Cooper, Nabokov, Welch...

I once read that Jilly Cooper writes her novels in longhand*. It was years ago, albeit years after you'd have expected her to move onto something more techy. I remember thinking how long it must take, how many crossings out there must be, how many mad arrows sweeping over several pages or large asterisks denoting an extra section must be littered throughout her notebooks. Reading that she wrote in longhand provided quite the image. Indeed, after a quick search for authors who opt for this method, I found a couple more. Vladimir Nabokov and Denise Welch. All the greats.

Perhaps having a cover that
could be described as 'a bit dodge'
is a prerequisite for the longhand
writer. I'm casting no aspersions on
Denise Welch, however, having none
of her books to hand.

I get the appeal though. I got my first word processor when I was twenty-one, just in time for my dissertation. Before that, I would submit my essays in real life handwriting. Only occasionally would I type them up in the uni computer suite. A room I rarely bothered with, unless I had time to kill before a bus, and a complete essay fully written out in my bag. Yep, I had to handwrite the entire thing first before I committed it to the digital world. The idea of backspacing anything other than a spelling mistake stressed me out. I couldn't shape an argument or complete a coherent train of thought if I hadn't mapped it all out with a paper and pen first. 

Fast forward twenty years and I'm over all that. The thought of writing - with my actual hand - all of Carry the Beautiful (78000 words) or all of Leeza McAuliffe (69000 words) makes my underdeveloped arm muscles shudder. Writing is typing, is thinking, is shaping, is editing, is all of it. Not my best quotable line but you get the gist. Technology combines together all the skills I used to bring separately. And for me and my process, I'm all the better for it.

But this week, DISASTER struck.

Now look. I know I'm prone to hyperbole. And some people have real problems, right? But this really does feel disastrous. A little bit anyway. Because - and I'm mentally gripping the chair arms and gritting my teeth as I type this - after a long-overdue update on my laptop, Word 2011 no longer opens. SHHHHIIIITTTTT.

This is a screen shot of my desktop. I don't
care about the other ones, just my lovely Word.

I know other writers do things differently. (Schrivener is a tool I've tried but just can't make work. Others prefer Apple Pages.) But for me and many others, all the magic takes place on Word. Then, when the time comes, the Word Doc is formatted into an interior document and sent to the publishing company. Word is compatible with all the things I need later. And now Word has stopped working. Booooooooo.

I know what the problem is. It's dead simple. My software is out of date. It has been deemed (presumably by Bill and Melinda Gates after an impromptu family meeting around the kitchen table) that 2011 is old news, even though it is only five minutes ago in real life. I need to buy new discs or, more probably - in a crazy Sci-fi plot twist - I'll have to download something or other from somewhere. See, I know all the lingo.

I know that in a few days, I'll have worked it all out and this crisis will be consigned to the past. It's just a perfect example of why I hate technology. Technology goes out of date. I hate the need for constant updates. I hate getting a new phone. I hate that I'll turn my TV planner on and someone somewhere has decided to change the look of the whole thing and it takes me half an hour to find my saved Murder She Wrotes. I hate it all.

Still there? Oh good. I was worried my rant might have seen you off. Look, I know that I have to tackle this fear. Because as we know, hate in all its forms is really fear of something we don't understand. In my constant endeavour to be as self-sufficient as possible, it really sucks to be so reliant on something I don't understand beyond the superficial. It doesn't suit me to have to trust and believe in something of which I don't have an inside out knowledge. I don't like it.

I understand these notebooks. I don't
 fear these notebooks. These notebooks
will not need updating. These
notebooks will last forever.

*kisses fingers, argument won.*

But here we are. I have to crack on. I have to buy/download/install new Word. I need to embrace the changes. I need to be able to open my current manuscript again, and be able to carry on with Chapter 34. I also need to stay as open minded as possible. Like I am with celeriac. It looks wrong, it smells wrong, but if I add enough butter, garlic and salt, it can be very tasty. I need to add metaphoric butter, garlic and salt to new Word and it will all be OK.

