In Praise of Facebook

In Praise of Facebook

This is akin to politically incorrect speaking. One cannot possibly defend Facebook. One cannot possibly think that this is a viable way of spending time and communicating with people. It is not real communication.

Those status statements are a complete waste of time. Do we really want the entire world to know what we ate for dinner and when the baby last pooped his pants? Do we really think it is appropriate to post photos of children or lewd behaviour in the bars and clubs across the nation?

I would be the first person to admit that there are many things that are very wrong with Facebook. The changes in privacy settings means that one has to be constantly aware of whether your face is marching across the world or whether you have ticked the correct box to prevent this from happening.

One has to be careful to make sure that you do not provide too much information even though the invitation is there to do so.

The status bar is bizarre. People use it to tell others that they are going to bed or what they think of the latest X-Factor contestant. Yet there are also times when a glimpse of intelligence is seen, with people quoting honourable and wise people that they wish to share with others.

Am I a voyeurist or am I genuinely interested in the people who have passed through my life in one form or another? Many would say I am the former. Others would appreciate that I am honestly the latter. I thoroughly enjoy hearing good things about people that have been in my life. I love the opportunity I have to connect to people that in our busy world and busy lives we do not have time for even though we would really like to stay in touch.

Facebook offers the opportunity to do just that, and I suppose if all people used it as such rather than its more negative purpose then it would probably receive better press than it does.

I like people and I have a loyalty to the people who have had a place in my life, even the rotten ones, even those that were relatively periphery.

Okay, perhaps I am just a nosey parker after all.

However, I want to write today about two incidents that have happened to me this week through Facebook that I believe gives the whole genre some credence.

The first relates to a friend of mine from college.

M and I were never that close but we mixed together in a large circle of friends. I would probably never have arranged to go out with M on my own but would happily spend an entire evening in her company.

Without Facebook, I would probably see M once in two years, or whenever one of our group could get our act together to have party. With Facebook, I can keep in touch with her on a different level. Last year, for instance, I found out that we were both on holiday in the same place at the same time, and we had a long chat about what we had been doing, promising that next time we were there together we would meet up.

Her father died recently and I was able to offer some advice on how to cope with the bereavement.

I saw her in the summer. She was looking a little tired, like any teacher at the end of term, but neither of us had any idea how ill she was.

Through Facebook, I found out that she had cancer and she is now undergoing some intensive chemotherapy. I have been able to send her messages and give her the sort of encouragement that I hope will keep her going as she battles with this dreadful disease.

But there is another aspect that makes Facebook so useful in such circumstances. Her daughter has decided that she would like to raise some money for Macmillan nurses by cutting off her gorgeous hair, giving the cut locks to a charity that makes wigs for cancer sufferers.

This week, M posted a note on her page to ask for sponsorship. There was no nagging but I wanted to give something.

This dear girl has now raised £2500 and has increased her target from £2000 to £3000 to reflect the generosity of those who want to make this contribution to her cause as well as the clear generosity of her selfless act (She really does have beautiful hair).

Without Facebook, I’m not sure that I would have heard to quickly how ill my friend was. I certainly wouldn’t have known about her daughter’s charity act. Ergo, Facebook has done its work.

Another incident happened this week, which is completely different but for me, uplifting.

Sometimes, I switch on the computer and put Facebook on in a similar way that others have the television on as background noise. I forget that it is on most of the time, and often miss an instant message that a friend has sent me.

When I first joined Facebook, I wasn’t very circumspect about who I allowed or invited to be my friend. Before I knew it, I had joined up with some ex-pupils of mine. And now, of course, I am glad that I did.

One such pupil, possibly the most academically gifted lad I had ever taught, contacted me, and we had had a small exchange of hellos and how are you doing! Occasionally I would hear generically about what he had been up to and I am sure he might have been interested in some of my postings.

Yesterday, I was merrily sitting at the computer when a note popped up to say that he had sent me a message.

“Hey there Miss, how are you?”

Once a few casual comments had taken place, he then told me that he had just had a paper published and as his old primary school teacher, would I be interested in reading it?

I responded immediately to say that I would love to read it.

He sent me the link and I read with such interest and enthusiasm.

Nineteen years have passed since I last saw this child at the age of eleven, yet through his writing, the years simply disappeared. I could hear his voice, laugh at his humour, admire his skills and rejoice in his values. It was all there, and within it I would like to think there was a little hint of me too (but that is being rather egotistical).

And what a total joy that this man wanted to share this with me, a dim and distant person from his past who hopefully encouraged him to be the person that he seems to have turned into.

Without Facebook, I doubt I would have read this. I doubt whether I would have been in touch with this bloke let alone have the opportunity for him to share something that he is particularly proud of.

So as with all things, Facebook needs to be used carefully and there is so often good and bad in even the worst of things.

