GCSE Revision and the long distance mother.

Oh the joys of GCSE revision and exams!! I love it!! The happy face of my son as he settles down to a couple of hours revision, with his cup of tea at his side and a wall full of post it notes and inspiration ... NOT.

You may have gathered from previous posts that I do not find parenthood the easiest of occupations. However ... GCSE revision mixed with a liberal sprinkling of hormones and general teenage bolshiness has taken the enjoyment factor to a whole new level.

My son was predicted mostly A's for his exams and he is more than capable of achieving these. I am most hopeful that come August we will indeed be handed a brown envelope full of hope and happiness. The road to achieving this, however, is paved with days full of differing levels of misery.

We have, as parents, tried various strategies to encourage revision. 

• We have trusted that our delightful offspring will work appropriately of his own volition.
• We have shouted and nagged.
• We have bribed him with promises of money/games if work is done.
• We have threatened with promises of privileges/games removed if work isn't done.
• We have demanded that he sit at the kitchen table each evening for an hour & a half.
• We have wheedled.
• We have reasoned.
• We have provided every revision aid known to Man.

All this to no avail.

My son tells me that he knows what he needs to do and that we should trust him.So we are.

This is hard to do.

He does not appear to be doing a great deal/any revision at home, although I know they are working on revision at school.

My whole being wants to help him, advise him... I have tried to show him how to study. I want him to do well. Obviously.

But there is only so much you can do. He is a clever boy and it is up to him to realise that you do well by working hard. I cannot revise for him so I have to accept that what will be will be. If he does well we will celebrate. If he does not do well we will deal with it ... or help him deal with it.

I have come to the conclusion that there is no point whatsoever in ruining our relationship by screaming and shouting at him. Of course I would love it if he was organised and dedicated to getting the best grades possible, but at least he is facing his exams with an attitude that is relaxed and confident. I would rather this than have him worried and crippled by nerves and fear.

At some stage he will do what needs to be done. I am not going to spend the next couple of months screaming and shouting and begging. What will be, will be. He is approaching adulthood and much as I try to lead my boy to the books I cannot make him study. He has to do that himself and he will either do well, or he won't. If he does well then fab. If he doesn't ... he will hopefully learn a lesson.

I believe in my boy. I know, that come August, he will deliver.

*crosses fingers*

Homework Help - How much is too much and why help at all?

My son is upstairs doing homework - writing a newspaper report on China's One Child policy. He is 13.

He has had a week to prepare and write the piece and has lots of information on what is expected and what he needs to write and include to gain certain grades. I can't remember having to write things like that for my homework when I was 13, but then times have changed. He is in a very bad mood because he hates having to read anything and one of the main tasks for this is retrieving information from various sources.

I have to admit that I have helped him. I pointed him in the right direction as far as web sites are concerned, but he was decidedly bad tempered about the whole thing.

I am torn between feeling sorry for him and just being downright frustrated by his obstinacy. It seems like a pretty interesting task to me and, for goodness sake, he has the whole of the world wide web from which to draw information. When I was at school the most advanced equipment we had was a slide rule. Gathering information meant sitting in a library trawling through dusty, well thumbed reference books...

He doesn't know he's born, does he? Can you imagine his reaction if I told him he had to hand write his essay and then only after he had gleaned all his facts from books which may or may not contain the right info? I find it hard to instil a sense of work ethic, a pride in his work. He wants everything to be done instantly, easily. But life is not like that is it? Achievements to be proud of do not come easily. They take work and sweat and worry.

I ask myself whether I should help at all - whether I should let him sink or swim by himself? Every part of my motherly instincts tell me to help him, but by helping too much I will end up hindering his progress. We have all seen homework projects supposedly done by children when its obvious their parents have spent most of half term crouched over a glue gun and a cardboard box. I am not one of those parents, but equally I want to show him where to look, how to structure, what questions to ask.

Having said that he's lucky I didn't throw the laptop through the window at one point this evening ... So, we are at the stage where he is upstairs doing it by himself and I will read through it when he's finished. I have to be patient. He has to work hard.

The lid to the laundry basket does come off you know ...

Its the Easter Holidays and my boys are BORED!!! The only things they are interested in doing are sitting slumped in their dressing gowns playing the x box ( I hate you x box inventor!!!) or avoiding helping me with the household chores.

