Firstly, I’ve been awfully busy – work, family, new OU course.
Secondly, I’ve moved. When I say moved, I don’t mean move house – but I’ve moved my blogging efforts to my website, which was awfully difficult to design/choose/develop because I am fussy. There – I’ve confessed.

Whilst it’s not *completely* beyond the bounds of possibility that I’ll pop in here occasionally, it seems unlikely, as there’s not a lot of point having two blogs at the moment – and as for being incognito, well, I’m about to blow that one wide open with my next sentence *g*.
Because I hereby invite any interested parties to c’mon over to my blog on my website at:

http://www.alison.runham.co.uk/?page_id=33

My ponderings do tend to be more writery than previously, but of course I can’t reisist rambling on about other stuff (plus I’m sure it won’t be too long before I’m getting Indignant about something!).
It would be good to see a friendly face popping in now and then – you know who you are, and I miss you!

I try not to roll my eyes, particularly at work, because in childcare and education circles it is quite rightly Frowned Upon. It’s a reaction, rather than an action taken to stop a bad behaviour or reinforce a good one. Tum te tum.

But a few things leap to mind.

The one I choose today is: people who kid themselves about who they really are and where they stand.

A younger member of my family (a kind-of-niece) was at a gathering with me about 18 months ago and we were talking about nicknames. She began talking about a friend of hers, and how he gained his nickname (which I think was fairly inncocent. Can’t remember.)

But then the conversation took a down turn. She said how good a dancer he was, and how he made her laugh. She was single at the time so I laughingly suggested that she sounded pretty keen on this friend and perhaps she should make a move.

She stared at me as if i’d lost my marbles (admittedly I’m used to this.)

“Ewww, no, I told you – he’s black!”

My turn to stare back at her as if she’s lost her marbles. “And??”

“Oh no, I couldn’t ever go out with someone BLACK!”

“But he’s your friend….!!!”

“Oh, I’m not racist or anything, not at all! But going out with someone black

is Just Wrong!”

So. Not racist. Accepting that people are all people, whatever their skin colour. That people who have a different skin colour are in no way inferior, just…not good enough to marry.

I was gobsmacked.I don’t know why because I’d not long had a simililarly revealing chat about the attitude she and her sisters have to gay people. And the more the conversation developed afterwards, with her sisters and their other halves joining in, the more it became obvious that this ‘friend’ of theirs was the ‘token black friend’ who they’d then imbued with every stereotype known to man. She could give no reason why mixed race (hate that phrase -sounds like one of you is an alien!) marriages/relationships were wrong, didn’t know anybody in one, and wasn’t interested in the four couples we know who are a shining example of how well it can work.

I was suprised how much it upset me – that a younger generation of my family had been brought up to have a set of values that I find downright repulsive – and so different to those that I’ve taught mu own children.

And the whole group claimed not to know any gay people either (really?? Whre have they BEEN?). They are all between 8 and 20 years younger than me, yet I felt like I was listening to a group of Victorian throwbacks. I stupidly took it for granted that younger, relatively intelligent people would have more liberal and enlightened attitudes. How wrong I was!

I’m not sure if all the couples I know are happy to have their pics on here, but I know our friends Andrew and Jacqui won’t mind, because although the webiste is down at the mo, their wedding pics have already been on the net.

Unfortunately the ones I have on here aren’t as good as theirs, but hey…

Two people, happily married, who I am proud to know, and who did us the honour of asking our children to be bridesmaid and pageboy. The fact they have different coloured skins is IRRELEVANT!

I am NOT good at writing historical romance. Or I’m not at the moment. Perhaps I just need practice. It doesn’t feel like my forte, it’s making me cringe, and right now I’m wishing the third partner in the National Trust/The Lady comp wasn’t Mills and Boon.

It’s the first time I’ve ever written a short story in scenes, rather than just beginning-to-end, brain-to-page. Is it  because subconsiously I knew it meant I could leave the difficult scenes to the end? Hmm. I’ve done the Happy Ever After Scene without too much trouble (oops, sorry, was that a spolier? *G*), but the ‘his-career-and-duty-are-more-important-and-she-gets-upset’ confrontation scene is proving tricky.

