This autumn marks my tipping point: I’ll have lived up here as long as I lived in Suffolk, thanks to the august institution that is Leicester University. In 1995 tuition fees were but a gleam in the devil’s eye, and one could still go to Uni as a way of delaying getting a job for three years.
I am perturbed that finances are encouraging more kids to study from home. This Completely Misses The Point: you won’t get the chance to reinvent yourself, subsist on instant noodles and watch Quincy every afternoon for three years in your childhood bedroom. A degree’s not just about the difference in your pay cheque, whatever the bloody Daily Mail says. "One of the purposes... is to make the inside of your head a more interesting place to live for the rest of your life." (Scott Brophy, Professor of Philosophy, Hobart.)
Catered or self-catering? Catered halls tend to offer the best social life, but it depends whether you think eating school dinners for a year is worth it. Regardless of where you choose, it will rapidly become a rank cesspit of filth. The French exchange students erected a banner in our kitchen that said “Welcome to the porks house!” in protest against an overflowing bin that none of us were inclined to deal with. (Warning: attempts to impose any sort of cleaning rota will mark you out as a killjoy and ruin your social standing. You’re young, your immune system can handle it. And for the rest of your life, you will appreciate getting into a shower that doesn't have other people's plasters clogging up the drains.)
An earnest theology student recently told me she studied for 60 hours a week. Ludicrous. 20 hours should more than cover it, especially for arts subjects. My highest mark in my finals was for a book I hadn't even read, just regurgitated my lecture notes in the exam.
Finally: There is no other time in your life where you will consider 1:30am an early night... or 9.30am an early start. Enjoy it!
Thursday, 19 September 2013
Thursday, 18 July 2013
What a load of Rankers
The suggestion that 11 year olds should be compared against each other, with parents informed exactly which 10% band their kid falls into, makes me feel physically sick. It's both cruel and illogical. Imagine how you would feel if the government announced that adults were going to be lined up and assessed as to their attractiveness in swimwear: this is what ranking 11 year olds amounts to. Worse, in fact, because as yet nobody has invented the academic equivalent of “going to the gym”.
The very way it has been reported by the media - probably taken straight from a Whitehall press release - begets a total lack of understanding of education. No test measures pure “ability”. We all know the average girl who worked her socks off and got 3 Bs at A-level, and the hyper-intelligent but disaffected youth who spent most of his time bunking off or smoking and got Ds and Es.
In education, the discrete level a child reaches is called attainment, and is affected by any number of socioeconomic factors as well as baseline aptitude, not a whit of which is within their control. The children at the bottom of the class are invariably the kids for whom learning to spell Mesopotamia comes a poor second to the sheer struggle of staying fed, clean, and not knocked about by their latest “uncle” - does the government think these families are even going to open the results letter, let alone think “Shit - I'd better start listening to her read?” Does the government think these poor little scraps don’t already know they're at the bottom of the pile, or would be anything other than totally demoralised by knowing that almost everyone is “cleverer” than them?
The government presents this retrograde and reprehensible step as a means of “raising standards”. I would suggest their own intelligence is in question if they don’t understand that even if all 11 year olds were achieving to GCSE level, if you rank them into percentiles someone will come last.
It is time to stop seeing intelligence as some sort of moral virtue, any more than we have control over the colour of our eyes. As Eeyore said, “We can’t all, and some of us don’t. That’s all there is to it.” With 900,000 kids NEET, my suspicion is that the government - having first tried to blame immigrants, and families on welfare selfishly renting a council house that has a box room - are now trying to blame our children for their monumental policy cock-ups. Doesn't bloody matter how well they do if there aren’t any jobs for them to go to, does it, Dave?
The very way it has been reported by the media - probably taken straight from a Whitehall press release - begets a total lack of understanding of education. No test measures pure “ability”. We all know the average girl who worked her socks off and got 3 Bs at A-level, and the hyper-intelligent but disaffected youth who spent most of his time bunking off or smoking and got Ds and Es.