Getting them to empty half the dishwasher each is akin to forcing them to gouge their own eyes out with spoons ... or wash. However I do persevere in an attempt to teach them that this house is all our responsibility and they need to partake of various duties. I am not sure whether it is perhaps a genetic deficiency but neither they nor their father seem to have realised as yet that the lid of the laundry basket does actually come off. I am met constantly by piles of their clothes dumped unceremoniously on top of the lid, on the floor by the basket ... anywhere other than in the damned thing.

Being the only girl in a male dominated house can be frustrating to say the least some days. Don't get me wrong - I love sport and can enjoy a game of football or a round of golf with the best of those hairy types, but sometimes it gets a bit much. For example this afternoon ... We have decided to go to the pictures. All we need to do is decide on a film. An easy task? NO!!

I would like to go and see the Marigold Hotel ideally. Pirates is a possibility. But the film of choice which we will end up seeing is ... Wrath of the Titans. Oh deep joy. 99 minutes of testosterone fuelled machismo. I did look to see if there was a film being showed at the same time as this ghastly one that might keep me sane. But nope. Nothing. Nada.

I seem to spend my whole time immersed in the world of men. There is little pink or glitter involved and at the moment I am alternating between chief cook, bottle washer and psychiatrist. Of course I love all 3 of my boys and maybe day long dance competitions, preceded by gluing on thousands of diamante beads, would drive me just as mad. But I do seem to watch rather more than my fair share of Top Gear, Match of the Day and The Simpsons ...

This is why I escape to the gym, the allotment ... and why I have started having hour long manicures. Anyway ... enough writing for now. I have to go and iron my husband's shirt ...

Grrrrrrrrrr Blogger.

I am not impressed with Blogger. I have not been able to sign in to my blog for some time and the last 2 posts I wrote have been deleted. No apology or explanation from Blogger. I may look into moving to Wordpress, but to be honest I really like the way Blogger works.

Not very good the last few days though. Perhaps I can forgive them if they promise not to do it again

Posting a parcel... it would have been quicker to grow a beard and die.

I have just come back from my local post office where I had gone to post a parcel for a friend. I have had time to drink a cup of tea and eat a bakewell slice and thank goodness for that because when I got home I was bubbling over with frustration.

What is it with post offices?? There is never more than one person behind the counter and that person has obviously taken classes in 'How to do absolutely everything as slowly as is humanly possible'. When I got there the queue was about 10 people long with one gnarled old girl behind the counter.

I settled in for a long wait. I wouldn't mind so much if the woman at least tried to look as if she was attempting to hurry things along. But no. She obviously felt the need to explain in excruciating detail every little thing she was doing, oblivious of the ever increasing line of customers that stretched towards the door. One man's book of 6 stamps had to be entered into the computer, the receipt explained... The next woman had 2 parcels to post. I could see they were parcels and I was 8 people back. Unfortunately the post office lady mistook them for letters.... Letters?? Do they not train them in the difference between a parcel and a letter?? I have never worked in a post office, but my God I think I could tell, pretty much at a 100% pass rate, the difference between the two...

And then, having at last noticed that said letters were in fact parcels she had to explain 'Ohhhh.... They're parcels.... well, I'll have to start again...' At this point I was slumped in the foetal position, rocking gently and trying not to dribble.

At last it was my turn and I trudged to the counter with my parcel. I was careful to state clearly 'I have a parcel to post please.'

I fought my urge to swear and point out the post office lady's failings. After all, it is nice in some ways to meet someone who is thorough and devoted to their job... but I swear to you it will be a long time before I post anything else. It would be quicker to get on my bike and cycle to Coventry with the parcel under my arm. It would be quicker to pull on my lycra and jog up the hard shoulder of the motorway.

At this stage I am just glad to have made it home before I grew a beard and died...

I want to curl up and cry, then punch you in the eye...

There are days when I want to run away. Days like today when I want to bury my head in a pillow and cry. Don't worry - nothing dire has happened, in fact, yes, I know I am very lucky in every way. But this is my release valve and today I am releasing my steam.

I am sick of treading on eggshells around people, trying to do the right thing and not hurt any feelings. I am sick of having to keep my thoughts and emotions inside.I am trying to do my best - raise my boys, do homework, sort out the allotment, fund raise for Japan, be supportive, not complain, cope with difficult conditions at work. I thought I was doing ok, but apparently not. Apparently I am angry and everyone is stepping on eggshells around me...

