Born Into Brothels

Having had a hectic day and sporting a terrific headache and an overwhelming urge to make my way home for dinner, red wine and sympathy I found myself crammed on the DLR heading for Bank. I'd arranged to meet a friend who had been travelling for the summer and had reserved us tickets to see a film at the ICA. Couldn't remember the name of the film and given the mood I was in it was sure to be some arty, high-brow production which I would be incapable of understanding.

The Central Line platform was full to bursting and the helpful man on the tannoy was just informing us that 'due to the earlier suspension the service was returning to normal'. 15 minutes for the next tube. My shoulders sagged and my body groaned. Surprisingly, few people made for the exit. Did they really think they would be able to get on the train once it did arrive?

There was a glimmer of hope as I boarded a bus bound for Tottenham Court Road almost immediately. Somewhere between its destination and Holborn we became well and truly stuck in a bus jam. Not having moved for at least 5 minutes there seemed nothing for it but to get off and use the most reliable form of transport known to man Shanks's pony.

As you may well imagine by the time I had walked to Coffea in Brewer Street I was seething. Fortunately, the waitress in the cheap Japanese down the road clearly understood my plight and brought me a far taller bottle of beer than the one I had ordered. Accompanied by G's stories of Vietnam and Cambodia I soon started relaxing.

I checked the name of the film I was going to see. Born Into Brothels. Surely she wasn't taking me to see something verging on the pornographic? No. Born Into Brothels is an award-winning documentary based on children born in the red light district of Calcutta.

Zana Briski, an American photographer, lived amongst the women periodically in the hope they would let her document their lives. It was the children of the prostitutes who held her attention. Briski gave them simple cameras and over a period of three years taught them how to use them; to show the world through their own eyes.

I came out feeling like I'd been run over by a steamroller. The film was at times heart-breaking, distressing, touching and funny. We were unable to dissect it then and there. Time was needed to sit and contemplate before discussing.

Ten or so days on I'm still undecided. It's an amazingly powerful film and people should watch it. On the other hand, I wonder how it has affected the lives of the children. Briski was determined to help these children lead better lives; to ensure the girls didn't follow their mothers, grandmothers and aunts 'into the line'. She showed them the world outside but was it really attainable? She fought red tape and prejudice to get some of the kids places in schools. At the end of the film only two had stayed on. The others had been withdrawn by their families or had chosen to go home.

What Briski set out to do was commendable but did it smack of the Sally Army trying to rescue fallen women's children in the 19th Century? Is it better to have tried to improve their lives and fail than not to try at all? I don't know the answers. Go watch the film and make your own mind up.

http://www.kids-with-cameras.org/mission/

And did those feet...

A young lad, with a big grin, asked me the other day if I was “a weekend cricketer”. Not a phrase I recognised but the meaning was clear. Did I actually know anything about cricket or had I jumped on the bandwagon?

I will readily admit that the fielding positions sometimes leave me stumped – silly mid-wicket, this slip, that slip – but I did score 6 out of 6 on the quiz Colin subjected me to. All about the umpire's movements. I can tell the difference between a six and a four, a wide and a leg-by.

For quite sometime, I wanted to adopt the recently retired Umpire Shepherd as my grandad. I was quite alarmed and saddened when I discovered he was only a couple of years older than my dad. He looks just like a grandad should.

So, how did I grow from a early-twenties someone totally baffled by cricket to an early-thirties someone who genuinely enjoys it? Henry Blofeld. I could listen to him for hours on Radio Four. Blowers builds up such a vivid picture in your mind. Twinkle-toes Tendulka; Freddie running up like a baby elephant to bowl. And it isn't just the cricket. We get to hear all about the geese, the sea-gulls, the buses passing by. Such a pleasant way to while away the time.

My interest has been sustained by the great sportsmanship that still exists in cricket. Competitiveness and aggression clearly play their part but there is an overwhelming sense of fair-play and respect. One of the enduring images from the series will be Freddie placing a hand on Brett Lee's shoulder in a touching gesture of consolation while the rest of the England team were bouncing round the field celebrating.

Most men now accept that women can watch football – at the ground, on the tv – and sustain a conversation on the topic. Cricket, I have discovered, is another matter. It was nearly an all male-affair at school which is surprising. I would have thought the atmosphere and values on display over the summer would appeal to women more than the testosterone-fuelled antics and often raw-chauvinism witnessed on football pitches. Perhaps the rules make the sport seem impenetrable. Let's hope the win will encourage people, especially women and children, to get involved in the sport. And more importantly let's hope cricket, for all its successes, doesn't go the way of the sport it magnificently overshadowed for the past couple of months.