Time Counts

Time Counts

Tick, tick, tick, tock.

Time walks away from me perpetually.

I try and grab it and hold it still but it keeps on wandering regardless of my efforts.

In my wildest dreams, I hope for duality – a true dichotomy of living; the opportunity to be in two places at once. That would be my secret power if I had the chance.

If there was an afterlife, I rather like the idea of having the potential to live two lives at once, rather like that “Sliding Doors” film – one to watch.

“Time is what stops everything from happening at once” – John Archibald Wheeler

Time stops for no man. That is what they say but they are wrong. Anyone who has experienced a true state of sensuality will know that time stands still, be it for a mere second that reaches out for eternity.

“Time is the justice that examines all offenders” – William Shakespeare

Time takes no prisoners. Time steals. Stealing time. The thief of time. Look how many phrases there are about time disappearing without anything happening. Look how many times we run out of time, watching it disappear before we can even begin to open our entire bank of senses.

Are we all offenders when it comes to time? Does not everyone have a guilty conscience about how time has been spent? Doesn’t a life well-lived belong to someone who can contentedly say that they lost no time, they used it well, they felt that every minute of every hour of every day had purpose and meaning; that they lost not a second?

“But what minutes! Count them by sensation, and not by calendars, and each moment is a day” – Benjamin Disraeli

Good old Benjamin is right. Time should not be quantified by numbers divisible by twelve. It should not be counted at all. It should be lived. It should have sensation and the only important time is what you can measure in that consciousness.

This is what I was thinking last night as I lay in bed worrying about time.

How can I capture time? How can I steal it back? How can I get more of it at the time I want it and less of it at the time I don’t?

I can’t.

But I can use time wisely and I have the opportunity to use time rather than let it stray away from me.

Each second is a second. Each minute is a minute. Each hour is an hour. Each day is a day and so forth but how different each of those time measurements can be if spiritual wellbeing is at the core of time.

Each second is a second but it lasts so much longer when you allow the soul to see it, to feel it, to live it, to hold it. Each second is a second that can seem like an hour when you are waiting, hoping, missing.

That’s the trick of time. It’s all in the mind!

“Lost time is never found again” – Benjamin Franklin

Lost time cannot be found but perhaps the trick is not to dwell on it. What is gone is gone. Time allows you to move forward and try to set aside the grief or the angst of losing time. There is always another time, be it now or in the future.

“Time has been transformed, and we have changed; it has advanced and set us in motion; it has unveiled its face, inspiring us with bewilderment and exhilaration” – Kahlil Gibran

It’s not all bad – this thing called time. Even in the most trying of circumstances one should use time wisely, enabling the excitement of the moment to subsume us. Sometimes, I have to sit for hours doing things that I do not want to do. It’s hard. It is sometimes insufferable but even then, we should think about how we are using time.

We may be stuck in a room with a bunch of hopeless people, strategising or marketing, coaching or dictating but we can take our minds elsewhere if we need to use the time more wisely.

And if we have to concentrate, we can think of the time when such useless moments will be gone forever.

I look forward to time. I try not to be defeated by its inadequacies.

“The future is something which everyone reaches at the rate of sixty minutes an hour, whatever he does, whoever he is” – C.S. Lewis

At last, the final leveller. Time is a socialist! It is shared equally amongst all humans. Doesn’t that equity make it the most perfect gift that should be treasured, reiterating its need to be used wisely?

What is my future? In the next hour? In the next week? In a lifetime?
Whatever it is, I will reach it at the same time as another reaches their destination, or fails to do so.

How I use my time is my choice and although I may share my time with others, it is my time that is important and it is my time that is my future.

“You must have been warned against letting the golden hours slip by; but some of them are golden only because we let them slip by” – James M. Barrie

The Peter Pan man makes sense.

Sometimes, I lie in bed letting all sorts of thoughts and feelings run through me.

Sometimes, I lie on a beach, reading nothing, doing nothing, letting all sorts of thoughts and feelings run through me.

Sometimes, I lie on the settee, looking at a fire, letting all sorts of thoughts and feelings run through me.

I could tell you some of those thoughts but others have vanished with the time that they were first thought of.

I can think of plenty of times when I should have been doing other things but the golden times had to happen. “Golden times” should be in everyone’s day.

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Shouldn’t everyone’s lives be time rich? But of course, the economy would grind to a halt!

Not if someone’s choice of being time rich was to keep an eye on the economy. It takes all sorts to make the world work.

The great thinkers were time rich. The great thinkers are time rich.

I should probably be working now, going through emails, talking to clients, writing papers that nobody wants to read. I should be writing Christmas cards or putting up the rest of the decorations rather than babbling on about time.