So... is it me? It must be. The person who told me this must have grounds... To be told this, however, is a shock and very upsetting. The person who told me didn't seem to realise I was upset. Maybe I hid those feelings well? Maybe they didn't care? When I think about it, yes, I am angry. I just thought I hid  it well. I am angry that I hate my OU course this year. Angry that my children treat me like a glorified slave. Angry that I work in a low paid crap job. Angry that I never see my husband alone. Angry that my life didn't quite work out how I planned it.

But the thing I am most angry about is that despite all these things I carry on doing my best and yet it seems that best is not good enough. It makes me think - why bother? If I talk about my problems to anyone I feel that they are bored, don't really give a stuff. I am expected to listen to other people's problems and be kind, caring, optimistic, but my angst?? Shut up, keep shtum, don't be boring. If I moan about my job then I am being stupid because my job doesn't count... I am 'only a ....'.

So what is my solution? My solution is to go down the allotment and dig for all I am worth, to write cryptically on here and hope nobody I know reads it, to eat myself better with toast and boursin, to cry quietly alone in my room, to lift up my head and keep giving to everyone I know, to think of others who are far worse off than me. I will get over this feeling, but it will leave a little criticism shaped scar in my heart. I am bruised and sad and rejected. I wish I had the courage to scream and criticise people the way they criticise me.

But, you know I am stronger than that. I am better than that. I know that, but right now it doesn't feel that way. Right now I hurt.

I am an angry Momma. Anyone want to adopt a muddy 13 year old?

What is it with kids? My throat is sore from yelling at my 13 year old. My heart is beating out of my chest and I have had enough.

The other day I rushed to pick him up from school to take him to casualty and get his leg checked out because he hadn't worn shin pads to football and had got kicked. I knew his leg was just badly bruised, but I did the decent motherly thing and got it checked out - leaving my work in the lurch for a couple of hours.

Today he wanted to go into town to buy a new game for the Wii. I duly took him, despite having worked all day and having had a rubbish day at that.

I wash, I clean, I ferry, I help and care in every way I can.He had new school shoes in September, which he has worn to play football in on a muddy field most days. I have cleaned them regularly and when they eventually gave up the ghost on Friday my husband went out and bought a new pair.

So today he wore them for the first time and totally trashed them. He, allegedly, had to referee a game of football during PE. Obviously the fact he did not have his football boots with him was my fault as I had written to say he was to be excused football due to his bruised shin... yeah, right. So he wore his new shoes.

Not only did he not have the courtesy to mention the shoes when he got home, he certainly did not see fit to clean them. I rad the riot act and insisted he did so when I eventually came across them.Well, I have never see such a kak handed attempt. There was mud everywhere. All over my sink, my draining board, my scourer.... obviously still all over the bloody shoes, which, by now, were also soaking wet.

I am afraid to say that this was the final straw. I went totally mental.

Suffice to say his shoes are now clean, stuffed with paper and drying nicely by the radiator. So - he got what he wanted... again.I got a sore throat from shouting and a lump in my throat from frustration. He is banished from all electrical goods and can kiss goodbye to any sort of treats or pleasantries.

Right now all I want to do is cry, drink and have him adopted.Yes, I know Urban Cynic, you told me so.... Give me a cat any day of the bloody week.

Wanted: a sport free telly.

This evening I am a refugee in my own kitchen. We have reached a stage in my house where the tv, in the lounge, is constantly occupied with sport. Now, you know that I am a sports fan... I really do enjoy watching and playing sport, but.... OMG... as they say on the social networks. I have had enough.

There are 3 boys in my house and I am outnumbered when it comes to the telly. Do they want to watch Downton Abbey? No. Do they want to watch America's Next Top Model? No. Would they even consider watching Dancing on Ice? Absolutely not.

And I am expected to sit through countless evenings of Arsenal trying desperately to win some silverware, with not a bat of an eyelid or a raising of an eyebrow.The tedium of night after night of football, golf, cricket... Its enough to drive a woman to drink. There would appear to be no room for compromise. I am the one who has to step aside. I am the one who is outnumbered.

And why am I accepting of this? Why don't I go in there and demand to watch what I want on the tv? Well, the answer is simply that I am choosing my battles. I am avoiding conflict. I just cannot be bothered with the fallout of men peeved, men denied their sporting fix.I know that there would be tears at bedtime and I just can't bear the thought of having to deal with that...

