and only spreading his wings and heading off on a school trip. Now, he has been away on trips before but they have always been in this country and have been ‘fun stuff’. This one has been quite different, destination Poland – Krakow to be precise, and included a visit to Auschwitz. As I write I am sitting waiting for the phone call to say he has landed safely at Luton Airport and is heading back home. I wonder what he has made of it? Did it stir difficult emotions? Did he allow himself to express those feelings? Will he talk to u about it all?
The only contact we have had was to let us know he had arrived at the hotel in Krakow a few days ago and that the room was OK if a little small for him and his two room mates. Will he have eaten well? Will he have slept well? Did he have enough warm clothes (I wasn’t allowed to participate in packing!)? So many questions but I MUST resist the temptation to ask them…yes he’s a teenager and I am not allowed to ‘cross question’. I know we will hear about the interesting stuff in the fullness of time but it is so hard as a Mum not to want to know minute by minute accounts. I’ve got to get used to this as he gradually grows away from my influence...or do I mean control? The GCSEs will be taken this spring/summer and then it’s 6th form – oh yes, and he’s the oldest in his year so driving lessons are on the list for September. Something else for me to worry about.
But as I think back to when I was 16 I was doing so much more so why am I worrying? I was the youngest in my year so perhaps that was what made it different? And yes, it is different for girls. We mature differently and in different ways. The world was very different then – full of the same kinds of temptations but somehow safer, or was it? I was interested in having a good time, getting into pubs and pushing the boundaries. He is much more private and happy to be in his room communicating in this new virtual world. He is interested the political world around him, much less superficial than my teenage years. But I know he will start to go out and about on his own soon enough. He is already talking about other places he wants to visit – that scares me because I have never been a great traveller, I think I am rather like a fine wine! But I have to let him become his own person, he’s not my little baby anymore he is a young man and needs to discover things for himself…just like I did as a young woman.
Post script: He got home safe and sound full of excitement at the riots in Krakow that greeted the NATO leaders, impressed by the North Koreans he met (nicest people there Mum) and insensed by the size of Air Force One parked on the runway of the airport!
The only contact we have had was to let us know he had arrived at the hotel in Krakow a few days ago and that the room was OK if a little small for him and his two room mates. Will he have eaten well? Will he have slept well? Did he have enough warm clothes (I wasn’t allowed to participate in packing!)? So many questions but I MUST resist the temptation to ask them…yes he’s a teenager and I am not allowed to ‘cross question’. I know we will hear about the interesting stuff in the fullness of time but it is so hard as a Mum not to want to know minute by minute accounts. I’ve got to get used to this as he gradually grows away from my influence...or do I mean control? The GCSEs will be taken this spring/summer and then it’s 6th form – oh yes, and he’s the oldest in his year so driving lessons are on the list for September. Something else for me to worry about.
But as I think back to when I was 16 I was doing so much more so why am I worrying? I was the youngest in my year so perhaps that was what made it different? And yes, it is different for girls. We mature differently and in different ways. The world was very different then – full of the same kinds of temptations but somehow safer, or was it? I was interested in having a good time, getting into pubs and pushing the boundaries. He is much more private and happy to be in his room communicating in this new virtual world. He is interested the political world around him, much less superficial than my teenage years. But I know he will start to go out and about on his own soon enough. He is already talking about other places he wants to visit – that scares me because I have never been a great traveller, I think I am rather like a fine wine! But I have to let him become his own person, he’s not my little baby anymore he is a young man and needs to discover things for himself…just like I did as a young woman.
Post script: He got home safe and sound full of excitement at the riots in Krakow that greeted the NATO leaders, impressed by the North Koreans he met (nicest people there Mum) and insensed by the size of Air Force One parked on the runway of the airport!