In education, the discrete level a child reaches is called attainment, and is affected by any number of socioeconomic factors as well as baseline aptitude, not a whit of which is within their control. The children at the bottom of the class are invariably the kids for whom learning to spell Mesopotamia comes a poor second to the sheer struggle of staying fed, clean, and not knocked about by their latest “uncle” - does the government think these families are even going to open the results letter, let alone think “Shit - I'd better start listening to her read?” Does the government think these poor little scraps don’t already know they're at the bottom of the pile, or would be anything other than totally demoralised by knowing that almost everyone is “cleverer” than them?
The government presents this retrograde and reprehensible step as a means of “raising standards”. I would suggest their own intelligence is in question if they don’t understand that even if all 11 year olds were achieving to GCSE level, if you rank them into percentiles someone will come last.
It is time to stop seeing intelligence as some sort of moral virtue, any more than we have control over the colour of our eyes. As Eeyore said, “We can’t all, and some of us don’t. That’s all there is to it.” With 900,000 kids NEET, my suspicion is that the government - having first tried to blame immigrants, and families on welfare selfishly renting a council house that has a box room - are now trying to blame our children for their monumental policy cock-ups. Doesn't bloody matter how well they do if there aren’t any jobs for them to go to, does it, Dave?
Wednesday, 3 July 2013
Moors Explorer
Yesterday we went on the North Yorkshire Moors Railway. It was not a stress-free experience, although for once Molly behaved absolutely impeccably.
Tooth-grinding first occurred in Whitby station car park, which aside from costing an eye watering £8 for the day, required you to input your entire car registration number. This demand, combined with a very small QWERTY keyboard at hip height, didn't suit the railway's typical customer, a 76 year old struggling to see in their Variofocals. I stood in mute agony for a full 10 minutes waiting for my turn.
The first 20 minutes of the journey was brilliant, then a large, garrulous Greek-Cockney family sat down opposite and by us, and the old-school magic was somewhat lost as father and son loudly debated the cost of CNC milling machines. These were replaced at Goathland by a younger family, and here the fun really began. The parents, clad in that Gore-texy kind of stuff that wicks away moisture at such a rate you can easily dehydrate, didn't speak to each other once. Dad concentrated on getting Quavers into his 3 year old, like a council worker feeding Christmas trees into a chipper, while a baby grizzled away on Mum's lap. I know babies whinge, but it's the most irritating sound when you're not a parent yourself. I flung myself and Molly out of the train like a champagne cork when we finally got there.
Of Pickering I will say little, except that it is quite a challenge to while away 2 hours there in the rain. The churchyard was full of Suzys, which freaked me out, and the High Street full of snarling aggressive dogs which had a similar effect on poor Molly.
The return journey was 6-seater carriages, making choice of neighbour even more important. The people we ended up with sucked in their breath over their teeth when we asked if they were dog-friendly, before relenting when they saw how small she was. They were okay, but the man in particular was not backward in coming forwards with his opinion on dogs in general, and I was relieved that Molly fell daintily asleep on my lap for the entirety of the journey. She took revenge on behalf of canine-kind by stealthily farting throughout.
Tooth-grinding first occurred in Whitby station car park, which aside from costing an eye watering £8 for the day, required you to input your entire car registration number. This demand, combined with a very small QWERTY keyboard at hip height, didn't suit the railway's typical customer, a 76 year old struggling to see in their Variofocals. I stood in mute agony for a full 10 minutes waiting for my turn.
The first 20 minutes of the journey was brilliant, then a large, garrulous Greek-Cockney family sat down opposite and by us, and the old-school magic was somewhat lost as father and son loudly debated the cost of CNC milling machines. These were replaced at Goathland by a younger family, and here the fun really began. The parents, clad in that Gore-texy kind of stuff that wicks away moisture at such a rate you can easily dehydrate, didn't speak to each other once. Dad concentrated on getting Quavers into his 3 year old, like a council worker feeding Christmas trees into a chipper, while a baby grizzled away on Mum's lap. I know babies whinge, but it's the most irritating sound when you're not a parent yourself. I flung myself and Molly out of the train like a champagne cork when we finally got there.
Of Pickering I will say little, except that it is quite a challenge to while away 2 hours there in the rain. The churchyard was full of Suzys, which freaked me out, and the High Street full of snarling aggressive dogs which had a similar effect on poor Molly.