I now understand my mother's decision over 30 years ago to buy a 'sport free' tv. At the time both the tv salesman and we children thought she had lost her marbles. Now I can look back and see her genius, her far reaching wisdom. I am very close to getting a new tv myself. A nice small portable for the kitchen maybe... then the men in my house can gather round it and watch their sport in peace...

You didn't think that I wanted it did you? Not likely. They can have a portable in the kitchen and I'll settle down with a glass of Merlot and Colin Firth in the lounge.... hmmmmmmmmm

The Art of the comma - my essay is back.

Well, I got my essay back - at last! And the result was fine. I moved up 2% on my last essay.It is quite frustrating though.I looked at the feedback from last time which said I needed to use slightly fewer quotations and this time, having followed the advice, she tells me I need to use slightly more! And the main feedback was an obsession with comma placement.Comma placement?? I ask you!! I am certainly not a slouch when it comes to grammar, but for goodness sake.... This is a level 3 essay and her main gripe is my placement of commas??!!

I am determined to get it right next time.I shall study her comments and do my best to learn from them. After all, she is a professor and I am a student. I have no doubt that she is absolutely right in what she says, but it is most frustrating to learn that your main failing is whether you put a comma in the middle of a reference, or not!

Now if she had complained about my over use of exclamation marks she might have had a point!!!!!

Anyway, I am glad to have it back and to have raised my score again. I am now half way through the course with only 3 more essays to write, one of which is a 4000 worder. I will not be sorry to see the back of this course. I am back in the mind set of 20 years ago when I was doing my B.A in History of Art. I was so turned off by the total pedantry and pretentiousness of the whole thing.

I absolutely love the novels I am studying, but the work of the critics which we also have to study is just mind numbingly dull.Do they have nothing better to do with their lives than nit pick over literature? I listen to the CDs which are part of the course and the critics taking part in discussions on there just make my bile rise. I find myself talking to the CD player, telling them to stop talking such pretentious drivel...

Ah well. One more year to go after this and then its done - I will have a B.A with Honours. I just need to get those bloody commas sorted...

p.s if you fancy asking anything about this post do feel free to use the video thingamejig on the right!! Thanks for dropping by x

Oh joy!! I have pinged my calf muscle - any advice for speedy recovery gratefully received!

The first week of the new year has proved eventful if nothing else and I am sitting here with my right calf smeared with ibuprofen gel.My resolution of getting slim and fit was going jolly well until, whilst playing football, I made a sudden stop and turn.Immediately I felt and even sort of heard a twanging snap in my leg.Marvellous.

I don't think its anything too hideous - muscle damage only, but I had to get a lift home as I couldn't drive and right from the get go I could hardly walk. I can walk, but its at a snail's pace and with a rather strange gait.I have had my leg raised, iced and rested all evening so I am hoping for a miracle overnight cure.

Unfortunately my job involves quite a bit of striding about and I don't quite see how I am going to be doing that!There is no way that I am going to stay off work so they will just have to put up with me being slow.As I say, hopefully the morning will see my leg feeling much better. Between you and me though I think I may have done some real damage to the muscle. I hope I am wrong.

At the moment I am playing it down as I hate to be considered a whiner, but the bleeding obvious of me limping like someone who has been shot might give the game away tomorrow!The main thing I need to do is get healed as quickly as possible as I am really keen to keep up with my football and get back into my running more. Still, if I can't do those I will swim.

The hurt bit is the calf muscle on the inside of my right leg. If you have any suggestions for rapid and lasting recovery I would be very grateful to hear them!! Thank you!!

AA316 - I will be 104 before I qualify to do anything more than take notes.

I am in the inbetweeny position of having handed in my essay on Jane Eyre, having not started my next essay and having the 'calm before the storm' frame of mind that occurs when I haven't got my marked essay back. At this moment my next essay could be brilliant. My last essay might have been brilliant. Nobody yet knows and the ignorance is bliss.

Of course, underneath the calm exterior all hell is letting loose. I fully expect to receive an even worse mark for the essay I've just handed in than I did for the first one. Whereas last year I was pleasantly surprised and my marks got better and better, this year is proving increasingly difficult.