Monday 2 February 2009
first food for thought
Do I really want to blog? - I’m not sure but I think I should give it a go, after all I am sufficiently opinionated and I like to have a good rant here and there. Plus who knows, I could actually learn something if people can be bothered to join in and respond here and there. My ego is big enough but I am actually quite shy so it’ll take a while to get going methinks. I don’t like to think I have ever been one to go on and on until I have bored the audience into submission – but maybe that’s just wishful thinking on my part!
Well brace yourselves, here goes…
Just recently I have felt moved to write a letter, well actually pen the odd email (can you pen and e mail?)about ‘Master Chef’. It’s about the only reality TV I watch (granted I had a short flirtation with ‘strictly’ purely because I am a big fan of Julian Clary and just so wanted to see him continue his spats with the judges).
I thoroughly enjoy the programme and enjoy having my taste buds teased by the sight of some very interesting food – ‘TV DOESN’T COME TASTIER THAN THIS!’ But...I have increasingly become enraged by the round in the professional kitchens of those flashy restaurants. The contestants suffer in the heat and pressurised environment with ‘Chef’ yelling at all and sundry – fine, that’s what they signed up for and if they want to get ahead they’ve got to be able to take it. But…it’s the food, the waste of the food, which has got me overcooked.
OK, so the fish is just a bit off centre from the watercress garnish but it is perfectly edible.
OK, so you wouldn’t want to send it out looking a bit frayed round the edges. But…do you really have to sling it in the bin?
Surely someone could eat it? Surely the staff could have the rejects for a snack at the end? Surely the dish could be frozen and passed on as a ready meal to some deserving cause?
I guess it’s my upbringing of not wasting precious food and being made to clean my plate come what may that lies behind my fury. But I strongly feel it is obscene to sling out good quality food when there are many who will die for the want of much less. Perhaps I have got it all wrong and there are restaurants out there doing the decent thing with their rejects – but it doesn’t look good from where I sit each Monday to Thursday evening. I wonder what our campaigning Chefs like Saints Jamie and Hugh get up to at their establishments?
Right, that’s better, it’s off my chest. I promise I won’t be quite so intense each time I write. But I’ve been stewing on that one for a few episodes now. I shall mull over some more thoughts and I may just blog again soon – unless this one ends up in the bin!
Well brace yourselves, here goes…
Just recently I have felt moved to write a letter, well actually pen the odd email (can you pen and e mail?)about ‘Master Chef’. It’s about the only reality TV I watch (granted I had a short flirtation with ‘strictly’ purely because I am a big fan of Julian Clary and just so wanted to see him continue his spats with the judges).
I thoroughly enjoy the programme and enjoy having my taste buds teased by the sight of some very interesting food – ‘TV DOESN’T COME TASTIER THAN THIS!’ But...I have increasingly become enraged by the round in the professional kitchens of those flashy restaurants. The contestants suffer in the heat and pressurised environment with ‘Chef’ yelling at all and sundry – fine, that’s what they signed up for and if they want to get ahead they’ve got to be able to take it. But…it’s the food, the waste of the food, which has got me overcooked.
OK, so the fish is just a bit off centre from the watercress garnish but it is perfectly edible.
OK, so you wouldn’t want to send it out looking a bit frayed round the edges. But…do you really have to sling it in the bin?
Surely someone could eat it? Surely the staff could have the rejects for a snack at the end? Surely the dish could be frozen and passed on as a ready meal to some deserving cause?
I guess it’s my upbringing of not wasting precious food and being made to clean my plate come what may that lies behind my fury. But I strongly feel it is obscene to sling out good quality food when there are many who will die for the want of much less. Perhaps I have got it all wrong and there are restaurants out there doing the decent thing with their rejects – but it doesn’t look good from where I sit each Monday to Thursday evening. I wonder what our campaigning Chefs like Saints Jamie and Hugh get up to at their establishments?
Right, that’s better, it’s off my chest. I promise I won’t be quite so intense each time I write. But I’ve been stewing on that one for a few episodes now. I shall mull over some more thoughts and I may just blog again soon – unless this one ends up in the bin!
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