The return journey was 6-seater carriages, making choice of neighbour even more important. The people we ended up with sucked in their breath over their teeth when we asked if they were dog-friendly, before relenting when they saw how small she was. They were okay, but the man in particular was not backward in coming forwards with his opinion on dogs in general, and I was relieved that Molly fell daintily asleep on my lap for the entirety of the journey. She took revenge on behalf of canine-kind by stealthily farting throughout.
Saturday, 29 June 2013
Well behaved pets welcome
We have brought Molly on holiday! She has had a tremendous time, romping on the beach, playing in the sea, meeting lots of other dogs...
She repaid us by barking madly every 15-30 minutes through the night, seemingly every time a seagull five miles away flapped its wings.
6 nights to go. I am NOT in a good mood.
She repaid us by barking madly every 15-30 minutes through the night, seemingly every time a seagull five miles away flapped its wings.
6 nights to go. I am NOT in a good mood.
Monday, 24 June 2013
How (not) to sell a car
I’ve just changed my car, a process that was marginally less enjoyable than donating blood. If you thought Arthur Daly-esque used car salesmen had died out in the 80s, you’re wrong! I endured some truly terrible test drives, and I have to say the main dealers were just as bad as the one-man-bands. Here’s how (not) to sell a car.
- Greet your client with a diatribe about how it’s “sold as seen, no warranty, the price is X, £500 more if you want to part-ex and you won’t find one cheaper.” Act reluctant to let them have a test drive, then complain throughout that business is poor. Insist on popping the bonnet. (“Yes – that’s definitely an engine.”)
- Even though you can get a mini-valet done for £10 in any town, don’t bother cleaning the cars out beforehand. Buyers love the smell of other people’s dogs, and the sight of Cheesy Wotsits ground into the back seats. If they complain, tell them it’s better to see a car warts’n’all. This will entirely negate their anger at having driven 60 miles to have a look at a midden. Cleaning a car before a buyer comes to look at it – what next? Making the bed before someone views your house? Crazy talk!
- Remember to blame the potential purchaser for any mechanical defects, especially if she’s a woman. Dodgy gearbox? “Well, you’re just not used to it yet, dear.” Engine over-revving? “I think it’s your clutch control. Are you taking your foot off the accelerator when you change gear?” (I have been driving for 19 years. I know how to change gear, you pillock.)
- Ignore anything your client tells you about the sort of roads where they live. Five miles around Fosse Park is a perfect test-drive for someone who has clearly stated they mostly drive on single-track country lanes and only go into town once a month.
Thank heavens that’s over for another few years.
NB: credit to TMS Volvo in Coventry and availablecar.com, who were not at all like this.
Sunday, 16 June 2013
Father's Day
If a girl’s relationship with her dad defines her adult relationships with men, this would explain why I have never been cheated on, never been dumped, never settled for anything less than being adored. My Dad is the cornerstone of who I am – I have a real, visceral sense of being “made” of him.
Dad was only 23 when I was born – when I see my baby photos, I am cradled by a skinny, long-haired man-boy – and he approached fatherhood with a sort of dedicated enthusiasm. We used to go on the beach before he went to work, clamber on haybales and see if we could get them to rock, go on endless bike rides, and when I was 8 began a campaign called “Brick the Elderly” from a disused railway bridge. (Disclaimer: no pensioners were harmed in the making of this memory.)
That’s not to say he only did the fun stuff – I was a very benign child but my sillier moments were stopped in their tracks with a warning “Suzy – you will get It”. We never found out what “It” was. He was also annoyingly insistent that I kept up my piano lessons, and used to teach me trigonometry on the back of table mats after tea. Actually, I didn’t mind that.
He has done some really magical things for me. At 17 I was called upon to watch a short video he had made, the final shot of which was a bright red Peugeot 205 parked outside his workshop – my first car, my dream car that we had joked about. On my 21st birthday, a similar video of shots of the house and garden marked the various places he had stashed one thousand pound coins. How much better than a cheque is that! (On counting – and learning that pound coins are surprisingly heavy en masse – we found ourselves £30 short. Some were found in a deck shoe, some under a plant pot, which had missed the filming process.)