I am not being humbly modest here. I truly believe the essay I wrote to be a pile of old rubbish. Being in the OU means that one is working alone and this year I am finding it very difficult to keep motivated. I wrote my introduction and was quite pleased with it until I went back a couple of days later, reread it and realised that what I had written was drivel...

The real shame is that I love all the books on my course, but doing the course means that I cannot read them for pleasure. They have to be dissected, analysed, noted. I cannot remember the last time I read a book for pleasure, without having to take notes, read background and critical essays. Its a load of old tosh and I am not enjoying it.

Hopefully things will pick up, but my plans to finish the Degree, do Teacher Training and become a Primary school teacher seem distant and faintly ridiculous. I am not feeling sorry for myself - this is just a statement of fact. I will deal with it, get over it, do my best with the course and hopefully, one day, teach. I may, however, be 104 before that happens.

Take That tickets fiasco. Why am I so needy???

I am not a big gig goer - if there is such a word. I have been to a few concerts in my time, but I have to admit that I am not a Glastonbury going, died in the wool music officianado. The gigs I have been to have either been complete fluke like when my sister won free tickets to Live8 or someone else has arranged a night out.

Anyway. Enough of that nonsense. Today I decided to splash out my own money for a gig I really wanted to go to. Take That. Yes, I know. I am showing my middle age, but I fancied a sing along and thought why not??

I joined Ticketmaster yesterday and sat, ready with my password and credit card this morning from 8.18 am fully expecting that the site would welcome me with open arms and offer as many tickets as I wanted. I pictured myself bountifully handing out tickets to poor unfortunate friends who had not managed to get any. Lines opened at 9am and I was there. Click. Crash. Click Crash. And so the day continued. Over and over again I had virtual tickets in my hand, ready to pay.... and CRASH!!!Do these web sites not realise that there will be millions of people crowding to get tickets??

Where is the technology? How can I spend hours and hours at my computer and on the phone and still not get tickets?? Are they idiots? Surely someone must have invented software that can recognise that a small blonde in Hertfordshire wants tickets and should be prioritised?? And why is it that my friends on Facebook managed to find tickets? They kept popping up, gleefully telling the world that they had tickets. Well bloody bully for you... I HAVEN'T!!!

So. Now I have given up.To hell with Take That and Ticketmaster.I don't care about the tickets. I can spend the money on something worthwhile instead. I might watch the DVD when it comes out.

 Well, when I saay to hell with you I really mean.... if you are reading this PLEEEEASE CAN I HAVE 2 TICKETS?? I'll pay and everything....

I live in an avalanche of 'stuff' and its driving me nuts.

I am frustrated. I am frustrated by my house and the amount of 'stuff' we have littered about it. I am frustrated that every surface I look at seems to be covered with 'stuff'. Books, ornaments,glasses,clothes,shoes,papers....stuff.

It distresses me. It makes my mind feel disturbed and messy. It makes me dread people coming to my house.Every time I clear up, it reappears. We are all guilty of its dumping. I cannot blame the children alone, or my husband. I am also a guilty party.

We come home and leave our shoes, coats, bags in the hallway. 'Stuff' is strewn up the staircase.'Stuff' is strewn along the landing. Piles to be taken to the charity shop. Piles to be put in the loft. I cannot bear it.Our house is too small and our possessions are too big. The combination along with four people who have too many outside interests results in... mess. Clutter.

When we moved here 12 years ago we had 12 years less 'stuff'. The house was neat, tidy and organised. For 12 years we have indulged in consumerism in a relentless and enthusiastic maelstrom.Our shameless capitalism has produced a house bulging at the seams with everything one would ever need to live comfortably in the modern world. And it is ghastly.

We are never here long enough to have a good attack of sorting. We are studying, sporting, visiting, buying more 'stuff' that we don't really need.It is a sickness and it is driving me nuts. No sooner do I sort out one room than another is buried in an avalanche of things.Enough is enough.One of these days I am going to wake up and find myself unable to get out of bed because I have been buried alive under a pile of pointless possessions.I will be one of those odd bag lady types who makes a trail through carrier bags filled with old tins of peaches.

I want to be an elegant lady who lives in a house of clear surfaces. The change starts now. This is it. Black bin bag, come with me.... its time to get minimalist before I drown.

Essay writing for AA316 and my bad back complaints.