It's time to be a grown up and face my fear. When it all gets too much, I can always spend an hour in Paperchase, browsing the notebooks and pretending I'm Jilly Cooper and Denise Welch. Or something. 

Have a lovely week, folks.

*I definitely did read this. For sure. But in the writing of this week's post, I tried to find a reference to link to, so that you could all see I wasn't lying. All I could find was this article where she explains she has written on a typewriter for several years. I still stand by the fact I read what I read back in the day. I can only assume it was the journalist that mislead me. 

I'll Always Have Chapter Six...

It's writing update time, folks. Get excited. Whoop whoop. 

Despite the constant lure of Twitter and the urge to read every fact-checking thread that debunks the day's news cycle, I am nearing the end of Book Three.

Now, hold your horses one tiny moment. I'm still a couple of calendar years away from having anything publishable. The end of Book Three, at this stage, is simply the end of the first draft. I'm approaching the literal end of a story that exists a little bit more each day. Back in June, I gave myself the end of November to get to the last full stop. I've amended that deadline slightly over the months, and now it's the week before Christmas. (You know, because I love the sweaty panic of getting the house ready for a three-day food-fest of multi-generational guests at the same time that I have to tie up loose ends and hope the characters haven't been wasting theirs or the readers' time for 80,000 words. Fun!)

There is a notebook filled with
THOUGHTS just waiting for January.

Pretty much since I started, the urge to tinker with what I've already written, is strong. I know from writing Book One, how much time I would waste if I did that. Rereading from chapter one is banned. My editing time will start in January when I have a complete draft in which to dive. The problem with that, though, is that as I near the end of my first draft, I'm well aware of its utter mediocrity.

Jessica and Gilderoy are here
to remind me I've done it
 before so I'll do it again.

Now wait one moment. I'm not being insecure, nor self-deprecating. Mediocre at this stage is pretty good. And as well as mediocre, there are plenty of chapters that are downright shite. That's OK too. No book in its first format is anything better than that. I know, from past experience as well as reading accounts from other writers, this is perfectly normal. The feeling of not being able to see the wood for the trees, and of being overwhelmed by the enormity of the task ahead, is all standard stuff. I'm not worried. It's just the process of which I am slap bang in the middle. Come January, the next part of the process will kick in. It'll be time to turn the mediocre/shite formulaic stuff into coherent, engaging, and suspenseful prose. (LOLZ. We can but dream.) That's the plan, anyway. And that will take just as long (if not longer) than the six months of writing draft one has taken.

The accompanying folder of waffle
and ramble is filling up nicely. 

So, believing it will be better one day is what I need to do. Some days that's easy. Others not so much. But for now, there are little snippets of hope that help me through. Like last week's writing group. So far, since June, I've read the first five chapters out loud. The group have listened to me, and given their feedback. It's been very kind. Maybe better than kind. They've been supportive and constructive. I've made notes that I'll definitely consider when January comes around, and hearing their chat around what I've written has made me rethink some things. All really useful. 

Last week, I read Chapter Six. This one was more comedic than the previous ones. It focused on a phone conversation between two friends who were having a long overdue catch up. It involved office gossip, love life updates, and had a general air of piss-takey repartee between the characters. It's supposed to be light relief amidst some heavier issues of which I've only hinted. 

Here's the thing. People laughed. Not just at the end, but regularly. All the way through. I read it at a ridiculously fast speed because time was tight, but my joke about a gimp mask landed. Then my character's description of her new lover's body caused mirth. 'Not man-booby at all!' I kept racing through, aware that people were amused, and then got to the end and felt the love. It was so gratifying. 

Look, people might still have felt the need to be kind. But it felt good. It gave me a boost that will keep me ploughing on until I feel happy with all of it, not just the little bits. One day, I'll look at every chapter, at the overall structure, at the character development, at the emotional punches, the imagery and word choices, and feel happy with every single bit of it. For now I've got Chapter 6. That's enough to keep the faith.

Have a lovely week, folks.

You Can Always Rely on Gnocchi...