I could be playing the piano or the flute or watching the news to see what is going on with the kettling of Scotland Yard. I could be out in the street, taking a walk down to the town to do some Christmas shopping. Heaven forbid, I need to.

And yet, taking time, sitting in silence and writing about nothing other than time, seems to be the right thing to do at this precise moment in time.

Would it be a better world if in our busy lives, people were allowed a moment, whenever it struck them, to take some time to do what feels the most natural thing to do in the world?

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I write about time because it is a precious thing that I so frequently feel bereft of.

And I am one of the fortunate ones who has chosen not to spend her entire week working.

And still I do not afford enough time to the things that I want to do and the people that I want to be with.

Time escapes me and I am angry about that. It annoys me and upsets me that I waste time on the unimportant at the expense of the desired.

But then I think once more about all those minutes when I am using my time doing the things that I really want to do. Don’t those moments count for more than those moments that I feel are lost? Don’t they more than make up for the lost moments? Don’t they last longer, even if it is in my imagination?

Time rich, time poor. That is what I am.

But there is always more time, and to that I turn to a clever man who managed to capture the essence of the spiritual from a book that sometimes appears to be less so.

Good old Peter Seeger!

A time to be born, a time to die
A time to plant, a time to reap
A time to kill, a time to heal
A time to laugh, a time to weep

A time to build up, a time to break down
A time to dance, a time to mourn
A time to cast away stones
A time to gather stones together

A time of war, a time of peace
A time of love, a time of hate
A time you may embrace
A time to refrain from embracing

A time to gain, a time to lose
A time to rend, a time to sew
A time to love, a time to hate

A time of peace, I swear it's not too late!

We are losing time but there is always time.

We need to use it wisely.

But we need to respect its movement too.

We cannot cast aside the fact that time moves even when we stand still.

The Beatles

What’s Your Favourite?

iTunes has finally got their man, or men to be more exact. It appears that the Bookies have slashed the odds on The Beatles taking all the places in the Top Ten as fans of the Fab Four download to their hearts content.

So what is the current favourite? What is likely to be the number one download?
Apparently “Hey Jude” is right up there with a surprising late entry from “Here Comes the Sun”.

Bizarre! I’m not sure that the latter would feature in my top twenty songs of the Beatles.

But then again, I’m also not sure what Beatles songs would.

It seems to me that if you went around the general public and asked what their favourite Beatles song was, it would possibly be the first one that popped into their heads. Whatever compilations came from such a question would always feature the most well-known and not necessarily their best. And anyway, music is such a personal thing. With it comes such memories, such emotions that are important for one person that are completely meaningless for another.

Take “Sergeant Pepper”. I have such fond memories of locking myself away in my brother’s bedroom because he was the only one of us that had a record player in his own space away from the rest of the family. Whenever he was out, I used to go in and treat myself to playing the very few records that we actually had. One of them was “Sergeant Pepper” and I learned to sing from this album.

My favourite at that time was “She’s Leaving Home” purely because it was the one that I could sing best, and I was desperately worried about this poor family who were having to deal with such a traumatic occurrence!

Nowadays, I think I have a completely different Top Ten Beatles songs than I did a decade or two ago. I would be loathe to say which is my favourite but there are certain songs that still have resonance with me for a variety of reasons.

I love “Across the Universe”. Nothing is going to change my world and everything is. Meditation, spirituality, “limitless undying love which shines around me” “thoughts meandering”.

I lose myself when I listen and play this song. I love sitting at the piano and just drifting off into Lennon’s composition, allowing it to take me across all sorts of universes, thinking about nothing, thinking about everything - “possessing and caressing”.

Perfectly beautiful.

I still love certain songs for their utter simplicity. “I will” is a song that is not as well known as other Beatles tracks. It is clearly a McCartney rather than Lennon composition and yet, I still love to hear the basic lyrics that explain with how unconditional love and affection could be, albeit rather simplistic.

“For the things you do endear you to me”.

It’s not the best of their songs, and it is actually a bit soppy but somewhere in my distant past, it meant something to me, and has stuck.

“Blackbird” is such a song of hope. “You were only waiting for this moment to arise”. Learn to fly – we should all be learning to fly in whatever direction we choose. If only more of us could fly where we want to.

I could go on. “I am the Walrus” Do I actually geddit? “Girl” weird and totally different to other songs that they produced. “Something” – so much of Harrison.

And then there are the old favourites. Eleanor Rigby, Yesterday, I Feel Fine.

And of course, “A Day in the Life”

I still listen, mesmerised, by what the hell is going on there!

The point is, is there any point at all in trying to have a definitive list of favourites? Surely they fluctuate as times and circumstances change. Can you ever have a favourite when they are so eclectic? Isn’t that precisely why The Beatles were so popular – well one of the reasons anyway.