Home or Away?

Ten reasons why holidaying at home is better than going abroad.

1. No need to change up your money.
2. Ditto buying insurance.
3. No two hours to kill at the airport (without
delays).
4. Days are not spent avoiding timeshare touts
and evenings dodging over-eager adolescents
whose sole purpose is to lure you into dodgy
bars for fluorescent shots and over-priced beer.
5. Thermos flask and sandwiches in a layby as
trucks hurtle past at 70mph vs airline meal at
a few hundred feet? No competition.

Only in England do you get:

6. 'I (heart) whippets' stickers on the back of ancient campervans.
7. places called Compton Pauncefoot and Ugborough.
8. people whiter than me.

And only in Cornwall:

9. genuine, tasty pasties.
10. St Austell beer.

Flip-flap

I've had my brown leather, wooden-soled flip-flops for about a year. For the past six weeks I have worn them almost continuously. Day in. Day out. No matter what the occasion or the weather. They are just so comfortable.

Sat in the brilliant sunshine of my mum's garden yesterday morning I pointed out that just maybe the soles were about to start peeling apart. Given they clearly were not created with the pounding they've been treated to in mind, I also commented that they'd lasted surprisingly well.

Woe is me! After a delicious Thai meal (Siam, Roman Road - never seems to be very busy which is a shame) and a couple of very pleasant drinks next to the canal (Pub in the Park - not it's name but people know where you mean), we started the walk back to Mile End tube.

That is when it happened. The sole of the left flip-flop crumbled away leaving me unable to continue. Sadly I removed it and continued. Thinking it may look odder wearing just one shoe I soon took the other one off too and popped them both into my bag. The end of my belovèd flip-flops.

Now, I firmly believe my feet should have come fitted with a thermostat. They freeze in the winter and rise to unbelievable temperatures in the summer. It isn't unknown for me to say that unless I take my shoes off my head will blow off. So in my younger days I quite regularly went around with no shoes on. Being slightly older and more respectable I felt very uncomfortable at first (memories of trips to A&E to have foreign objects removed; the fear of meeting a pupil) but once I was on the tube and the likelihood of standing on glass had receded I felt quite liberated. I stood tall and beamed beautiful smiles at the people nudging each other and pointing.

Of course I had Colin's moral support: "Are you sure you've enough money to get on the tube, pikey?" and "I'd love it if you stood in a turd!".

Dear flip-flops, may you rest in peace. With all the smelly rubbish in the chute.

Simple Pleasures

People do wonder why on earth I choose to work through part of my summer holidays. Apart from the fact I earn money for the four weeks rather than spend it (win win situation), I actually enjoy it.

The vast majority of the kids are little ones. I quite readily admit I wouldn't be able to teach them; I don't have the patience. The bigger and uglier the better as far as school is concerned. They are all considered 'in need' by social services - they may have a disability or need respite care. The only objective is to have fun. And trust me we do.

It has struck me that the simplest things are by far the most enjoyable.

Digging the biggest hole in the sand.

Building the tallest sandcastle.

Presenting me with a live crab for an extra 100 points. (My idea: little critter found on the edge of the beach. Their idea: massive thing blagged from the fishmonger).

Running through the woods.

Eating lunch together and chatting nicely.

Feeding farm animals.

Laughing out loud.

Swimming.

Learning to juggle.

What's so refreshing about all of this? Children being children. Aaahh.

Scan and Pack

Popping into Tesco for a few bits on the way to the playscheme, I have been really rather impressed by the new scan and pack tills:
Novelty. It's fun scanning the items yourself.
No need for small talk first thing in the morning.
No queues. Other people seem to eye these lanes suspiciously thus there is never anyone in front of you.
You're in control.
I have only experienced one problem. The till calls out the price of each item. I was ever so slightly alarmed when the pack of 4 bouncy rubber balls marked up at 32p came up at £199. The computer thought they were a diamond ring...
There is something of the Luddite about me though. I was in rather a quandry earlier; arguing the morality of scanning my own shopping. Am I doing someone out of a job? I know that next time I drop by for a pint of milk I'm going to end up arguing with myself – queue or no queue? Keep someone in a job or rush through without a care?
If only life were simple.

The Weather

A very British past-time, I'm very good when commenting on the weather - too hot, too cold, too wet.