I won't lie, it's all a bit of a struggle this week. 

The gherkins are my ideas, the jar is
writer's block. I have no idea who the
old lady is, but she deserves all the
 acting awards in the world.

It's the time I share my glittering insights on life. This week, however, I've been looking at a blank screen for the past hour. I have a smidge of a hangover and a distinct lack of motivation. I'm in my pyjamas, I'm probably pre-mentrual, and I absolutely can't be arsed. And yet here we are. It's blog time. I have to crack on. 

Some weeks, I know what I'm going to write, days before I sit down to do it. A thought will have been festering. Like when I wrote about my No More Page Three T-shirt now being irrelevant. I'd had that in my head for a week before I shaped it into paragraphs. Other times, something big will happen that everyone's talking about. Last week it was the possibility of a General Election. When that happens, I find that my gut feeling to the news can be used as a topic. I know that I'll be able to work it into 800 words of eloquence. Or nonsense. But either way, sentences are formed.

This week, that hasn't happened.

This is me last night.
 Shovelling down the
Bhel Puri without a
thought in my head about
what I could write today.

My brain's main topic of thought these days is politics but I went there last week. As I'm not a political commentator - no, really, I'm not. I know it's hard to believe - then a second week on the topic is a bit much. Beyond that, the majority of my feelings right now are joy-filled contentment that the clocks have gone back, it's the time for scarves and gloves, and that Christmas tunes can be legitimately played on any car journey. I have written about my love of Winter many times before. TLDR: It's the best. So, after that, I'm struggling for something new that I can share.

My next port of call, when I'm stuck like this, is to actively look for topics. So, I read the smaller stories on the BBC news website. I scroll through Twitter for something that jumps out. I check out Instagram. Today, that is proving less than fruitful. I am writing this the day after Halloween. A festival that passes me by, because A) it's silly, B) I'm 41 and C) I am child-free and live in a child-free area. (This makes it sound like it's a town rule. It isn't. There are just no kids on my road. I am spared the cottonwool cobwebs and spiderweb window patterns as I go about my business.) So the morning after the night before, as I scroll through social media looking for something to explore on my blog, I'm just seeing a gazillion uploads of fancy dress. It's not really helping.

So we're down to the worst case scenario. The scraping of the bottom of the barrel. The thing I know I always have in my back pocket, should the need arise. Folks, it's time to pull out the recipe card.

Here is the nicest meal I can think of, off the top of my head. It's got three ingredients, and takes fifteen minutes tops. I'm sorry it's come to this, but it has. At least I'm imparting something, anything. I've done the best I can under very trying circumstances.

Nicky's Gnocchi

Serves 2

1 packet of trimmed green beans
1 packet of gnocchi
1 tub of marinated prawns (Marksies chilli and coriander works for me.)

Right then. This is as simple as it gets.

• Pan fry the green beans. Cut them in half if you want. Use oil if you want. Either way, move them around the pan for five minutes or so until they're slightly softer than they were.
• Move the green beans to one side of the frying pan and add the gnocchi. It will be firm and will roll around as you move the pan. Five minutes of that, and the outside of the gnocchi will start crisping, whilst the inside gets softer. Another five minutes of letting it cook and the gnocchi will start to look like baby roast potatoes. 
• When you're happy the gnocchi and green beans are cooked, add the prawns. Cut them in half if you want. Add all the flavoured oil and herbs from the pot. Stir everything together for a minute. You don't need long as the prawns are already cooked. 
• When everything is hot and mixed together, you're done. Eat up, it's fit. 

So there we go. Some thoughts exploring pesky writer's block, plus a handy little recipe should you ever find yourself thinking, 'Oh, I have green beans, gnocchi and prawns in the fridge but I don't have the first idea what to do with them.' Look, I am happy to help. But for now, let's take some time to regroup and we'll try again next week. It can only get better from here.

Have a lovely week, folks.

Why Don't You?...*

You tell 'em Johnny. I'm at my wits
end with all the misdirection and spin.

