It's been far too long since my last post. So long, in fact, that my line manager at work has told me that one of my performance management targets for this coming academic year is to start blogging again! So, here we go. I thought I'd give you a rough idea of what's been happening in my life over the past few months.
Things which are the same
1. My husband and I have survived to celebrate another wedding anniversary.
2. I am proud that I have managed to keep son, cat and hedgehog alive for another year, not necessarily in that order ...
3. Aforementioned son still knows more than I do about everything.
4. The mechanic at our local garage continues to hide when he sees me pull onto the forecourt.
5. I am still doing the same job and still threatening to go and stack shelves in Lidl instead.
6. I have not won Euromillions.
Things which are different
1. Michael Gove is no longer Secretary of State for Education.
2. We have a goldfish called Neymar. Ronnie is showing him a lot of love. He is currently under the protective force of the Baptist Hymn Book which is securing the lid of his tank against almost certain attack.
3. I no longer drink alcohol. This means I save money, don't get headaches and don't find myself, late at night, agreeing to take ownership, via Facebook, of random kittens.
4. Michael Gove is no longer Secretary of State for Education.
5. Did I mention that Michael Gove is no longer Secretary of State for Education?
Showing posts with label Baptist. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Baptist. Show all posts
Tuesday, 22 July 2014
Monday, 29 July 2013
5:2 Feast Days
I have been following the 5:2 eating plan for a while now though nowadays it is more 6:1. For those of you not familiar with this strange mathematical diet the idea is that you 'fast' on 2 days a week and 'feast' on the other 5. Now, by 'feast' they mean 'eat normally' which is where confusion and self delusion can creep in. I can't speak for fellow 5:2ers, but I find that my willpower is just fine on fast days, in fact I almost enjoy them. Must be all that Baptist self-denial I used to indulge in rearing its ugly head. No, it is the feast days where I have to be careful, as I try to convince myself that 'eating normally' involves a Full English (for readers abroad that is a cooked breakfast and not some excruciating waxing technique), 6 Big Macs washed down with full fat coke, plenty of chocolately snacks and an evening meal of takeaway and a bottle of wine. I am exaggerating a bit but nevertheless the temptation is to over-indulge on feast days, thereby undoing all your good work. Last week, when Prince George was born I was on a feast day and had been into town to buy gifts for my son's teachers as an end-of-year thank-you. Here are extracts from the cards we sent to school.
Dear Mr Brooklyn,
Thank-you very much for all your hard work this year. Bryn has really enjoyed being in your class. You are lucky that I decided to buy you some red wine as a gift. I don't much like this particular alcoholic beverage and therefore the bottle is still intact.
Best wishes etc ...
Dear Mrs Pottersby,
You really are the best classroom assistant ever and Bryn loves it when you work with them. I have to apologise about the poor gift offering this year. You were meant to have a bottle of Prosecco but it looked so tempting yesterday evening that I just had to open it - needed to wet the baby's head and all that. Also, sorry about the champagne truffles. I think you'll find there are only a couple missing.
Enjoy the holidays etc ...
It's true. I can resist everything except temptation!
Thursday, 25 July 2013
Thine be the Glory
My close friends will know just by looking at the title of this post that I have had some kind of stressful experience. You see, when things get pressured I find myself singing 'Thine be the Glory' to myself. I can measure how bad things are by how many verses I get through and today I sang all of it and worked my way through most of the rest of 'The Baptist Hymnal' too.
It should have been so simple but it never is. I had taken my son and nephew (that's two separate people just in case you thought things were getting a bit too Norfolk) to the cinema in Cromer, parked the car and went to get a ticket. I knew I didn't have much change on me and soon realised that I didn't have enough to pay for 3 hrs. I am not a risk taker so, rather than just go for 2 hours and take a chance I decided to pay by card. Now, I don't mind things being complicated when they have to be like brain surgery for example, or choosing what to eat on a night out, but buying a parking ticket ffs?
I followed the instructions. Insert card, choose time, key in pin + validate. All I got was a message flashing 'Abort'. I tried the process again. Same outcome. By now people were forming a queue behind me jangling coins and tutting, so I did the decent thing and told them to p*** off. Only joking. I let them get their tickets. After a while the crowds had dispersed so I tried again. By now I must have been gone about 10 minutes, leaving the children in the car to play with the handbrake. What a blessing Norfolk is flat. At this point a friendly traffic warden (unbelievably NO irony intended) came to my aid and talked me through the steps again. Same result. He suggested I use a different card. No good. He suggested I tried a different machine.