Generally I fiddle around as I go, edit about halfway through, realise some time later that I have quarter of the story to go but no wordcount left (LOL!), do some serious tightening-up, then write the last few paragraphs. Polish, format as required, print. It’s worked well so far. I’ve been shortlisted for competitions, a nice editor has called my writing ‘strong and vivid’, and it’s got me halfway through my Creative Writing Diploma with the OU. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

The temptation is to give up, of course. It doesn’t feel like my best work, blah, I’m not in a good place at the moment, tum-te-tum, I probably won’t win, blah, or be done for libel for writing about genuine people, blah, albeit ones long dead. I may never post again, having been hunted down by packs of vengeful local descendants baying for my blood. But these are just excuses and I Will Ignore Them.

Another thing I’m not good at is Accepting Things I Cannot Change. I’m not a Christian, but I think St.Francis is worth a listen to on that point, and I really like the prayer – I chose it for my Dad’s funeral. Let me tell you, St.Francis would not be impressed by my progress.

My husband’s Gran has died. She is from Kent, and my husband’s parents live in Scotland (expats, not genuine kilt-wearers). We were meant to be travelling up to spend a week with them the week after next – and I really mean up, because next week we’re in deepest Cornwall.

We could still have gone, by dint of changing various arrangements with friends and hotels in order to get to Scotland a few hours earlier. But we would have had three days there before turning round and coming home, supposedly to a house ready for the Scottish Contingent to stay in for a few days, replete with the necessary food and wine etc. After driving all the way from Aberdeenshire to Cambridgeshire, the next day would be down to Kent for the funeral and back up again…!

My husband was keen. I was not. Packing, writing, changing bedrooms around, licking the half-decorated bathroom into shape, a big food shop, me not feeling A1. Bleurgh. So I have said it is not feasible, and we will all be tired and grumpy by the end of it, not to mention that I will start the holiday feeling like a wrung-out dishcloth. But I Feel Bad. And now my Mum is poorly, just when I’m considering booking a couple of extra days in Cornwall to fend off The Scottish Disappointment effect on the kids. There is nothing I can do to help her, and she is fairly unhelpable. But I Feel Bad because I moved away and I am an only child and she is not used to coping by herself and she is still grieving for my Dad and I am a Bad Daughter, and, and… oh, and I am tempted to cancel the holiday, but that would mean Feeling Bad for my family.

I can’t change these things, and friends tell me all the time that they are Not My Fault and I need to let go of the G(uilt) word. But I told you, I’m not good at accepting things I can’t change.

Great at guilt though. Perhaps St.Francis needs an edit. I’m sure he left that one out by mistake.

But today I feel the urge to quote her, and even worse it’s from that incredibly-aggravating-played-too-many-times song,  Holiday, which is from the era when she sang like a 12 year old trying to sing like a 19 year old, and was very nasally and foghornish.
And I bet it wasn’t even written by her, even though she is called a ‘singer-songwriter’. (I’m right – it wasn’t. According to Wikipedia (and therefore God’s Honest Truth, M’Lord), it was “Written by Curtis Hudson and Lisa Stevens of Pure Energy, [...] offered to Madonna by her producer John “Jellybean” Benitez”. Crikey!

So why, I hear you ask, am I rattling on about this song – and in a rather derogatory way, no less?

Because today was the last day of The Paid Day Jobs before HOLIDAYS!
Yes! Not a bit of paid work will be done by me until 31st August (LOL!)

Well, that’s not true actually, because I have some work to do at home. But for this evening, I’m revelling in that feeling of freedom. And whenever I do this, that diddly-bop-tum-te-tum of that Madonna song courses through my mnind unbidden (and normally unwanted, I confess. I refer you to the foghorn comment.)

I am off now to a very belated celebration of my birthday, which will also serve as a ‘Yay! School’s Out! Pre-School’s Out!’ celebration, where I will indeed try to obey Madonna’s command:

‘Put your troubles down’.

I am hoping that some pear cider will help. I apologise now for whatever I may blog before Sunday.

Of course, I couldn’t resist – who could?

First off I pasted in a big chunk of the story I’ve working on for the National Trust/The Lady/Mills & Boon – the brief is a romantic story based around a National Trust property.
B-ding! I write like James Joyce.

Next, a large part of Chapter 1 of my WW2 aftermath novel. Unfinished as yet, it follows the fortunes of an amputee trying to come to terms with life after the war. The incident where the hero lost his leg begins the book and is based on a true story. I used the first chapter as my final ‘exam’ piece for my OU course and it did pretty well.
B-ding! I Write Like Stephen King…

The first half of a story I wrote for a Writing Magazine (or was it  Writers’ News?) comp. I thought it was my best short story ever. Yet unlike others – that I’ve submitted thinking they were good, but not great – it wasn’t shortlisted. Goes to show, you can never tell!
B-ding! I write like Dan Brown!