I can only apologise for how small the window of relevancy is for this post. It is tiny. Miniscule. Blink and you'll miss it. But hey ho, let's not let that stop us, yeah? On we trot.

At the time of writing I am reliably informed that the Prime Minster is going to attempt to get support for a General Election. It would be in December - reports say he wants the 12th but then commentators say he has no say in the eventual date, besides, he's already rejected the Lib Dem/SNP suggestion of a 9th December election over the weekend - and it will be voted upon in Parliament at some point later today. Reports also say that the Opposition will vote it down. 

Here's the thing. Let's park party politics to one side for five minutes and think about this sensibly. I don't care whether this is politically savvy for the Oppostition, or tactical and calculating from the Government. None of that matters. What does matter, is that there are approximately 5764678 more enjoyable things to do in December than read about, campaign for, and vote in a General Election. Probably more than that, to be honest. And I'm someone that under normal circumstances, loves the opportunity to get my vote on. But December? No ta. Let's think of the logistics for a second. A man with whom I have more than a passing acquaintance, put it pretty succinctly on Twitter last week. 

'If a December #election does happen, anyone who works on the ground campaign in any capacity for any political party has my upmost sympathy!'

Wise words. Hours outside in the cold, knocking on the doors of people who don't fancy opening their minds to persuasive political natter whilst their central heating escapes from their open front door. Bleak is the word. Bleak and grim. But take heart. This blog will be out of date in five minutes. The second a General Election is voted down, December is freed up for all of us to enjoy, in as traditional a way as possible. The campaigning, debating, pub-arguing, article-reading, Twitter thread-ingesting, and winter walking to the polling booth can be saved for another day. With a December GE avoided, here's what joys we can fill the month with instead.

Fill your house with the smell of oranges
 and cinnamon instead of reading op-eds
about the likelihood of another hung parliament.

1. Make a Cake
This recipe by Nigella is the simplest fruit cake I've ever made. All done in one pan and then baked, it requires a fraction of the effort of more traditional methods. (Like, there's no need to prong the cake with a knitting needle to add the rivulets of sherry to the month-old fruit cake, unless that sort of thing rocks you boat.) I make two of these every year. One to eat from November onwards, and then one for an actual Christmas cake. It provides a shed load more sensory satisfaction than another round of soon-to-be broken promises and spinning bluster. 

Fairy lights provide a much stronger inner glow
than Jeremy Vine pratting about with interactive
graphics through in the early hours. Priorities people. 

2. Buy Fairy Lights
Any evening is enlivened by the inclusion of fairy lights. When I was a kid there was one string, kept in the loft, that was ritualistically untangled at the start of each December. Now, they are sold all over the show. The Internet provides year-round twinkles in a gazillion different formats. Chillis, flowers, multicoloured, clear, battery, outdoor, solar - literally anything you want you can get. And all for cheap too. You know you want to. It's a much better use of your time. 

Fair ye well, old fashioned music provider.
You have seen me right these many years.

3. Dust off Christmas CDs
I was filled with horror about seven seconds ago when I realised that my new car has no CD slot. Since I listen to my Christmas CD on every car journey as soon as the clocks change, this has caused some consternation. On the plus side, this means that not only can I get with the times, I can also look forward to a happy evening, compiling my Ultimate Christmas Playlist. One that will effortlessly sync with my dashboard. Every cloud and all that. 

4. Compile the Seasonal TV Viewing
The Christmas Radio Times usually hits the shops in the first week or so of December. Wouldn't it be marvellous to spend a full evening of highlighting that, instead of watching 

Kuenssberg and her mates try to jolly us through the cognitive dissonance of a winter exit poll.

Last year's December.
Definitely a marathon not a sprint.

5. Schedule Festive Drinks with People You Only See in December
The older I've got, the more this happens. Friendships that are glued together via Whatsapps and Facebook likes, get real in December. Last year I had four nights out in a row during the week before Christmas.** Like I was seventeen! I loved it but it also broke me. I now know from experience that I need SAS-style endurance training before that level of socialising kicks in again. But at least I won't be wasting time reading opinion pieces and deciphering vote share graphs.