All I hope is that this change in The Beatles management means that I can listen further on Spotify. I sincerely hope that this means that they are going to be available there too.

Here’s hoping.

Because what I want to do is learn. I want to listen to more music. Not just The Beatles, of course, but I certainly want to make a more educated and considered choice as to what might be my favourite and there is every possibility that I might not even have heard, or registered, my favourite Fab Four track because I know that I have not listened to them all.

And isn’t that exciting? That there is still a wealth of music out there for me to listen to.

Silence

Silence

http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2010/nov/11/transfiguring-qualities-of-silence-and-solitude

There is an excellent piece of writing in the Guardian today about silence.

This is a subject that is close to my heart. I both loathe and love silence and it is all dependent upon circumstances as to which is the prevalent force.

I assume that this piece was written as a reflective article about the two minute silence on Armistice Day, and if I have written about this before, then apologies for the repetition but, as I said, it is something that actually fascinates me.

And apparently it fascinates other people too. For whilst I was reading the Libby Brooks article which mentioned John Cage’s Silence 4’33”, that very piece was being played, albeit a mere snippet, on the radio during Desert Island Discs. I love that sort of synergy. It spooks me out but it is truly wonderful too.

The silence on Desert Island discs made me think though. Apparently, Kirsty could not play the piece for too long in case people thought that the world had ended or that Radio Four had gone off air for good, which is possibly the same thing.

People are unnerved by such prolonged silence, which is part of the reason for the composition of this piece in the first instance. In fact this piece is set for a debut into the pop charts as an ongoing rage against X-Factor and the abomination of sounds that can come out of such programmes.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2010/sep/30/christmas-no1-facebook-campaign

I was actually going to write about this a couple of weeks ago as the BBC ran a reality programme about some people who had busy lives where silence was sincerely lacking.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/pressoffice/proginfo/tv/2010/wk42/feature_big_silence.shtml

I only managed to catch the first programme and would quite like to get around to watching the others because these people were really struggling.

They, and we, come from a world where real silence is lacking, where we do not do enough to actually search for the sort of silence that our poor worn out senses actually require.

The Big Silence was frightening. Listening to one’s own thoughts without interruption from any intervention whatsoever was completely new, totally alien and utterly overwhelming for the participants in this programme. They sought to subvert, collecting together in shadowed whispers just to break what they saw as the monotony of constant silence.

The Armistice Silence is probably more poignant because it is the only time when people collectively observe that nothingness and completeness in any given year. It resonates because people do not do it. Silence is an unknown quantity to the population.

I am sitting here in silence at the moment. I have no music to distract me. The radio is on mute and yet I can hear the tapping of my fingers on the keys of the computer. I can hear the wind driving through the remnants of leaves outside, and the gentle twinkle of my wind chime reminds me that there is still noise in my alleged silent place.

How often do we really clear our minds from all sound? How often do we lie down and let silence subsume us?

I do it in the bath.

Sometimes, that is the best place for silence as you mute everything on diving below the waterline. In such times, I lose myself to my thoughts and sometimes I try and banish thoughts too because what I require is not just silence but solitude too.

Silence is different from solitude, solitude is different from loneliness. Sometimes, we confuse it all and bring forth all sorts of misnomers in doing so.

There are times in my busy life when I want to be on my own. There are times when I simply want the rest of the world to disappear so that I can enjoy being with myself, my thoughts, my actions, my being. It doesn’t happen often enough.

There are times when enforced solitude is the very last thing I want because human touch and conversation is what I need but that has to be balanced out with that desire to be alone.

But even in that solitude, I do not always get silence, and I do wonder whether I could cope with prolonged silence day after day without interruption from anything at all.

Would that make me a better person? Would I be more in tune with my spiritual side if I did get more silence?
Living in the city, can you ever get silence? It certainly doesn’t sound the same as the sort of silence I get when I am walking alone along the coast, but then is that silence either because you can always hear the crashing of the waves?

Silence is not embraced in our society.

We coo and call to babies, encouraging them to speak at the earliest opportunity. We give them loud toys to play with and hope that they will follow the tunes that we prescribe. We constantly ask them questions about what they are doing, how they are feeling. We sit them in their cots with a musical mobile so that they are never alone to silence.

We bombard them with television and radio, music and chatter, so that they grow up thinking that silence is something to be feared.

And then we (well some) insist on them being ‘silent’ in concentrated work. No wonder the poor mites are terrified by such a sound. No wonder it seems unrealistic and unnatural.

How can we foster the sort of imagination that we want from our youngsters without them experiencing both silence and solitude, and noise and togetherness? We need both.

Libby Brooks states “An ocean separates the creative potential of quiet solitude from the suffocating isolation of loneliness”. This is so true, and some walk a thin line between the two. But those who embrace balance will know the virtue of silence and the meaning of solitude as much as the joy of conversation and the intimacy of sharing.