The YA fantasy novel that’s in the ‘material building, post-it note’ phase. A very unpolished intro, ‘cos the decent stuff is in the ‘My Novel’ program files and I couldn’t be bothered to access it. Keep your fingers crossed, perhaps it’s JK Rowlingesque…
B-ding! I Write Like Stephen King…Again!

Sci-fi story next, shortlisted for a comp, described as ‘strong and vivid’ by Strange Horizons, although they felt the end wasn’t developed enough to publish.
Dan Brown again!

A very short story written from a child’s view, that had to be based on a news story. This was for an OU course.
I write like JK Rowling!!!!!!

The ‘Missing Case of Sherlock Holmes’ story I wrote, again for a comp.
James Joyce again!

Unfortunately there is some glitch accessing my unfinished novel (saved in an old version of MyNovel software) that is in fact intended to be Dan-Brown-esque – hope it’s not lost (sniff). I so want to find it and run it through this tool just for the laugh - it’ll probably tell me it’s written in the style of James Joyce (or JK Rowling – LOL!!)

Actually, I don’t really care. For a start, I write how I write, and like most writers my style can vary depending on what I’m writing and for whom. Secondly, as is proved by the above, this tool doesn’t exactly use a sophisticated process to spit out the analysis! – and I suspect that there are very few famous authors (‘answers’) for the software to give  (in fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if I had the whole set there!). Perhaps I’ll put in a couple of other pieces later, just to see if I can flush out another famous name. As they used to say of Pokemon – Gotta Catch ‘Em All…

p.s. I’ve never read a James Joyce. Perhaps I should.

Today, everyday life so far has been a series of chores (phone calls that needed to be made, housework etc), a brief spell at paid employment no.1, ironing, watching episodes of Stargate SG-1 whilst keeping poorly Dear Daughter company, and a walk in the rain to collect the Legophile who is my son ( made more enjoyable by walking under a tunnel of trees and appreciating the sound of the rain on the leaves above me).

photo by Alfred T Palmer 1941 http://www.loc.gov/pictures/resource/fsac.1a35064/

 Now I could waffle on about my beloved Stargate in all its permutations for ages, and how it relates to modern morals and politics etc. But I was determined to find something interesting in ironing, and I love accumulating new snippets of knowledge. So I had a rummage on the web and here we go -  five fascinating (??) things you might not know about ironing!

Neanderthals used bone, wood and stone to smooth cloth.

More than 2000 years ago, the Chinese were using pans filled with hot coals or sand as irons, pulling them over stretched cloth.

Flat irons came into use in the Middle Ages, but by the 1800s, there were a host of methods used in self-heating irons – charcoal burning, gas, oil, liquid fuels…

The earliest purpose-made ironing boards seem to have been used by the Vikings in the 9th century, and were made from a flat piece of whalebone.

The electric iron was patented in 1882 by Henry W. Seely, and thermostatically controlled irons appeared in 1927; steam irons followed shortly after.

It’s still raining, and there’s still ironing to be done. But, if ever I appear on ‘Who Wants To Be Millionaire’, and a question comes up about the history or ironing…

The TV unit needs to be dusted, Legophile needs taking to Karate, sausages ‘n mash plus veg needs to be cooked (fave food of The Poorly One), and I must knuckle down to finishing the first draft of the story I’m entering into the National Trust/The Lady/Mills & Boon comp. Best stop reading about ironing and shift myself, then

shepherd’s pie, lumpy

made by my daughter with love

and ineptitude

shepherd’s pie

Aaah, shepherd’s pie. Or is it shepherds’ pie? Does it belong to, or is it able to be eaten by, more than one shepherd? Hmm…I see that, as is so often the case, the apostrophe has all the answers.

And in case you were concerned that I couldn’t possibly use a Shepherd’s Pie as a metaphor for anything – well, put aside those misplaced fears (snigger) and breathe a sigh of relief (ho ho). ‘Cos I can

The yummy but disproportionately thin layer of mince at the bottom of Darling Daughter’s pie is like the good, foundation stuff in my life at the moment – really good, but just not quite enough of it – or not enough time spent appreciating it. (Crikey. Perhaps The Pie is a metaphor for time, not life! LOL). The potato on top – not very well mashed and, thanks to the strange recipe dictated by her cookery teacher, full of lumps of cabbage! – is the top layer of my life. Quite a thick layer, and there’s a lot going on (onion, milk, poatto, cabbage!) – mostly bearable, a fair proportion of it enjoyable, but definitely some lumps that have been cooked, gone hard and refuse to go away.