Searching for a last minute outfit.
The struggle is real. Every year.

6. Wish You'd Started Your Pre-Xmas Diet in July
This happens every year. The jacket I'd like to wear to the work's Christmas do, does not currently fit me. Instead of doing something about that, I will assume that if I just wish hard enough by the time the evening comes, it will be fine. Then, when it is not fine, there will be a last minute dash to a retail park on the day of the night out. I will throw money at a replacement item that will be worn once, and then charity binned because it was always second best to the jacket that still won't fit me. But still. It's what December is all about. Imagine if I had to go and vote at the same time. Madness.

 Lingonberry sauce makes me feel all Scandi
and Nordic. I am Sarah Lund, Birgitte Nyborg, 
and Petra Mede all rolled into one.

7. Add Cranberry Sauce to Standard Sunday Dinners
It doesn't matter that this is technically possible all year round, it just doesn't happen. But come December, I buy a jar of cranberry and add it to every chicken and gravy based meal I consume. Like a dog, cranberry sauce is not just for Christmas. Rule breaker? Rebel? Anarchist? I couldn't possibly comment. And get this. Not only do I pimp up my Sunday dinners this way, I don't even stick to cranberry. Not me. Ever the rebel, I've currently got lingonberry on the go. Imagine if I were too busy getting riled up by Question Time to remember to stick two fingers up to the system. Imagine. 

8. Self-Care
Look. The twelfth month of the year is fraught enough. Christmas cards, gift shopping, working out how fit an increasingly growing family around a table that remains resolutely the same size - it's all mad enough. I honestly can't begin to think about throwing an election into the mix. Not for the first time do I think that the country is experiencing one long acid trip with no end in sight. Long baths, chunks of time away from social media, and brisk winter walks might be the thing to focus on. Or movies, books, and video games. Or booze and drugs, I don't know. Whatever floats you boat. (Don't break the law kids, I was just being silly.) Whatever ends up happening, whether this December election idea is just another of Johnson's dead cats, or whether it gets seriously considered for five minutes, it will all be dismissed the second another distraction comes along. Let's keep December for the December things, and boot elections back to the first part of the year where they belong. There are just too many fun things to do instead.

Have a lovely week, folks.


*Today's title will be recognised by a specific age of reader. If you are UK based and consider yourself a Xennial (post-Generation X, pre-Millenial) then you will remember the popular summer holiday TV programme of Why Don't You. The inspired lyrics to the theme tune seemed particularly relevant.

Why don't you?

Why don't you?

Why don't you?

Why don't you?

Why don't you?

Just switch off your television set

And go out and do something less boring instead.

So why don't you?

Why don't you?

Why don't you?

Why don't you?

Go go go!

Ok. They don't mention elections once. But still. Wise words to live by, probably. Do something less boring in December because before you know it, it'll be January. 


**To be fair, I see all all those people in that calendar throughout the year too. But it certainly gets frenzied as December kicks in. Imagine fitting in a bunch of politics too.

Club Tropicana Drinks are Freeeeeee...

Here's a question. What in the world could drag dozens of peri/actual/post menopausal women out on a Sunday morning, to stand in a three-hour queue, in the middle of a busy shopping centre, without any of them moaning for a single second? What in the mofo world? 

Two words. Andrew Ridgeley.

Modelling my 2018 calendar -
Andew on the left.

What's that? Who's Andrew Ridgelely? Why, you sound like my younger siblings, several of whom seemed perplexed that I'd had spent a chunk of a recent weekend doing just that. Look, it's not my fault you're all too young. I can't help it if half of the best band in the world was happy to slip out of the limelight by the late eighties. For me, his name still evokes a gut memory of poptastic, carefree joy. In 1985 Andrew Ridgeley was all over my bedroom wall. As was his band mate George Michael. We've covered my love for his better known partner before. Now, it's Andrew's time. It's only fair he gets a blog post, considering I have a large portrait of his late-friend on my lounge wall. It's the least I can do.