Yes, we must learn how to share silence and share solitude, if that does not sound like an oxymoron.

I can be perfectly at one with myself, in solitude, in a room full of people if I enable this to happen. I can enjoy the silence of another’s solitude if the relationship is right. Silence and solitude between two people sharing a space is one of the most intimate things in life.

Equally, I can feel like the loneliest person on the planet if solitude is enforced in a world where silence does not prevail.

How strange it is that I can sit in a room with one person reading a book and find great comfort whereas sitting in another room with another person reading a book makes me feel so alone.

Back to balance.

Finding your voice in silence is something that we should all endeavour to do. Allowing time for switch off from the world and even from the people that we most love in the world, is also a necessity that too few people recognise the value thereof.

Giving children a voice is vital. Giving them silence is less considered as being so important and yet we must do this in a positive and not punitive way.

Do you know, in the West we have so much to learn about the values in life that are there for us to grasp, that cost nothing, that mean everything and yet we perpetually ignore, demoting them to insignificance.

Others have learned the importance of silence without it being deafening. Others have learned the significance of solitude without it tipping into loneliness. Others embrace the collegiality of conversation when the time is right and all of these things determine a more intimate existence with our fellow humankind.

Silence is such an important subject. It is something that we do not have, and as the author of the Guardian article states, we should not sideline for two minutes on a cold November day.

Listening to silence is a wondrous thing. Listening to what you mind is conjuring through the silence is something that so few of us do.

Let’s hope that the Cage piece will make it into the charts, not just as a gimmick of the 21^st century but to truly embrace the reason why the piece was written in the first place.

Rallying for the Cause

Those pesky students have been at it again! Stamping their feet and marching on the capital to complain about the piddly little increase in tuition fees. The figures suggested that there were around 50,000 people attending the demonstration, which probably means there were double that.

Some of it got out of hand. Some people resorted to violence and thuggery, intent on making the news for all the wrong reasons, smashing windows and dropping dangerous articles from the roof of the Millbank building.

It’s strange really because when all of this happens is France and violence erupts, people tend to empathise and congratulate the students for their passion and ardour. When it happens here it is condemned as petulant and unnecessary.

Personally, I wouldn’t advocate any form of violence. It frightens me, alarms me, however much I might empathise, however much I love people expressing their passion, even if it is isn’t a passion I share.

Watching the students marching through London though, did bring back a load of memories from a past world; a world that seems detached and distant for all its resonance.

I had the fortune and misfortune to attend university/polytechnic in the middle of the Thatcher Era which gave us plenty of fuel for frustration. Ma T would be delighted with the likes of Clegg and Cameron with this increase in the tuition fees.

As for us, we were marching against the end of the grant system. It seemed that a lack of grants would mean no students from deprived areas or working class families would attend higher education courses. It seemed that university was doomed to be the place for those who could afford it, further polarising an already unequal society.

But then, to some extent, hasn’t it always been the case, and won’t it always be the case?

I didn’t attend a university. I chose to attend a polytechnic in a large British city. It wasn’t a popular place. There wasn’t anything particular about this institution. It was basically a bog standard place that I chose because of its proximity to my home.

I can remember meeting people during the ubiquitous Fresher’s Week and being fascinated and a little shocked at how many of my fellow new-folk had attended either private or grammar schools. It was alarming, and as I progressed through the first few months of college and met new people, the number of people educated in a selective institution seemed to grow. If this was the ratio at a small, incidental polytechnic in the heart of England, what was it like at the Russell group universities? Full of toffs?

In the 1980s, the student marches were restricted. We were allowed to march through the main part of the capital but only on a Saturday. If we wanted to demonstrate in the middle of the week, we were diverted “Sarf of the river!”

One such demonstration led us from goodness knows where to goodness knows where else, via the Elephant and Castle and down Kennington Lane. We ended up walking through some tennis courts in the park opposite the Oval; hardly the most prolific place, and certainly not the background for a rally that one would have hoped for, like the big demonstrations that you saw culminating in a festival spirit in Trafalgar Square.

I remember another march where we were so incensed at something that we decided to have a mass sit-down demonstration in the middle of Piccadilly. For the love of reason, I cannot remember what that particular fight was about but I can remember being frightened and intimidated by the police who were trying to move us on, but equally scared of the adrenalin rush that clouded my perspective and thrust me into doing something that was against my instinct.

Mass hysteria is a dangerous thing.

But then masses of people coming together for a cause of such magnitude is empowering. It is spiritually uplifting, and to go along with the masses in such instances feels the right thing to do.

Sometimes, being a hopeless idealist is a lonely place to be. Sometimes, when you fundamentally believe in something, you cannot understand why others do not see your point of view. Incredulity creeps in. Rationality often dissipates.