No-one is perfect, and Dad has infuriating traits like anyone else. Chief among these is absolute dedication to his Friday night routine, which means he won’t go away for the weekend and we have to do all the driving. He is addicted to “Deal or No Deal” and makes the family re-watch moments deemed particularly intense on Sky+. He is famously stingy when ordering takeaway food and once tried to impose a £6 a head limit.
The main thing I’m trying to share is that I have never for one second of my life doubted my Dad’s absolute love for me, which is a very powerful thing. Do you know that scene in Mrs Doubtfire when Robin Williams is trying to persuade the judge to let him see his kids? “Ever since my children were born, the moment I looked at them, I was crazy about them. Once I held them, I was hooked .I`m addicted to my children, sir. I love them with all my heart. And the idea of someone telling me I can`t be with them, I can`t see them every day... It`s like someone saying I can`t have air.” – Dad turned to me and said “That’s how I am with you and your sister.” When I moved 140 miles away to University it was a wrench for both of us – it took me about a decade to get over the nagging feeling that I had ruined his life.
The thing is, the strongest relationships don’t rely on physical proximity and I don’t think I could be any closer to Dad if I only lived a mile away. The last time I had a general anaesthetic, Dad had said “Imagine me stroking the back of your hand like I used to do when you were little”, and it was indeed imagining that which calmed me down as the needle went in.
9.15am. He’s probably up by now. I need to go and make a Father’s Day phone call.
Dad was only 23 when I was born – when I see my baby photos, I am cradled by a skinny, long-haired man-boy – and he approached fatherhood with a sort of dedicated enthusiasm. We used to go on the beach before he went to work, clamber on haybales and see if we could get them to rock, go on endless bike rides, and when I was 8 began a campaign called “Brick the Elderly” from a disused railway bridge. (Disclaimer: no pensioners were harmed in the making of this memory.)
That’s not to say he only did the fun stuff – I was a very benign child but my sillier moments were stopped in their tracks with a warning “Suzy – you will get It”. We never found out what “It” was. He was also annoyingly insistent that I kept up my piano lessons, and used to teach me trigonometry on the back of table mats after tea. Actually, I didn’t mind that.
He has done some really magical things for me. At 17 I was called upon to watch a short video he had made, the final shot of which was a bright red Peugeot 205 parked outside his workshop – my first car, my dream car that we had joked about. On my 21st birthday, a similar video of shots of the house and garden marked the various places he had stashed one thousand pound coins. How much better than a cheque is that! (On counting – and learning that pound coins are surprisingly heavy en masse – we found ourselves £30 short. Some were found in a deck shoe, some under a plant pot, which had missed the filming process.)
No-one is perfect, and Dad has infuriating traits like anyone else. Chief among these is absolute dedication to his Friday night routine, which means he won’t go away for the weekend and we have to do all the driving. He is addicted to “Deal or No Deal” and makes the family re-watch moments deemed particularly intense on Sky+. He is famously stingy when ordering takeaway food and once tried to impose a £6 a head limit.
The main thing I’m trying to share is that I have never for one second of my life doubted my Dad’s absolute love for me, which is a very powerful thing. Do you know that scene in Mrs Doubtfire when Robin Williams is trying to persuade the judge to let him see his kids? “Ever since my children were born, the moment I looked at them, I was crazy about them. Once I held them, I was hooked .I`m addicted to my children, sir. I love them with all my heart. And the idea of someone telling me I can`t be with them, I can`t see them every day... It`s like someone saying I can`t have air.” – Dad turned to me and said “That’s how I am with you and your sister.” When I moved 140 miles away to University it was a wrench for both of us – it took me about a decade to get over the nagging feeling that I had ruined his life.
The thing is, the strongest relationships don’t rely on physical proximity and I don’t think I could be any closer to Dad if I only lived a mile away. The last time I had a general anaesthetic, Dad had said “Imagine me stroking the back of your hand like I used to do when you were little”, and it was indeed imagining that which calmed me down as the needle went in.
9.15am. He’s probably up by now. I need to go and make a Father’s Day phone call.
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