Re-enacting the Last Christmas
video. Almost exactly the same.

When I was in single figures, George and Andrew were EVERYTHING. Their three-year reign of the charts, along with their albums, Smash Hits covers, and Top of the Pops appearances were snatches of colour amidst the ordinariness childhood. Wham were glamorous. They were cool and aspirational. I've written this sentiment before, but it bears repeating - the Last Christmas video is perfect. It's everything I love about winter, weather, Christmas, friends, food, and twinkly lighting all in a four minute and thirty-seven second burst. I am sure it is the reason that at this time of year, when I spot a bit of frost on my windscreen, I feel deep joy and a sense of being grounded. It's my time. It's nearly the Last Christmas video time.

But anyway, I've digressed. Quite spectacularly it seems. Let's get back to the story. It's a really quick one to be fair. A couple of weeks ago, I turned up to a Waterstones in Manchester with my ticket for Andrew Ridgeley's book signing. For £20, I'd got a ticket to the thing, a copy of the book, a T-shirt, and a commemorative lanyard (I know! Get in!) which now dangles from the headrest of my driver's seat for the amusement of any backseat passengers behind. Bargain. 

I was still an hour and a
half away at this point.

The interesting thing about the whole shebang was that I had completely underestimated the turn out. I knew that Andrew held a special place in the hearts of many people my age. But when I got there half an hour before the start, and was directed to the end of a queue that trailed out of the shop door, zigzagged around security barriers in the centre of the shopping centre, before cutting off and recommencing out of an exit, and up some staff-only stairs, it was quite the eye opener. Manchester and the surrounding area had turned out in force. I asked one of the staff about numbers. There were three hundred people there - the maximum number of tickets that they were allowed to sell. The queue began to move at 1pm. That's when it officially started. I got to the front at 3.30pm and there were still plenty of people behind me. I had imagined I'd be in and out. As it turned out, a sizeable chunk of the day was taken up.

But during all that time, everyone in the queue was pretty chipper. I chatted to a woman in front of me, who - despite my menopause joke at the start of this ramble - was eighteen. She had come on her own and loved eighties music. We had a good natter as we waited. Then there were a group of women behind me. One of them was massively regretting coming in heels. By the time we'd made it to the zig zag barriers, she was four inches shorter and holding her shoes in her hand. Then there was the woman a few people ahead of me. Her partner was keeping their one year old amused by wheeling him off into different shops as she waited. When she finally got to the front of the queue, about ten minutes before me, she cried as she took photos with Andrew holding her kid - a kid that was wearing a Choose Life T-shirt. She left and walked past me in the queue, looking dazed, happy, and emotional. I felt genuinely chuffed for her. 

Yep 

When it came to my turn, something rather lovely happened. Wham songs had been blasting out from Waterstones as I had reached the final stage of the queue. The shoeless woman and her mates behind me had been particularly vocal during Wake Me Up Before You Go Go, which had kept us all amused. But then, just as the woman in front of me got her turn and I was able to see past the bookshelf and get a glimpse of the guy I'd been queuing up for all day, Last Christmas came on. I don't do crying, so I didn't. But if I did, then I would have done. It felt like the most perfect timing. 

The minutes that followed were hazy. I rambled. Andrew Ridgeley smiled lots. He was kind, said some things, and I rambled on again. I don't know really. Three hours of standing with no liquids, a bit of a hangover, and the adrenaline of meeting a childhood idol wasn't very conducive to an incisive and intelligent conversation. Happily for me, a member of Waterstones staff had my phone and photographed our chat. I have a frame by frame account of the entire exchange.


And then it was all over and I drove home, playing Wham all the way. The good news is that the book is a lovely wander down Memory Lane. It's a bit nostalgic whilst giving me more insight into stuff I was probably too young to grasp at the time. And even though it was a long wait to meet him, there was something lovely about the camaraderie of that queue. 