So when you find yourself amongst like-minded folk who resolutely agree with your standpoint, there is an incredible sense of togetherness and love for your fellow human beings, and sometimes that can force you into doing things that you may not have considered doing.

My first anti-apartheid rally was the most memorable.

Mandela was obviously still in prison. The shops at the polytechnic were devoid of Rowntree products and Barclay’s Bank was well and truly boycotted for their trading links with South Africa.

Loads of free coaches were laid on by the university and polytechnic and we travelled en masse to London where we congregated in Hyde Park. It was a crisp Autumn Saturday and the wealth of passion overwhelmed me.

Here were people from all over the country, giving up their Christmas shopping days to stand up and be counted, declaring their voice in a world that didn’t seem able to listen.

Over 150,000 people were gathered, according to police figures. Streams of people wandered around in every direction. I wish to goodness I had some photographs from that time as a reminder of what collective passion looks like and feels like.

The march ended in Trafalgar Square where we listened to the great speakers of the time as they shouted their condemnation across to the closed windows of the South African Embassy where hundreds of police were standing guard.

Would we make a difference? Would anyone ever listen to the injustice, the disgrace, the appalling lack of liberty that we could not even begin to imagine?

I suppose, as I stood there in 1985, I wasn’t sure that we were going to make any difference at all. The Soweto Riots continued. Stephen Biko had been dead for nearly ten years and if anything, South African extremism had got worse since his murder. Mandela was still rotting away in prison for all we knew. Our government at the time resolutely refused to participate in any sort of boycotting. The situation seemed hopeless.

And yet, a mere four years and three months after that rally, Nelson Mandela was released from Robben Island along with his compatriots, declaring a new future for South Africa that we, as people taking to the streets in that cold November, could never have envisaged.

So will the students who demonstrated on Wednesday make a difference? Will the decisions on tuition fees be altered? Will the demography of our higher education institutions dramatically change as an outcome of this inflationary action?

Nobody knows the answer but to sit still and do nothing seems an inappropriate course of action.

Mass demonstration has a purpose. It has a very significant purpose of telling the world and indeed yourself that there are people who care, that altruism is not dead.

I’ve never been to South Africa. I have no personal links with the place but I felt an urgent need to have my say about the injustice that I could clearly see there.

I went through college with a grant, albeit a pittance of one. My demonstration against those cuts was not for me but those who were coming after me. Why should they be saddled with enormous debts when I had had the right to a free education, something that I still believe should be the human right for all? Learning opens doors, creates life and purpose. That should be available to every person should they decide that this is what they want. And more investment in real education so that children can make informed decisions and want to learn so that they can ultimately make those decisions is equally required as a matter of urgency.

But then it has always been so; always been urgent and we are still living in an age where the lack of quality education restricts and inequality prevails.

Perhaps I should have been more proactive this week and joined the students in their hour of need.

It would certainly have been and interesting sort of regression therapy as I tried to recapture the feelings and emotions that I know I felt in those long distant decades ago.

Parent's Evening

Parent’s Evening

As a teacher, I used to love parents evening. I was seen as rather odd by my colleagues who all loathed this interaction and sharing of information and intrigue. But then again, maybe I had a different relationship with my children than some of them had.

As far as I was concerned, for the duration of the academic year, they were my children. That was not an ownership thing but I felt responsible for them, for their holistic development.

In many ways, parents evening was about meeting my other half, as simple as a couple going out for a meal and discussing the kids; their quirkiness, their cleverness, their concerns, their loveliness.

Well most of the time. There was obviously the odd child that I found difficult to warm to, which made perfect sense as soon as the parent came into school!

Of course, since becoming a parent, the shoe has been on the other foot.

Teachers are not the best parents at parents evening. They tend to drift into ‘shop’ talk despite trying hard not to. Well, at least I do, and I know that certain parents of mine have done exactly the same thing.

Sometimes, it is actually quite useful to declare your professional subjectivity because it cuts out the crap that some teachers can try and deliver.

I had one glorious parents evening at my son’s school once when I had made it perfectly clear that I was a teacher, partly to put the poor bloke at ease. As it happened, it had the opposite effect, unnerving him as he started to try and prove his own professional ability, explaining that my child should be using inference in his written analysis of poetry now. Nothing about him enjoying the bloody poems!

Not impressed!

Last week I had the ‘pleasure’ of attending my eldest son’s parents evening and I was suddenly struck by the weirdness of it. All of a sudden I had morphed into a combination of my parents and my son was the slightly alarmed, defensive person that I once was.

In actual fact, I think I was far more fearful of my parent’s reaction than my son was of mine, but I could hear myself saying the things that they might have said and I looked at my child with that horrible knowing look that they had given me, i.e. bright kid but oh how you could do more!

It was déjà vu time.

