End of the holidays

I've been in school most of this week, getting ready for the onslaught of the new class next week, but today, I was a 'lady who lunches,' albeit briefly as I caught up with some of the staff from last year's school. It was lovely to see them again. They are the nicest staff I have worked with. But it was also interesting to compare notes as they too have spent the last few days in their new schools. Today there were tales of teachers who still didn't know what their topics were for next term, which meant that they were not able to do any preparation for next term during the holidays, and those who had been given 8 new pencils for a class of 24 (I kid you not!) and 18 rulers for the same class, which meant that the teacher concerned was planning to go and buy extra over the week-end.
And if all this sound just too far-fetched, especially when you hear the government trumpeting about how many millions, billions of pounds they spend annually on education, I can assure you that this is, all too often, how it is in the real world of education, the classroom.
Me? I'm just keeping my head down and saying nowt!

Photos for Dale

A couple more photos for Dale. Nice engines we have over here, don't you think, Dale?

Bitton Railway

Today we went down the road to Bitton Railway which is a preservation society and very interesting if you are keen on steam engines, as Dad is.

I persuaded him that a trip in the train was a good plan for the day, so off we went, up to Oldland Common station and then back down to Avon Riverside station.

We could have interrupted our journey with a 40 minute boat trip on the Avon but instead, Dad talked himself into a second train journey, this time on the footplate!

Keynsham

I am visiting Dad in Bristol this weekend.
This is the view from what used to be my bedroom window, often leant out of smoking crafty fags while I should have been revising for 'A' levels, but I digress. In the distance, on the skyline, is Keynsham, spelt K-E-Y-N-S-H-A-M.
Some readers will doubtless by now be scratching their heads in puzzlement and confusion, wondering if the old girl has finally flipped. Baby-boomers amongst you will understand immediately, and if I also mention the name, Horace Batchelor, then all will become crystal clear and you will be lost in a cloud of fond memories of your (misspent?) youth.
PS, no that's not a wreath of smoke in the foreground of the photo.

A sunny day!

I went to see my counselling supervisor yesterday. This is where she works and on a lovely sunny day (yes, really!) like yesterday, I think she is very lucky. I went into Chester an hour early so that I could have some lunch on the canal bank and enjoy the sun and peace and quiet before my meeting.

Progress!

Walls are done. It's coming on!

Talking flowerbeds

The excerpt below is part of this interesting story from the Guardian. I should imagine that, even if you had no mental disorder, this experience might make you question whether it was time to throw in the towel. George Orwell, eat your heart out!

Even the begonias are puritans now.

When even flowerbeds start to order us around, the guardians of our well-being have lost the plot.

Nick Cohen Sunday August 19, 2007 The Observer

Last week, a young NHS psychiatrist, who blogs under the pseudonym Shiny Happy Person, described how she 'was just taking five minutes out, enjoying the sunshine in the surprisingly pleasant grounds of my new hospital, when the flowerbed spoke to me'.
She went on to reassure her readers: 'No, I'm not neuroleptic-deficient. Other people heard it too. One moment, all was quiet and the next a disembodied voice was bellowing from somewhere in the vicinity of the begonias. Strictly speaking, it wasn't actually addressing me and I know this because it said, "This is a no-smoking area. Please put your cigarette out. A member of staff has been informed." I gave up smoking six weeks ago. But, really, how Orwellian is that?
'The smokers looked understandably alarmed, glanced furtively around and then scarpered. I can't help questioning the wisdom of installing a talking flowerbed to tell people off in the grounds of a psychiatric hospital, of all places.'
One of the many difficulties in reporting on the NHS is that doctors cannot speak freely about the idiocies of their managers. Threats of dismissal mean I can't identify the junior psychiatrist or say where she works. But it is on the record that hospitals have banned smoking and some, such as the University Hospitals Coventry and Warwickshire Trust, have put smoke alarms outdoors to catch patients who nip outside for a quick fag.
The makers of a new generation of alarms say their trade doesn't stop with the NHS. They are doing good business with local authorities, drug rehabilitation centres and government departments. Their Cig-Arrete (geddit?) detector provides 'a visual and audible re-enforcement of your commitment to creating a smoke-free environment'.
Sensors pick up the whiff of illicit smoke and a voice cries: 'This is a no- smoking area. Please extinguish your cigarette. A member of staff has been contacted.' Which sounds very like what Shiny Happy Person said she heard.
You might think there's nothing wrong with alarms blaring out threats when smoking is the biggest cause of preventable death. But then it's not illegal to smoke in hospital grounds or any other open space. NHS managers are going way beyond the law and not thinking about the likely effects on the mentally ill of having flowerbeds shout at them when they do it.