The country has been torn in two, the economy is buggered, and the uncertainty of the next week in Parliament is playing havoc with businesses, services, and stress levels all over the place. But for three hours, a couple of Sundays ago, three hundred people queued up to see their eighties idol. It was good-natured, supportive, and exhilarating. It transcended everything else that is going on, just for a while. And now I get to read the book, to eke out the escapism for a little longer.

Have a lovely week, folks.

I'm So Old-Skool...

I'm glad I got out of teaching when I did. Soon after I waved my glittering career goodbye, the English curriculum changed beyond recognition. My favourite core subject to teach, the one in which I was qualified to degree level, changed immeasurably*. 

I saw this because the author, Joanne Harris,
 retweeted it with the comment, 'Lovely
example of how to put kids off using words forever.'

I tend to tune out the details when I hear them these days. When friends with kids ask me what their child's homework is about, I look at it and have no idea. Truly no clue. My English Literature degree knows nothing of this terminology. When characters, themes and plots have been sidelined for rules and technicalities, it will suit scientific and mathsy types perfectly. A fronted non-finite clause, anybody? But for people with an instinct for story, drama, emotional connectivity, and imagination then it seems no fun at all. It would kill me to teach English this way, so like I said, I'm glad I got out when I did.

I think my view of education and its purpose doesn't seem to fit anymore. For me, it was always about giving children the tools to become happy adults in the future. The specific aspects of the curriculum were secondary to that. (Yeah, I know. My PSHE is showing.) Sure, knowing how to read and write, add and subtract, are all necessary skills. They are important to pass on over the course of time and will be needed for pretty much all avenues beyond the school years. But supporting a child as they develop their self-confidence, giving them pride in their abilities, nurturing their talent and encouraging perseverance during trickier tasks, are a gazillon times more important IMHO. Whether or not they learn Long Division by the end of Year Five is irrelevant. Their self-esteem is set by then, and is of far greater value to ensure a productive and happy future. Sorry Long Division but that's just fact. (Slight disclaimer: IMHO once again.)

In related news, I bumped into an ex-student of mine last week. It turned out that the man serving me glasses of wine on Friday night was one of my Year Fours from a hundred years ago. (*Stops, has a think, counts on fingers* OK, nine years ago. It's been a while since I've had to do Maths.) Anyway, It was a right lovely blast. He recognised me and asked if I was Nicky Bond. I knew straight away that I must have taught him but I panicked because I had no idea who he was. He laughed, told me his name, and then all the memories came back. His friendships, his Mum, his pets, where his seat was in the classroom...it was uncanny. These days, I'm hazy on which year was which class, or whether child A was in the same class as child B, but I reckon I remember every individual child that passed through my classroom. I think it'd be impossible to spend thirty-eight weeks focused on all aspects of thirty children - their learning, attainment levels, attitude, progress, friendship groups, confidence, participation, and banter - without having the memory of every single one of them branded indelibly on my brain.

Not my classroom,
and I'm not a teacher here.
But hey, it's a
semi-related picture.

So, back to my ex-student. We had a lovely catch up. He told me what he was up to, updated me on some of his friends that I also taught and we talked about the stuff he remembered from Year Four. Here's the marvellous thing. He didn't mention the lessons on speech marks or apostrophes. He didn't talk about the Mental Maths tests or lessons about factors. He didn't bring up science topics, nor anything to do with Geography or History. None of that was referenced during our brief natter down Memory Lane. What did come up was the class assembly. It was the culmination of a Literacy project that resulted in a performance of Romeo and Juliet. It was one of my favourite memories from that class too. The amount of learning that took place over those weeks was immense. Character breakdowns, diary entries, newspaper articles, drama, dance, confidence building, problem solving, collaboration, and finally performing in front of an audience. It was so lovely to see that it had been remembered by one of the students, years later.**

The measure of quality learning is not whether it can be recalled enthusiastically years after the event. I know that. But having happy memories and creative learning experiences are the things that support engagement with education. They are what make the harder learning times easier to navigate. They are what push children to keep going, keep trying, and eventually become the happy adults that everyone wanted them to be one day. I just don't think memories of fronted non-finite clauses will have the same emotional connection in years to come. But whadda I know? I'm just old-skool.