“He is a brilliant in conversation. His general knowledge is vast. He argues constructively when he is talking. He just needs to do that in his written work too. I cannot imagine why he cannot be so clear in his writing” said one teacher, and another, and another one after that.

The story of my life!

She talks so passionately about the subject. She knows her stuff. She infers very well. She analogises perfectly. Only she does none of the above on paper! It was my story too. So what do you say to a child who is stood in front of you, mirroring the very behaviour that meant you did not “achieve” as much as those around thought you were capable of?

Of course, at this point, in hindsight, I become all defensive. Why do we have to play these silly games all of the time? Why can’t we just rely on a child’s dialogue and ability to take their part in a reasoned debate to tick the bloody box that makes it abundantly clear that they “get it”?

My child can talk about every aspect of the development and destruction of the Weimar Republic. He can relate coalitions of the past to what is happening in the now. He can look at an old photograph and predict the changes that are in feasible in the future.

He didn’t have any major criticism from any of the teachers because he is an articulate, charming child who goes to the trouble of engaging them in conversation, being interested in them as people as well as respecting them as teachers. Aren’t these some of the more important skills that he will need in life rather than demonstrate this in an exam, the latter skills not exactly being examinable?

I know some would say, “but he needs the discipline”. He needs to understand that sometimes in life you have to do things that you don’t want to. Sometimes you have to show that you are capable of slogging long and hard.

I’m just not sure that boring a child into submission is the best way to do this. I’m not sure that disengaging a child through asking for writing recapitulation, who is avid and enthusiastic about talking his subject through, is actually the right way or indeed the right message to be conveying.

Do we really want our leaders of the future to be imbedded in books looking for the answers rather than feeling them, interacting with others and following their instincts rather than a guidebook that any dimwit could follow?

Anyway, when push comes to shove, he has to do it. If he wants to.

He talks about wanting to go to University for further study. That might not be a luxury that he can afford but then again, with so many people deciding that they cannot afford it in the future, then maybe he may be able to get in to the University of his choice with lower grades; rather like the Windsor kids who managed to find themselves on degree courses that other mere plebs had had to get 3As to study.

Or maybe he will be one of those who chooses not to go to University, hoping that they can get straight into the workforce, possibly learning “on the job”. But isn’t that going to be a ridiculously competitive market, in which case, we are back to those grades because it is these quantitative qualifications that seem to be the only indicator of a person’s worth.

Every which way you turn, it seems that there is only one answer, and that is to study at the expense of all else in life to get the grades that will open the doors, with a spot or seven of money as well.

There’s no time now for his love of planes, trains and automobiles or looking at history that is not on his curriculum merely something that he is interested in. There is no time to explore the philosophical questions in life and to appreciate the closeness of friendship just at the time when friendships overtake the bond of parent and child.

There is no time, just exams and pushy parents going against everything they believe in because they are as much caught in the system as the child itself.

I am hopeful though. I was at school in the first years of Thatcherism when my parents thought that the world was doomed, which it was, where they thought that there was no way they would be able to put another child through university.

I am also hopeful because although I did not necessarily achieve the academic status that many suggested I was capable of, I haven’t done too badly. I managed to pursue the career of my choice and I have branched out into areas that I did not expect to.

I have a creative future that is there for the taking, and it is the human skills and the values that I keep dear to my heart that will take me there, not the A-Levels or the degree for which I slovenly studied.

Maybe there is hope for him after all.

And then there was a tinge of light.

With some of the teachers we discussed the potential of him studying the subject for A-Level.

“Oh he has the capability” they all said. “Whether he has the will.......” was obviously another matter.

They talked about organisational skills and self-motivation, both of which he does probably need to look at more carefully. And then they talked about independent learning.

“I can do that!” he responded excitedly, and indeed he can.

Here is a child who independently skim-read “The Long Walk to Freedom” when he was directed to do some research for a project on Nelson Mandela. He never wrote a thing down but could talk through all the intricacies of the development of the African National Congress and the law firm that Tambo and Mandela established. Every detail, the whys and wherefores and an opinion to boot. He could offer it all.

Wasn’t this what independent learning was about?

He could independently research on the development of the train system in this country, quoting Trevithik to Dr. Beeching. He knows every viaduct and every inch of the remaining steam transport system in the country. Hasn’t that been done through independent learning?

He is massively knowledgeable about stories in the news. He’s knows politicians by their names and their roles and can argue and debate the smaller details of economic policy. He has done this through conversation and independent learning.

So of course he thinks he can do “independent learning”.

But like the big, bad ogre who finally admits to her children that Father Christmas does not exist, I had to tell him that what his teacher was talking about wasn’t really independent learning at all.

What they were actually talking about was motivating oneself to do work on one’s own, but within the constraints of a prescribed curriculum. The independence of the learning could include reading around a subject but not veering away from it.

