Plus ça change...

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?

I Believe: Mel Smith

Following the announcement today of the untimely death of Mel Smith here is my own little tribute based on one of my favourite songs from 'Not the Nine O' Clock News'.


I believe that Michael Gove's good at his job
I believe that poor George Osborne's not a knob
I believe that Brian Sewell is not a snob
I believe, yes, I believe.

I believe that our economy's on the mend
I believe that Jordan's boobs are not pretend
I believe that the NHS is in safe hands
And that 1D are the very best of bands

Yes, I believe that ugly's pretty
That the welfare cuts aren't shitty
Richard Hammond is so witty
And I'll make millions from this ditty

I believe that the moon is made of cheese
And that the Tory Party's free of sleaze
I believe in a land of milk and honey
And that my broadband fees are worth the money

I believe that old George Michael's a good driver
And that Kate's wedding dress cost a fiver
I believe that I am going to live for ever
I believe that Peter André's really clever
And I believe that Amanda Knox is innocent
But I can't believe Ronald Reagan is president

Mediocrity

I am going to let you into the secret of a peaceful existence; mediocrity. I have spent much of my adult life perfecting the art of mediocrity and I like to think I am fairly good at it. Let me explain why being mediocre is the key to happiness, taking your working life as an example. I am sure you will agree that if you are bad at your job then you are in line for all manner of grief, although not if your first name is Michael and your surname Gove. Nobody wants to be on the receiving end of complaints from line managers, stern emails from the boss and uncomfortable appraisal meetings, so it doesn't pay to be too shabby.
This reminds me of a story I heard about a colleague of a friend who was having their annual performance management interview. He came out of the meeting fairly pleased with the way it had gone, saying that his manager had complimented him on the improvement in his work. The others in the office were mildly surprised as this individual was renowned for being lazy and incompetent. "So, what exactly did he say then?", one co-worker asked. "He said I used to be f****** sh*t, but now I'm just sh*t", came the reply.
However, if you are too good at what you do then people expect a lot of you and give you more to do. Some of my colleagues are constantly snowed under by requests to run a course, go to a meeting, organise an event. Why? Because they are too good at their job. I do try to give them the benefit of my wisdom but they are too busy answering the 150 emails they have received that morning to listen to me.
So, for now I shall endeavour to tread the line of least resistance and happily continue in my own little world with my delusions of adequacy.

Rocket the Hedgehog

I have just been cleaning out and feeding our rescue hedgehog Rocket, who lives in a big cage in the hall. This is a horrible job as he makes the most awful mess and I find myself scooping up a heady combination of food, water, poo and soggy newspaper. Rocket is definitely a teenage boy. He eats masses, grunts in reply to any attempt at conversation or physical contact and spends many hours in his bedroom making dubious noises and an unspeakable mess. A good friend recently commented that this was all good training for when Bryn reaches adolescence. I pointed out that I very much hoped that Bryn, at least, would not crap on his bedroom floor. Who knows?!
Rocket is a fairly intelligent little man, and I am currently teaching him to do his business either on George Osborne or Michael Gove. All copies of The Telegraph gratefully received; these may be used for training purposes.