Sat guarding lunch boxes in the mud of an outdoor pursuits centre today, I did indulge in a grumble about the odd spots of rain. By the time we left, I was moaning that I'd put on a long-sleeved top and the sun was shining.

I felt quite humbled when I got home and saw the news - a metre of rain in a day in Bombay and a mini-tornado in Birmingham.

I'm not going to mention the weather for at least a week.

Except on the farm visit next week.

And the seaside.

Beware when Blogging!

I quite understand that some people really do not like to spend too much time with teachers complete with their endless stories about the children in their care but sometimes the urge to share the hilarities of the day is just so great – especially when you work in a school as mad as mine. The playscheme I am supervising for the first four weeks of the holidays takes children referred by social services – again, there are some adorable and truly mad characters around.

However, as much as I regale my friends with tales, I have always refrained from mentioning any of these larger than life episodes in a blog. (I’m not entirely sure why as very few people read it). Morally, even without identifying the kids, it makes me squirm a little so I have always avoided it.

I felt quite justified in my stance when I read today that in the States bloggers are in danger of losing their jobs. In a ‘cautionary tale for the internet age’ in the Independent, I discovered that ‘according to most legal experts in the US, there is almost no protection for those who love to scribble indiscretions on the internet, never mind what the US Constitution says about the right to free expression’.

This was mentioned in article about Nadine Haobsh who had spilt the beans on the beauty scene in New York in her blog The world according to Jolie in NYC. A victim of her success, she was ‘outed’ and was ‘let go’. One of the luckier ones, she looks likely to go on to bigger and brighter things (and buckets full of money).

Google, Microsoft and Delta Airlines have all sacked workers for internet goings-on and IBM has recently issued strict guidelines.

Personally, I think you should be able to post what you think about your boss on the internet and not lose your job but that seems to be increasingly an unrealistic proposition. Not that I have to worry – my boss is just moving on, a fantastic bloke (funny, warm-hearted and amazingly good at his job) he referred to himself in his leaving speech as having progressed from a total wanker 11 years ago to an arrogant bastard now. He’s done all the work for us!

Popemobile

Clicking through other blogs I happened across pictues of Popemobiles. I found them very naff and very funny.

The second Popemobile featured reminded me of a propagator. My dad used them to grow seeds; my sister, friends and I tried to house a slow worm in one but it escaped after someone left the lid ajar. Both more useful than the Pope.

Fast Food

Waiting for a friend at a pub in the shadow of Canary Wharf on Thursday I took great interest in an article in the Independent detailing the British love affair with convenience food. So what's for TV dinner tonight? Sales of convenience food are up 63% on 1994.

I am very happy (read smug) to discover I'm apparently in the 30% of the population who don't admit to eating convenience food, the 20% who don't eat chips that are "pre-sliced and frozen" and the much larger majority who don't consume pot noodles - wonderfully described as "that toxic aberration...No other race in Europe joins in our enthusiaism for chicken and noodle dust irrigated by boiling water".

Convenience food may be just that convenient and quick but it also tastes false, bland and plastic-like. No, I don't have children but yes, I do work relatively long hours and yes, I do cook 'from scratch' most evenings. A decent pasta dish or stir fry needn't take long.

I really do think this goes back to the culture of food - the British have long seen food and cooking as necessities rather than pleasures. Until that changes those sales will continue to rocket.

Computer

Been slightly quiet recently as my computer had all but given up the ghost. I now have a new one, delivered by a lovely man last night, and it's fab. Much faster, much clearer and nicer looking. Not that anyone really needed to know any of that.

Saturday 9 July

Last Saturday, London was the place to be - Live 8, Gay Pride, cricket at Lords and tennis at Wimbledon. On Wednesday, we found out we'd won the bid to hold the Olympics in 2012. Reading the coverage in the newspapers Thursday morning on the tube into work, my indifference and slightly bah-humbug approach had started melting. (mostly on a personal level - increased council tax, no hopes of buying a house now, the gardener losing his allotments). I smiled knowing that by the time they come round I'll be joining in the excitement. Within a couple of hours everything had changed.

This morning we decided it was important to go to London. To be in the streets. Over the past two days I haven't felt shock or anger . Being subject to a terrorist attack was inevitable. There was a deep heart-felt despair, a realisation that something terrible had eventually happened, the recognition that people can commit such mind-numbingly awful atrocities. Pervading everthing is a strong sense that we as a city, a fantastic cosmopolitan city, have to carry on as normal. To take back our city from the terrorists.