My first essay of the new year, new course is due in on the 2nd of November, or there abouts. I am actually pretty ahead of myself on this course, but I have been putting off writing the essay. I have been mulling the topic over in my head and planning what I need to write, but yesterday I actually sat down and wrote the introduction.

Strange to consider that this time last year I was terrified about how to even start. Yesterday the words just seemed to flow.Don't get me wrong, there will be changes, and as the saying goes, there's many a slip twixt cup and lip. Thinking I have written a good intro is a long way away from writing a good level three essay!

Still, I feel happy to have made a start.

Something that is not making me feel happy is the state of my back.I am trying not to mention it to those around me, but, bloody hell it hurts. I know that its only a muscle proble, caused by digging the stupid allotment and exacerbated by stress.It feels as if someone is digging red hot pokers into the muscles across my shoulder blades. When I move the pain takes my breath away and as I walk up and down stairs at times during the day I am like an old horse, grunting and gasping. Really quite pathetic!!

If it wasn't for the fact that going sick at work is totally out of the question, especially right now, I would just take to my bed and die. As my mother always told me - I have no stamina and a non existent pain threshold.You know what we Brits are like - its absolutely unacceptable to let anyone know that you are in pain. If anyone has asked me how I am I always reply chirpily that all is well.

Well, between you and me, as friends out in the ether whom I will never meet and will never have to face with the embarrassment of seeing you and feeling like a weakling to have complained, IT HURTS!! And not only does it hurt, I want it to stop and I don't want to have to go to work.There. I have said it. Now I will go back in the lounge and pretend all is well, as I swig down 2 more paracetamol.

Nothing like digging an allotment to soothe the mind...oh and back massages.

There are days when I would really like to post about work, but I don't and won't....Not worth it, even if I changed names.Suffice to say that today after work....

I went and treated myself to an Aromatherapy massage.My back has been aching with all the allotment digging I have been doing and with the stress of work as well I thought I was due a massage.And what a lovely massage it was! Very relaxing indeed - all lavender and black pepper, although I am hoping I smell more of the lavender than the black pepper!

I have been up the allotment each day this week and each day I have forgotten to take my camera. Curses!!! Still, I promise I will post new photos soon.I have cleared so much rubbish. I can't really believe that I have managed to pull so much out all by myself.I am only little, just 5 foot and not very muscular!! Yesterday I pulled out 2 sets of mattress springs, carpet, iron bars.... incredible.

The pile of stuff awaiting the council skip is twice the size of my last photo shown above.

The good news, though, is that I am enjoying it still, finding it almost addictive, and I have actually planted some onions and garlic!! Although I plan to make raised beds and pathways eventually I decided to make a temporary bed and plant something for inspiration.It feels good to have something growing in there.I am hoping that one day the garden will look not so much like this.... still, slow steps and satisfaction along the way..

Another rant... you may not want to read... but you should!!

I have just heard a member of the teacher's union being very defensive about pupils' use of grammar and correct spelling - or should I say, lack of it. I know that I bang on about this and I am sorry to anyone who is fed up with me, but.... it just drives me nuts.

People seem to fall over themselves to make excuses as to why people don't or can't spell properly. I know that all of us make mistakes occasionally - just today I was unsure as to how I should spell 'weird', but I checked and  reassured myself that I was spelling it correctly.Some people, however, seem almost proud of their inability.

So many children leave school with no qualifications. Focus is on celebrity and designer clothing and make up.Even as young children there is no sense of aspiration, no desire to read or take an interest in school or learn anything 'from a book'.They appear to expect everyone around them to 'sort them out' for money and cannot believe that nobody wishes to employ them.

There seems to be a trend amongst some families to avoid responsibility for their children's education.Yes, I know that education is the responsibility of schools, but not entirely.It is a partnership.As a parent it is our responsibility to read to our children - right from the beginning. We should read to them, read with them and let them see us reading. It does not have to be War and Peace.By reading and sharing books we learn so many things, among them... spelling and grammar.

I see so many children who never read at home, whose parents cannot find time to read with them or to them.Hello!!! It takes ten minutes.... Its supposed to be a pleasure.I cannot think of many things I enjoy more than snuggling up with my sons as either they read to me or I read to them.Is this a 'terribly middle class' affliction? Or is this the reason that so many middle class children go on to be more successful than so called working class children?I am not a snob... there are children from all classes who are neglected in the reading stakes, but it seems to me that ignorance is a torch passed from generation to generation.

