Friday, 12 January 2018

Candidate for worst day of 2018, so far.

1. We receive an email from Squirrel's prison. Previously, on Prison Update, we have suggested Squirrel needs a slightly more flexible timetable. Without the attentions of a school for the last 16 years, she has self-educated to A-grade GCSE standard, and can do private study, thank you very much.

But! Squirrel's prison insists! Squirrel must be present in school for all her non-contact 6th form day. i.e. from 8.30 to 3.15. Even if she has just two contact hours that day. She must present herself at the extensive self-learning hub (aka library).

The library, I need add, consists of one shelf books, a desk, and a chair. Here she is supposed to 'study' while being supervised. Mmmm. Supervised study looks an awful lot like being chained in solitary confinement as in a monk's cell. Tell me, is this the Modern Expectation? Fine, then, study away! But if study means educating yourself with the aid of 7,000 books, five computer systems, an office equipped with uptodate software, her private space with all stuff, books, resources, own networked computer, and Planet Internet, then, um, come home.

Sorry to pull rank, you crappy-equipped crappity crap prison, but we can do better.

But! Squirrel's prison says she needs to be in school, alone and chained to a desk if she is to perform. They also added, for good measure, some acronyms, and the novel idea that Squirrel needs to be in school because then they can give support. Squirrel has worked out that this support must mean the 'Independent Study Self Learning Hub Supervisor' (aka librarian) shouting Be Quiet to the 6th formers hiding in the space under the stairs.

2. Shark had two teeth extracted. Shark was all, Uh? what is your problem. I can have two teeth extracted any time. I'm taking that in my stride, so stop whining, because it is embarrassing. I nearly passed out.

3. A pot of cream threw itself, with full Verdi operatic drama, out of the fridge as I opened the door. The cream splatter was over my shoes, the floor, under the fridge, across the wall, down the curtain and in my face. It was the La Traviata moment of fallen cream. Mop-up took an hour.

4. I had an Angels and Demons argument with Tiger over a pack of balloons.

5. Dig finally told the children about his diagnosis of cancer. As every Good Husband know (learn from his Good Wif Grit), you introduce bad news only after eating dinner.

6. Donald Trump is still heading up the USA, sending us all to global warfare, so what does anything matter? We're all going to die anyway.

There is no bright spot to any of this, except number 6. La famille Grit now has a new phrase for any family member exhibiting pugnacious behaviour, ill-tempered hostility or general belligerence. Don't start getting Presidential.

Sunday, 7 January 2018

12 Days of Christmas: what day is it?

I have lost all track of time. The Christmas tree is down, on the stroke of Twelfth Night, as is customary in these parts. Clearly, that phase of the year is done for us.

I have lost time because all my attention is focused on Dig and the kids. The kids are back at their respective prisons, and it has come hard to all of us. Dig, he of weak and fragile constitution, requires special attention, so for him, I am attentive, and consider myself candidate of Best Wif Badge.

But I learn much! Never having done much Good Wiffery, I now find that some elements are important to this culture called Good Wif Service. I discover that Dig's requirements include the following:

Muffins. (Part 1) They must be scored properly otherwise 'it is all horrible'.
Muffins. (Part 2) They must be served at the right temperature otherwise 'they are inedible'.
Water. Must be served tepid and in a thermos flask otherwise it is squeally noise.
Paracetamol. Capsule type, not effervescent nor breeze-block type. Otherwise it is 'uughghgughghg'.

It is intriguing, I can say that, learning new things about one's partner of nearly 30 years. How lost time is all about reflecting.

Tuesday, 2 January 2018

12 Days of Christmas: 9

I've had enough of this Christmas lark now, thank you very much.

I'm clinging to my 12 days only to fulfil my fantasies of wearing my Tudor smock and burning my evergreen next to the pig pen.

That is what I have decided to do, by the way. I am going to become an old woman. Maybe an old woman peasant fitted to some Central Asian state, circa nineteenth century. In my mind's eye, I have padded felt clothing and my middle is tied with string. I am in retreat. Perhaps I have heard about the railways, but my donkey is just fine. Also, I have a ladder to mend the roof. And I live alone. No folks pass this way. I will eat the pig next year. This year, grass.

This is my new fantasy, because times are hard. They are going to become quite, quite Worse. It is possible that for a while I will become mad.

Anyway, because we tell each other that life is filled with bright sides and lead silver, for the time being I still hold onto my Cineworld card.

Rich rewards then, because today we see the Cineworld advance screening of Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri.

This film is fantastic. All hail to McDonagh's writing, which pulled no punches at all and hit me straight between the eyeballs. That is a rare treat, to be punched in the face by a writer of uncompromising words. And splendid acting. I want Frances McDormand to go on and on, forever. See it, as soon as it comes out, for a perfect study of characters in a small town exploring extreme states of vengeance and justice.

Unless you like romantic comedies to take your mind off 2018. In which case, avoid.

Monday, 1 January 2018

12 Days of Christmas: 8

New Year's Day! Dig has bought me, amongst other treats, a radical year, in the shape of the Verso Radical Diary.

Did you know, January 1st 1994, is the day that Zapatista forces overtake towns in Chiapas, beginning an ongoing revolution against the Mexican state?

Personally, I wouldn't trust the leaders of the Mexican state any further than I can throw them, what with the border drug wars, reported corruptions and missing students. But strangely, they did briefly get my sympathies last year when Toddler Trump got into the sand pit.

Troublesome times, this 2018, when one is thrown into sympathies with torturers in order to avoid association with an unhinged narcissistic sociopath.