The lumpy bits are difficult decisions, worries, things I don’t like but am powerless to change (oooh I hate those), things I don’t like but ate very difficult to change, people that I am powerless to change (mainly a work-related lump, that one), things I want – and don’t want – to do that there just isn’t time for … and, well-cooked but not mashed, the ‘ol everyday frustrations and repetitive drudgery-laden tasks.

So what I think I’m saying here, on this voyage of food-fuelled self-discovery, is…

I need more mince, carrots and onions in my life. I think.

Oh, and DD needs more cooking practice!

Hmm. Interesting prompt from Plinky. The temptation was to go for something deep and meaningful and start talking in metaphors

But then it occurred to me that there are two things that I didn’t so much lose, as have taken from me, and they say something a little meaningful as well.

First – a book about the real story of Maria Von Trapp – not sure if it was Maria or The True Story Of The Trapp Family Singers. But it was compulsive reading. I think I was about 11 or 12 when I found it secondhand; I’d had no idea until then that The Sound of Music was based on a true story. I took it with me one evening when my Mum and Dad visited some friends. Their friend S was very interested and asked if she could borrow it. Of course I said yes – she was an adult and I didn’t feel in a position to say no! But I never got it back.

This taught me two things – or perhaps three. For starters, it gave me a taste for reading autobiography, which is still high on my list of preferred reading material. Secondly, it taught me that adults – even ones my family knew well – could be untrustworthy and inconsiderate. The third thing, on the back of that, was that my parents weren’t prepared to go to great lengths defending my interests when it meant standing up to adults they knew well.

I learned the last two lessons all over again when I foolishly lent my next door neighbour the guitar I’d had for just a few weeks. It was a second-hand one my parents had got me – not sure now if it was a pass-down or a purchase. I had a beginner’s guitar book featuring Roger Whittaker and had got as far as being able to play The Grand Old Duke of York! Our neighbour said he wanted to learn – could he borrow the guitar for a while until he bought one of his own?

I knew saying no would only get me into trouble with my parents – back then, you were only being asked to soften you up – it was your parents that really had the say as to whether your possessions were borrowed! After a few weeks of champing at the bit I asked for it back. He’d broken one of the strings, he said – he would get it replaced and then return the guitar. Excuses followed excuses and I never saw it again – my Mum did though, when his divorced second wide moved out of the house and found it in the loft….

Where are they now, I wonder? On some rubbish tip? Or has my guitar been rescued and lovingly restrung? Is my book sitting on a stranger’s shelf somewhere, or is it still in the clutches of The Thief?

I can’t play the guitar. If I ever learnt to play a musical instrument, it would be up there in my top two along with a piano/keyboard. Although I’m not sure that my problem tendons in my hands would thank me. Of course I could have bought myself one since. But it’s my loss of faith in human nature, and the reliability of adults, that was greatest.

But it does occur to me that I could buy a secondhand autobiography of Maria Von Trapp. I shall go and peruse Play.com or The Book Depository…

BTW, The Sound of Music does stray rather far from the facts – so much so that some of it upset the family. If you’re interested in the real story and don’t want to buy the autobiography, take a look at this.

An important part of my job is my role as ENCO. For those who aren’t ‘down’ with current education lingo and legislation (not surprising – it changes so often!) an ENCO is an Equalities (and Diversity) Named Co-ordinator. I’m sure they only picked this rather twisted phrase because it could be abbreviated to ENCO, thereby sounding delightful alongside the more familiar title of its close sibling, the SENCO.
Although I thought we weren’t meant to be using that any more, because Special Needs is now un-PC I thought we were meant to be calling them Inclusion Practitioners or Co-ordinators.Though that sounds more like my role.
O’eck.

Anyway, E(qualities)&D(iversity) is something I’m very passionate about – a fire that was refuelled big style a few years ago when I studied inclusion as part of my degree with the OU. I’m also very fired up about child protection too, and today I madly volunteered to be Deputy child protection officer as well.

Pre-school is lovely and the staff are hard-working. But there’s been some serious lagging behind in the ol’  E&D commitment – and I’m not sure they realise how much, or even what they’er doing (or – normally – not doing).

Enter me, determined to drag them from the depths of their heavily WASP pre-school (in a village Sooooo WASP that sometimes it freaks me out),  to the heights of equality and diversity that I believe we should support and offer.