A pleasure in reading, education... an interest in expanding one's mind is a recipe for success. We don't all have to be Einsteins, but it is devastating to see children start school with minds that are eager to learn and yet they get no support from home.Is it a coincidence that the brightest children are the ones who have input from home, who read every night, who are encouraged to ask questions, who are shown how to spell correctly?

There seems to be an acceptance that spelling doesn't matter.For me it is the thin end of the wedge.I am not saying 'punish those who spell incorrectly!!!' - I am saying that we should learn correct spellings and have incorrect spellings put right. I know that it is a difficult path - you don't want to discourage children from 'having a go'- but most children, most people, like to get things right.It makes them feel good to write something well and be praised for it.

Correct speech also helps. If you think it is right to say ''Ee don't wanna do vat do 'e ?' then how on earth can you write correctly? If you think that 'think' is pronounced 'fink' how can you begin to spell it? If you have no ambition, no aspiration, no belief that you can ever succeed in life, how can you have the energy to work and succeed?If the people around you show no sense of aspiration, no interest in books or knowledge... how will you know that those things will lead you to a life of inspiration?

If teachers say that spelling and grammar are unimportant where on earth do we stand? We need to inspire children and by inspiring them perhaps they will inspire their own children, lifting them out of the circle of apathy.I firmly believe that any child can achieve, but they need help, they need guidance. By telling them that spelling and grammar are not important, by telling them not to bother we are telling them that it is ok not to aspire to success.

Blimey O'Reilly!! I've really had a good old moan today... I have tried to be honest and I have tried not to make spelling or grammar mistakes. The honesty is indisputable and I aspire to have written a grammatically correct piece!!! Am I mad to think this way?? I am not saying that we all have to be academics - I just would like to see enthusiasm rather than apathy, inspiration rather than denigration.There.Nuff Sed...

And now I need GCSEs .... my life is full of hurdles to jump and I'm only little.

I am writing this in the small space I have between study and getting tea ready. My chicken is in the oven, as are my roast potatoes, but soon will come the moment when I have to get busy with vegetables and gravy! So, off we go quickly now!

I am planning, as some of you know, to train to become a Primary School teacher.Once I have completed my Degree I will get myself on GTP ( that's a Graduate Teacher Programme ) This means I can train and get paid for it. Hurrah!! As an experienced Teaching Assistant I was hoping it would be pretty easy to get on a course ... well, when I say easy... these things are never easy and I know that they only take the best candidates. However, I thought with my experience and qualifications I would stand a better chance than many.

Now I discover that I need GCSE level maths and Science. Bugger.I have 'o' level maths at a grade D and Biology at a grade E I think. That is not good enough. I am going to check with the local university tomorrow, but I am pretty sure I will have to pay for 2 GCSE courses. For those of you who don't know this is the most basic level that kids take at age 16.

I am happy to do them if that's what it takes, but Holy Moly... they are going to cost me over £800. I understand that you have to be of a level to teach, but I am doing an Honours Degree in Literature and I am fully numerate in everything Primary School aged children require. I may not be hot hot hot on logarithms and quadrilateral equations, but really... Primary school aged children don't do that sort of maths!

I can work out the internal angles of any polygon... would that help??

Ah well, another frustration, but one that will eventually get resolved.How come they let practically illiterate people into schools to teach and yet its so hard for me?? Right... on with the chicken now... rant over.

Annoyances, intolerance and nerdiness... all available here. Free of charge.

I have been studying all afternoon.I am ahead so far on my course planner and am enjoying working my way through. At the moment ( well, obviously not right at the moment ) I am reading Far from the Madding Crowd - nearly finished it. I am also reading the course texts on The Nineteenth Century Novel - Realisms and listening to the CD's that come with the course.

To be honest, having listened for an hour to the CD I am close to dozing off. I took notes, but really... a lot of the content was, it would seem to me, more about the academics involved enjoying the sounds of their own voices rather than saying anything particularly worthwhile.People who speak in sentences that just drift on forever need to learn to be succinct. Think what you want to say and say it - don't just keep talking because you can.Drives me mad!!

Another thing that drives me mad, this time on the other side of the coin, is people who cannot spell and seem to take pride in not doing the work required for the course they are on.Looking at the forums set up by the OU I am constantly amazed by the number of people who blithely admit to not having read any of the set novels, or who consider watching the film of a novel on tv, enough.