I wasn't scared or nervous. I think I felt stragely defiant. Colin and I did, however, exchange slightly nervous smiles as the train suddenly lurched, popped and hissed.

Leaving Fenchurch Street station we crossed Tower Bridge. We wanted to be where there were people. We wanted to show our solidarity, our togetherness.

I was gladdened by the sight of toursits thronging the edges of the Tower; blocking the Bridge taking photos of loved ones from every angle.

In the summer sunshine, two violinists and a cellist were busking near the Egg. The cornetto tune.

The volume of the river traffic was high. Thames Clippers. Party boats. Lightermen. Boats on which you can dine in luxury. Private boats with onboard barbecues. Harbour Patrol.

The stretch of the river from the Hay's Galleria to the Millennium Bridge was teeming with life. Tourists. Families. Young couples making their weekly pilgrimage to Borough Market. All eyes were on the bride at Southwark Cathedral. She'd arrived in a red convertible. Smart car filled with mimosa. Curiously eccentric and British.

Before we could see the Golden Hind we could hear a children's party in full swing. Shouts and cries, a high-pitched "ahoy, me mates!".

The crowds milling around the Globe, the Tate, across the Bridge and circling St Paul's.

The pavements of Oxford Street were taking a pounding. Colin became impatient and scornful of the ditherers. Feelings reminiscent of Christmas shopping or January sales. With the exception of the hightened sense of camaraderie and the occasional comment, there was nothing to suggest that just two days before we'd been hit by a terrorist attack. Everything was calm. No panic, no hysteria, no outpourings of grief.

The crowds on the South Bank.

Thursday 7 July

The last of my journals started in Traflagar Square. An effigy of George Bush being toppled. A response to the Iraq war.

Today saw a new response to the war. A response which chose to ignore the way ordinary Londoners had reclaimed their streets to voice their opposition to an un just and immoral war. A response that has indiscriminatley killed Londoners of all backgrounds, colours and religions.

The first I knew about the events of today was Barbara telling us in the office that power surges gad shut down the London Undergrounf. Danny, her husband, had called her. I didn't really say much. Thought she was exaggerating, over-reacting. Clicked onto the BBC website. The 'phone rang. Barbara answered. It was Isaac's mum. She wanted to know if the trip to the London Eye had gone ahead. She wanted to know exactly where her son was. As she spoke I could hear the tv news in the background. I heard news of a bus exploding. I heard the word bombs.

The 'phone lines were laready jamming; the networls experiencing problems. We eventually got through to Jon and the transition group. Made the situation clear. Told him to come back. Dawn rang. Should they walk back from the Learning Barge? Yes.

The plans for what would happen during the day at school were thought out calmly and collectively. The pupils were spoken tho over the tannoy and in their classes. There was no panic, no hysteria. 7J suggested the French were behind the bombs. Sore losers. London had the 2012 Olympics.

Parents started to turn up to take thei children away. "I remember the last time. We lost all the windahs. We're taking no precuautions. We're evacuatin' the Island. The boys won'r be back until I know fings are safe." Mrs Smith seemes unconcerned that one of her sons was alleging assualt against a member of staff.

The children who were left at the end of the day were instructed to walk straight home. Staff met in the staffroom. Members of my department were all offering me a bed for the night. Ramon had already started a car share list on the whiteboard. Name. Spaces. Destination.

Sana brought me home. "This is not the Islam I was brought up with. This is not done inthe name of my God or any other god". The A13 was clear.

K. said she thought she's have to walk to Ilford where the overground trains were starting.

Barking to Bow to Romford to Barking.

I got in and held Colin tight.

I found out Friday that big boss Jon, who'd said "come stay", had not made it to Lewisham in all that time.

When is an umbrella not an umbrella?

I picked up a copy of Paul Auster’s New York Trilogy in Fopp – not because I’d ever heard of him at the time but because the book was cheap and I quite liked the look of the cover. That was a while ago. I’ve gone through a phase of re-reading some of the many books on my shelves recently. This was one of them.