After a week of being bombarded with images of English Christian-Style weddings of two white heterosexuals, these children were in serious need of some input from the Real World to redress the balance. Lucky then, that Friday is the day that Writeous get to preach to the pre-school masses

I warmed them up gently, talking about weddings in other faiths and cultures, and showing them images of brightly dressed African and Indian wedding couple. We talked about Jewish traditions and I invited input from  Jewish member of staff, who was great.

Then I went for the jugular. I stared at all those beaming 4 year old faces.

“So”, I said conversationally, ” do men always marry ladies?”
They stared at me as if to say “duh - do we like playing in sand and eating Babybels?” (yes, they nearly all do, if you’re unfamiliar with 4 year olds).
“Who thinks men can only marry ladies? Put your hands up.”
Every hand shot up in the air. (I’d known this was going to be a tough gig. Edinburgh Fringe next year, viewers – I’m Here All Week).
“Actually… men can marry men…” (I flourished a really nice photo of a wonderfully happy homosexual couple at their wedding) “…and ladies can marry ladies” (cue a photo of two beautiful women after their wedding, one in a white gown, one in red, and neither were white, to boot!).
Pins were heard to drop. After a moment some children looked uncertainly at other members of the staff, checking to see if they were about to stride forward and sweep Writeous off the chair and take her to a mental health institution where she belonged. Then they all started clamouring to see the pictures. And whilst they studied them in more detail, I said that this was because some men fall in love with men, and some ladies with ladies, and that this is the way they are happiest.

To my absolute delight, the Jewish member of staff whom I was worried about offending, came forward in this afternoon’s staff meeting to say how great she thought my session had been, and complimented me on the way I’d presented the other types of wedding, and the matter-of-fact way I’d handled the same-sex marriage issue with the children. I was thrilled and quite moved.

Hah! I opened a window today. And it felt good.

There’ll be more where that came from!

It felt a bit weird.
There’s a lot I could say about my Dad, but today seems a good time to just share a few menories of the kind of Dad and Grandad he was.

Christmas 2007 at my parents' house in Kent. Can't believe how much the children have changed!

When I was little, if I was hurt or felt poorly he would call me his ‘poor likttle oakapple’ and stroke my head. He once leapt over the top of me as I fell down the stairs so that he could stop me from hurting myself.

In a bid to get me to like Brussel Sprouts (which he loved), he told me they were ‘dolly cabbages’ – small cabbages that had been picked early because they were the best. I was about nine before I discovered the humilitaing truth.  

When a cousin donated a swing, he sunk the stakes deep into the soil of our lawn. If I swung really hard it moved a little and I often asked if it was safe. ”Safe as houses”, he would tell me, “condemned houses.” I would beam, full of confidence. Then one day I discovered what ‘condemned ‘ meant…! My cousins were hoodwinked too. At the weekend, if we got too noisy he would take us out to the garden and make us lay on the lawn with an ear to the ground – and listen for ’the grass growing’. Not sure how old we were when we got wise to that one. They were three and four years older than me.

He would always take the time to explain technical things, and did so brilliantly – simply enough that I could understand, but never in a patronising way. He never said, “I can’t explain that, you’re too young to understand it.”  He often quoted Monty Python though, and it was a few years before I understood that.
We both loved -amongst others -Vangelis, Dire Straits, Chris Rea, Don McLean and Bryan Adams, and shared a common belief that if it sounded good, we weren’t too worried if it was trendy or what category it fell into – our ears were the only judge.

On my wedding day, when everyone else had left for the church, he asked me if I was completely sure and happy about what I was doing. He made it clear that my happiness was the most important thing, and that if I had any doubts it was fine to change my mind – I’d have his full support.
We once spent a hilarious half hour at my old house trying to catch a mouse in the kitchen. In the end I think it could have jumped straight into our hands and we’d have dropped it, because we were laughing so much.

He spent hours with his grandchildren. He was happy to feed them and even changed the very ocassional nappy. When they were happy, he joined in with enthusiasm – unless he was taking photos or videoing them, which he loved to do.

Taken on Harry's birthday in 2005 - Dad capturing the children having a great time

When they were sad he cuddled them. And when they both had chickenpox incredibly badly and Shaun was away working for a week, he spent hours with my Mum at my house. Both children had awful stomach upsets for days on end and Harry, who was only 6 months old at the time, cried practically non-stop all week. Dad sat and rocked him for hours on end.

Good memories of a great Dad and Grandad. I’m glad we have them – yet selfishly, I still want him back. Just for a while. Still got things to say.