For goodness sake... this is a level 3 course ( equivalent to the third year of a university course ) in literature. Surely to goodness over the course of your life you must have read some of these books before?? They are absolute classics. Of course few people will have read all of them before... but surely some of them??

Reading the forums I quake at the spelling mistakes e.g choclet for chocolate. Aaaaaaaagh!!

And that's another thing - while I am on a roll. Teachers.... Surely to goodness teachers should be able to spell and have a knowledge of grammar? Over the years I have watched as teachers make hideous spelling mistakes and general knowledge gaffes - telling classes that 'another name for an octopus is a squid'.... Heaven to Betsy.....

Ok... I know I sound like a demented prig, but it does get my goat... I am slightly obsessive about grammar. I even text in a grammatically correct fashion.Yes... I am a nerd, and an intolerant nerd at that.I had better read through this and check for mistakes....

Late party problems and decisions to be made...

My son has been invited to a birthday party.My son is 11 on Monday and his own birthday party consists of 3 friends, his brother and my husband and I going to the cinema and then out for lunch. The party he has been invited to is for 50 children, at a swimming pool from 8pm to 9.30pm some other day.

My son's usual bed time is 9pm and although he does sometimes stay up later than this the thought of him being in a swimming pool at that time of night with 49 other children... is ridiculous to say the least. Call me old fashioned and an over protective mother, but I am feeling really quite irritated that the parents of his friend have been so blasé and, frankly, irresponsible.

I could, of course, tell him he can't go, but then his friend would be upset because this friend is supposed to be his best friend.I also do not want to upset his friend's mother. However, their feelings are not really my priority - my son's safety is. I know the sort of behaviour that will be acceptable at the party and its not the sort of behaviour that I am comfortable with.

In the past I have avoided play dates because of lack of supervision. The last time my son played at their house he came home very proud that he had saved his friend's life.When I asked how he had saved him he said that they had been playing out in the front of the house and his friend had been in the road. A car had come down the road, not seen the boy and my son had dragged him out of the way just in time.He was 8 at the time. When I asked why they were out on the road and where the mummy was I was told that this was usual practise and mummy had been in the house.He has not played there since.

I am too much of a wimp to be honest and up front about this event, but it has tainted my opinion ever since and I have backed off from my friendship. This latest problem is just another example of how different we are. I suppose, to be honest, I am controlling, she is easy going. We each have the right to parent as we please. She is a lovely person and if our children were not an issue everything would be fine. But they are an issue. I am unhappy trusting my children with her or her offspring.

Next year they will all go to new and different schools and the problem will be over hopefully, but for now I have to decide what to do. Do I let my son decide for himself and hope everything is fine? Do I say no to the party and tell the truth as to why he can't come? Or do I say he can't come and make up an excuse, somewhere between the truth and a kind place? I just don't know...

The only good child is a child at boarding school...

Day number 2 in the Secret Housewife House.... The kids and I are on our Summer Holiday break and I have had enough already...

They seem to expect me to provide gourmet meals, day trips out and a constant stream of luxury goods for their amusement. They also seem to think that their part in running our household revolves around lying about in their pyjamas complaining about the general standard of food in the house and the fact that I have not provided pancakes/french toast for breakfast.

Unfortunately they seem unaware of the fact that I expect them to muck in with their share of chores i.e emptying the dishwasher, tidying their rooms,laying the table, clearing the table, putting out/taking in the washing.... the list goes on.The looks of incredulity when I ask them to do something for me rival the proverbial rabbit in the headlamp moment...

At the moment they are playing football in our postage stamp of a garden. This is something that I have asked them not to do because they have no control of the ball and end up destroying my plants as well as generally being very annoying.I have asked them 4 times not to play football and they have whined that there is ' nothing else to do'.

I had to walk away for the minute as I feared what my actions might be. It is difficult to describe the rage that begins to swell within me... the utter loathing of all things under the age of 12. I, apparently, am completely unreasonable. They are martyrs who are put upon and abused by their cruel mother.

I am seriously considering having them fostered out to some unsuspecting family... I have discovered a housing development in Scotland which is only open to those childless couples over the age of 45. I will be selling up and moving there, sans enfants, in the near future and they will only have themselves to blame.