I am going to have to quote at length from Auster because I just couldn’t do the Professor’s idea justice in my own words. It’s appealing, unworkable and absurd and I love it:

Consider a word that refers to a thing – “umbrella” for example. When I say the word “umbrella”, you see the object in your mind. You see a kind of stick, with collapsible metal spokes on top that form an armature for a waterproof material which, when opened, will protect you from the rain. This last detail is important. Not only is an umbrella a thing it is a thing that performs a function – in other words, expresses the will of man. When you stop to think about it, every object is similar to the umbrella, in that it serves a function. A pencil is for writing, a shoe is for wearing, a car is for driving. Now, my question is this. What happens when a thing no longer performs its function? Is it still the thing or has it become something else? When you rip the cloth off the umbrella, is the umbrella still an umbrella? You open the spokes, walk out into the rain and get drenched. Is it possible to go on calling this object an umbrella? In general, people do. AT the very limit, they will say the umbrella is broken. To me this is a serious error, the source of all our troubles. Because it can no longer perform its function, the umbrella has ceased to be an umbrella. It might resemble an umbrella, it might once have been an umbrella, but now it has changed into something else. The word, however, has remained the same. Therefore, it can no longer express the thing. It is imprecise; it is false; it hides the thing it is supposed to reveal.

I have to admit jealousy – my thoughts and ideas are rarely very original and even if they were I wouldn’t be able to articulate them in such a pleasing way.

I think one of the reasons this appeals to me so much, though, is the use of the word umbrella as the example. When I lived in both France and Germany I had an absolute mental block when it came to using the word umbrella. For some unknown reason I always said ‘banana’. The people around me used to find it highly amusing. I was actually quite alarmed and scared by it. It wasn’t conscious; it wasn’t done for laughs; it just came out. It was freakish.

Anyone like to suggest what an umbrella that is no longer an umbrella might be called?

Squished

I succeeded in running over a verminous, mangy pigeon today and squished it dead. How many points do I get for that?

Make Poverty History

I am a kind, caring and generous person. I easliy get worked up into rants about the injustices of the world. I always do my bit. Which is why I'm a little confused about the fact I marked 'Make Poverty History' day in London by splurging out over £200 on three items of clothing - a beautiful skirt, a divine pair of shoes and a top. I'm even more puzzled by the fact that when I realised what I'd done I didn't even feel guilty but mildly amused in a naughty kind of way. Even stranger is the fact that Colin colluded in the purchase of these goods - I don't even have to hide the receipt. The world is changing. I'm scared.

Sports Day

As with Marmite you either hated Sports Day at school or you loved it. A pretty black and white affair; little grey in between. Things really don't change much either when you have graduated from pupil to teacher.

At junior school I was more than happy to take part in the bean bag race for the Normans but secondary school was a totally different matter. Rowan could quite literally go jump without me.

At my previous school sports day was a bit of a disorganised farce with the few (mainly PE teachers) enjoying the day. I used to feel quite stressed as I attempted to coerce members of my tutor group to participtre when I clearly shared their loathing. I once put a sporty boy in charge of recruiting volunteers. He bullied a group of over-sensitive girls so mercilessly that it all ended in tears and parents on the phone. The teachers all seemed to agree that holding sports afternoon at a stadium would make it more of an event. Something to be enjoyed by all.

Fast forward a year to Mile End Stadium. Pupils seated in house colours. A truly well organised event. But there was no hiding the fact we fell into two camps, pupils and teachers alike, the Loathers and the Lovers.

I felt quite relieved when asked to guard the exit with the Community Support Officer (there was no end to the number of attempted escapes). It got me away from moaning kids who I totally sympathised with. (Having said thet a boy did try barging me out of the way with a shoulder charge).

Surprisingly, then, I had agreed the previous day to take part in the staff relay. The grand finale to the day. D., the school's police officer, came charging through to me on sentry duty yelling they were all waiting for me for the race to start (no change there then).

All the other teams seem to have talked tactics, discussed how to pass the baton, who was best on which leg. We just knew that we were the only four in our department willing to make complete fools of ourselves in front of a potential crowd of about 1000 people. I'd never run on a track before and I'd never even handled a baton.

After the first leg we were very definitely going to be last. Everyone else on third had well and truly gone by the time I was passed the baton. I made up a very tiny little bit of ground but Deb The Bullet on the last leg wowed the place by steaming down the home strait and passing two others. We didn't come last. Hurrah!!

An exhilirating experience.

But I still hate Sports Day.

Teacher's TV

Referred in the last post to TV - I've been on it for the last week or so. Look a bit dodgy as I'd had no warning and I'm sure they've done something to my voice but I didn't disgrace myself at least!

On The Up!

I cannot believe I've been so busy. I do have fantastic news though - I landed myself a major promotion last week to Inclusion Co-ordinator/Head of Teaching and Learning Support at a rather big inner-city school. When I was asked: how does it feel to be in charge of a department that regularly attracts TV, journalists and education ministers from abroad? I thought the only answer could be SCARED!!

Nice pay rise though!