On my way over to the new machine I stopped off to tell the kids that I was still alive and to grab a nourishing snack. This could go on some time and I needed to keep my energy levels up. Finally, after three more times of trying it worked and I staggered back to the car brandishing my hard-won prize. It was definitely the hardest I had ever had to try to spend £2.40.
It should have been so simple but it never is. I had taken my son and nephew (that's two separate people just in case you thought things were getting a bit too Norfolk) to the cinema in Cromer, parked the car and went to get a ticket. I knew I didn't have much change on me and soon realised that I didn't have enough to pay for 3 hrs. I am not a risk taker so, rather than just go for 2 hours and take a chance I decided to pay by card. Now, I don't mind things being complicated when they have to be like brain surgery for example, or choosing what to eat on a night out, but buying a parking ticket ffs?I followed the instructions. Insert card, choose time, key in pin + validate. All I got was a message flashing 'Abort'. I tried the process again. Same outcome. By now people were forming a queue behind me jangling coins and tutting, so I did the decent thing and told them to p*** off. Only joking. I let them get their tickets. After a while the crowds had dispersed so I tried again. By now I must have been gone about 10 minutes, leaving the children in the car to play with the handbrake. What a blessing Norfolk is flat. At this point a friendly traffic warden (unbelievably NO irony intended) came to my aid and talked me through the steps again. Same result. He suggested I use a different card. No good. He suggested I tried a different machine.
On my way over to the new machine I stopped off to tell the kids that I was still alive and to grab a nourishing snack. This could go on some time and I needed to keep my energy levels up. Finally, after three more times of trying it worked and I staggered back to the car brandishing my hard-won prize. It was definitely the hardest I had ever had to try to spend £2.40.
Saturday, 13 July 2013
What's in a name?
Apparently the most likely names for the new Royal Baby are Alexandra for a girl, or George if it's a boy. The only reason I would be remotely interested in William and Kate's choice of name for their first-born would be if I had placed a hefty bet on it. I haven't, so I'm not.
Nevertheless, names do mean so much, don't they? I'm not sure how this works in other cultures and I would be most interested to hear from any overseas readers on this topic, but here in good old Blighty, you can definitely tell a thing or two about a chap (or chapess) from the name they have.
When we were choosing names for our first (and last) born my choice was definitely limited due to having been a teacher for so long. Every name seemed to have some sort of memory associated with it and more often than not it was a negative one. One of Geof's suggestions was 'Kyle'. Now I am really sorry but every Kyle I have taught has been trouble with a capital K. It's a name I associate with small children being yelled at in supermarkets (Lidl, not Waitrose of course). My dear husband also suggested 'Jamal', a gorgeous name I am sure, but possibly one which would result in him being stopped and interrogated at airports on a regular basis. Why not go the whole hog and christen him 'Death to the Infidel' just to be sure.
However, we both liked 'Bryn', each having separate but happy memories of holidays spent in Wales. Phew! Sorted and at only 20 weeks pregnant. Ah, but what about a middle name? I really wanted it to be 'Morgan' my mother's maiden name. At least that way I would always be able to answer the security question to reset my password. However, Geof thought that 'Bryn Morgan Harrison' sounded like an accountancy firm. He had a point I suppose so we went for a bit of biblical with 'Reuben'.
You can have a lot of fun with names too. I'm sure you've all worked out you film star name using your middle name plus a park near to where you grew up. Mine would be 'Kathryn The Rec'. Mmmm maybe not. A recent one doing the rounds was your rock band name. For this you used the colour of your underwear plus the last food you ate. Following on from my 'Inner Baptist' post you won't believe this but mine was 'Black Quiche'!
I work in a Catholic school, and when the new pope was being elected we had a great time deciding what our 'Pope Name' would be. I know, we don't get out much. To do this we looked at the saints' names calendar, looked for our birthdays and selected a name. I went for 'Pope Casimir Humbert'.
So, names do mean quite a bit. That's why we are unlikely to ever see a 'Queen Chardonnay' in our green and pleasant land.
Nevertheless, names do mean so much, don't they? I'm not sure how this works in other cultures and I would be most interested to hear from any overseas readers on this topic, but here in good old Blighty, you can definitely tell a thing or two about a chap (or chapess) from the name they have.
When we were choosing names for our first (and last) born my choice was definitely limited due to having been a teacher for so long. Every name seemed to have some sort of memory associated with it and more often than not it was a negative one. One of Geof's suggestions was 'Kyle'. Now I am really sorry but every Kyle I have taught has been trouble with a capital K. It's a name I associate with small children being yelled at in supermarkets (Lidl, not Waitrose of course). My dear husband also suggested 'Jamal', a gorgeous name I am sure, but possibly one which would result in him being stopped and interrogated at airports on a regular basis. Why not go the whole hog and christen him 'Death to the Infidel' just to be sure.