Have a lovely week, folks.

*At the Primary level anyway. No idea what goes on post-Year Six.

** The 2010 World Cup class sweep also came up. A World Cup year always provided quality classroom fun times.

Here's to Paint Splattered Activism...

I’m not a fan of a slogan T-shirt. Some people love them. Fair play to them. But for me, the inner sparkle of Christmas would become tarnished if I were to emblazon Prosecc-ho Ho Ho across my chest during the social whirl of December. It's just not me. Likewise, as empowering as Girl Power or Sassy Since Birth may be to some, I’m not sure telling people I AM something is as effective as simply BEING that same thing. But it takes all sorts. Far be it from me to tell others what to wear. Not on my watch. Slip into whatever you like, if it makes you happy. It's me that has the issue.

Image taken from eBay

The tricky tightrope I have to walk is when it comes to charitable support and political protest. The second there's a whiff of some activism in the offing, there will always be a T-shirt printed to raise money for the cause. I have no problem with this at all. Indeed, after that Supreme Court hearing two weeks ago, it was hugely gratifying to see the love for Lady Hale and the law, be espoused through the production and sale of a T-shirt - a plain black top with a strategic spider playing the role of her brooch. By the following day, the sale of the T-shirts had raised £15,000 for the charity Shelter. It’s hard to argue with that, and I don’t plan to do so here. 

In fact, the truth is, I have plenty of politically slogan-ed T-shirts all of my own. Just because my fashion sensibilities dictate I am unlikely to wear them outside, I still want to financially support the cause they are highlighting. In fact, I am a true fashion pioneer. In order to negate the fact that I'm not really sartorially comfortable in a high neck, I like to artistically slash them across the collar bone for a Kids from Fame style off the shoulder look. It’s my gift to the fashion world. (Jeff Banks, you are welcome.) Fabulous customised neckline or not, I still prefer to avoid lettering across my chest when I am out and about in the world. It seems unfair to reprimand a perv whose eyes are focused on my chest, if I’ve given him a catchy slogan to read as he tries to maintain eye contact. No, my political T-shirts are relegated to the bedroom. They are usually oversized, comfy, and the perfect thing to sleep in on the nights I'm trying to be socially provocative, not actually provocative. (That'll be all nights, then). 

But something rather lovely occurred to me last week. I was looking for something to paint in. Not in a watercolours and easel way, but more of a Dulux and dust sheet vibe. Rather than ruin something I wear for realsies  I went to my PJ drawer and looked at my slogan tops. The usual suspects were there. Bollocks to Boris, Bitches Against Brexit, All I Want for Christmas Are My Reproductive Rights... all good options, all things I wear in bed and not outside. Then I saw the one I knew I would use. No More Page Three. It’s my longest serving slogan top. It’s been washed and washed and washed. The white of the lettering comes off every time I wear it now. But here’s the thing. The campaign was successful. The T-shirts worked. More or less. Page Three in all its tacky, dumbed down, and patronising infamy was laid to rest back in 2015. From The S*n, anyway. I believe it still exists in less widespread tabloids if you're really desperate for it. But the campaign against the ‘most read UK newspaper’* was a success. With that in mind, using the campaign T-shirt to get covered in paint seemed like a fitting decision to make. It is past tense. Its power is no longer needed. I wore it as I painted the hell out of doors, frames, dado rails, and bannisters. I got it plastered in paint with no need to worry that I'd need to dust it off for a march or rally at a later date. 

Now with added paint splatters

One day it will be lovely to look back at all these slogan T-shirts and consign them to history. It would be lovely for them all to be relegated to painting clothes because we've actually and decisively said Bollocks to Boris. Or that Northern Ireland has the same reproductive rights as the rest of the UK. Or that Prosecco Ho Ho Ho. Whatever that means. 

Have a lovely week, folks. 

*Not 'most read' in Liverpool since the city-wide boycott. A fact that never fails to make me proud of my home city.