It’s not really independent learning. And to make matters worse, the ‘purpose’ of this independent learning is to actually improve the grade of the narrow subject that you have chosen to study at A-Level.
Back to those grades again.

Poor kid. I could feel his despondency because what this school and about 99% of the schools in the country are offering is not in line with his idea of what and how to learn. He should probably have been born in Greek times when learning was done through the outdated art of dialogue.

That is where this child should be. That is how he learns the best, not with exercises and essays.

So, what will he choose as his specialised subjects (at the age of 16 when he really knows what he wants to do in life – not!).

Who knows – but I suggest there are a few more parents evenings to contend with before I can hug him, pat him on the back and send him into the big wide world where hopefully, one day, and please let it be soon, that he can return to the joys of self-learning and be appreciated for the very capable human being that he is.

The Beeb and Strikes

The News and Pensions

The Beeb have had their problems.

They pay their chief bods an astronomical amount of money but this probably pales into insignificance when you look at what Wayne Rooney does by comparison.

The Beeb have been severely criticised this week for mistakenly reporting that some of the funds raised from Band Aid had possibly got into the wrong hands and been used to supply arms.

I’d have quite liked to have been a fly on the wall when Sir Bob found out about that one.

Michael Grade was as passionate as I had ever heard him on “Today” earlier in the week. He was seething and very prepared to lambast his previous employers.

The Beeb could be criticised for some of the dross that they have served up in the name of family entertainment sometimes, but then so can the other lot, and that is before you get onto the BSkyB lot.

But what a day it has been without the BBC news!

I almost forgive them anything.

I woke this morning to the sounds of Radio Four as I do every morning. Wishing for more sleep made me hit the snooze button before I had absorbed the fact that there was no John or Evan or Justin to greet me into the morning.

It was only when I realised that I was listening to Matthew Parris banging on about Churchill that I finally woke up to the fact that I had been duped, and there was something seriously wrong with the world.

Wandering downstairs, I did not expect to see Sian and Bill as it was a Friday but there was no smug Charlie or the gorgeous Susannah either; just some bloke who looked as though he had been brought in from the street to present the faux BBC Breakfast programme.

Oh well, an opportunity to just take a look at this Daybreak programme on ITV and see what all the negative fuss was about.

Oh dear, the very first view that I got was Peter Andre waving kuddly kisses to his Princess Tisha Tasha Globby Pops or whatever she is called.

This was a serious disaster!

As the day progressed it did not get any better. In fact, I didn’t even attempt to watch television news or tune into the radio. In times like these, the only serious place that you could get some news was at the Guardian website. The red flashes of breaking news saved the day.

But it is not quite the same.

A few years ago, at a time of extreme distress, my family laughed over a comment on Ceefax which said “News 24 – will it ever end?” in all seriousness.

Well, dear contributor. It ended today, well at least as we know it.

Later on in the day, with a distinct lack of visual stimulation, I decided to switch onto ITN. It was almost as spectacularly disappointing as the attempt in the morning. In fact, I could have been watching the same programme.

In all seriousness, ITN can actually produce a decent programme. They manage it perfectly well on Channel 4, which is more than a professional outlet most of the time but I miss the BBC. I miss Huw Edwards! I miss the conformity of the schedule. Perhaps I am more conservative and stuck in my ways than I thought.

I could go on and discuss the rights and wrongs of striking but that is probably another story.

And for those who are interested, I think everyone should have the right to strike.

What is interesting is that this is only the first of many as people finally begin to realise the impact of slashes and cuts on their pensions.

One might argue that it is hardly the altruistic strikes of years gone by where consideration for future generations was at the heart of strike action but it is still a plausible concern.

The BBC today and other public sector workers tomorrow.

The BBC’s pension is known to be generous and one cannot blame people for wanting to maintain it, if that is what they signed up to. Apparently, the deficit in the corporation’s pension budget is between £1.5bn and £2bn.

That is scary money. That is a deficit that is beyond my comprehension but might seem even palatable compared with the public sector and services industry pension problems.

This is one big scary world at the moment for those of us who are not reliant or likely to ever inherit anything substantial.

And it doesn’t stop with pensions. What about the other end of the spectrum where young people cannot even amass enough money to buy or even rent a home? What about those people who are not now going to be able to afford university education because they cannot stomach the £30K that they will have to repay for the duration of the sixty years of working? What about the poor sods who are desperate for an apprenticeship which is a rare enough thing today and will be more so as people finally realise that further academic education is not the be-all-and –end-all form of life after school?

I’m not an economist. I barely understand what it all about but I am for fairness and honesty, which is why I find all of this so very frightening.

I just hope my beloved BBC will be back on air on Sunday to help me progress with my learning on this subject.