However, we both liked 'Bryn', each having separate but happy memories of holidays spent in Wales. Phew! Sorted and at only 20 weeks pregnant. Ah, but what about a middle name? I really wanted it to be 'Morgan' my mother's maiden name. At least that way I would always be able to answer the security question to reset my password. However, Geof thought that 'Bryn Morgan Harrison' sounded like an accountancy firm. He had a point I suppose so we went for a bit of biblical with 'Reuben'.
You can have a lot of fun with names too. I'm sure you've all worked out you film star name using your middle name plus a park near to where you grew up. Mine would be 'Kathryn The Rec'. Mmmm maybe not. A recent one doing the rounds was your rock band name. For this you used the colour of your underwear plus the last food you ate. Following on from my 'Inner Baptist' post you won't believe this but mine was 'Black Quiche'!
I work in a Catholic school, and when the new pope was being elected we had a great time deciding what our 'Pope Name' would be. I know, we don't get out much. To do this we looked at the saints' names calendar, looked for our birthdays and selected a name. I went for 'Pope Casimir Humbert'.
So, names do mean quite a bit. That's why we are unlikely to ever see a 'Queen Chardonnay' in our green and pleasant land.
Thursday, 11 July 2013
My Inner Baptist
I had a traditional Baptist upbringing, and despite the fact that I have now largely rejected the whole charismatic church package, it remains a significant, if unwelcome influence on my life even today. For example, if I am required to provide food for a social gathering I experience a strange compulsion to take quiche. I am also totally unable to even contemplate reading 'Fifty Shades of Grey' due to strict ideas about, well you know, sex. The Baptist guide to teenage boy/girl relationships could be summed up in one phrase. 'If you haven't got one, don't touch it'. I guess if you had the nerve to be a gay Baptist then the advice would be 'If you have got one, don't touch it anyway'.
My young son recently asked what a virgin was. I floundered about for a bit before deciding on "It's someone who hasn't had a boyfriend or girlfriend", and instantly imagining all sorts of unspeakably embarrassing and potentially incriminating scenarios where I had to explain to the head teacher/vicar/magistrate that what he actually meant when he said he wasn't a virgin was...You get the idea. When my sister-in-law (also indoctrinated from an early age and also a fellow escapee) heard about this question she said "What were you thinking of? You should just have told him it was someone who isn't married!"
A few months go I was in Barcelona with a colleague looking at the most beautiful designer coat. It was in the sale and there was only one left. I was umming and aahing about whether to get it, arguing that I didn't need it. "What do you mean NEED?", she asked incredulously. "Do you LIKE it? Will it make you feel good wearing it?"
"Yes", I replied, adding feebly "I can't help it. I'm a Baptist". It must have been an amusing scene to behold as my friend stood in the middle of Desigual, urging me in a loud voice, "Fight your Inner Baptist. Come on. Fight it and win". I did. I bought the coat and I love it. Now, whenever that little voice pipes up in my head telling me that I am 17 years old again and that I must eat quiche and not have sex I put my hands over my ears like a child and sing 'La, la, la not listening!'
My young son recently asked what a virgin was. I floundered about for a bit before deciding on "It's someone who hasn't had a boyfriend or girlfriend", and instantly imagining all sorts of unspeakably embarrassing and potentially incriminating scenarios where I had to explain to the head teacher/vicar/magistrate that what he actually meant when he said he wasn't a virgin was...You get the idea. When my sister-in-law (also indoctrinated from an early age and also a fellow escapee) heard about this question she said "What were you thinking of? You should just have told him it was someone who isn't married!"
A few months go I was in Barcelona with a colleague looking at the most beautiful designer coat. It was in the sale and there was only one left. I was umming and aahing about whether to get it, arguing that I didn't need it. "What do you mean NEED?", she asked incredulously. "Do you LIKE it? Will it make you feel good wearing it?" "Yes", I replied, adding feebly "I can't help it. I'm a Baptist". It must have been an amusing scene to behold as my friend stood in the middle of Desigual, urging me in a loud voice, "Fight your Inner Baptist. Come on. Fight it and win". I did. I bought the coat and I love it. Now, whenever that little voice pipes up in my head telling me that I am 17 years old again and that I must eat quiche and not have sex I put my hands over my ears like a child and sing 'La, la, la not listening!'
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