Minnie’s Musings

Random ramblings of a middle aged, middle class, middle income woman

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  • Timely Tetchiness

    Time for a modicum of tetchiness on a Friday morning. While neatly hiding the fact that I have changed my mind.

    Actually – in the interests of developing national civil discourse and debate – I am going to celebrate my change of mind. See, am progressive person.

    Until really quite recently, I was very much in the “We are no longer an agrarian economy, so why do we still do this?” camp when it comes to the clock change. However I have had a volte face as I increased the depth of my knowledge just this morning.

    I had thought a change would reduce road traffic accidents for school children, but previous attempts showed a change has the opposite effect.

    Having witnessed some truly insane driving in recent weeks as well as bemoaning the antics of idiot parents on the school run over many years, road safety is a favourite hobby horse. To which I would add unsupervised children and teenagers whose desire to play chicken significantly exceeds their desire to stay safe.

    Anyway, BBC Breakfast had an item comparing the attitudes of pensioners with that of young mums. Now, guess which group shrugged off sleep ‘anxiety’ with a slightly bewildered matter of factness.

    Now I am safely beyond the 3am feeds stage but have shifted into the 3am festering about some random and extremely minor aggravation phase, I now spend an inordinate amount of time fretting about my sleep.


    However, the talking head sleep expert said not to panic. So I shan’t. I will merely relish my extra hour in bed, stare quizzically at the clock on Sunday evening as the sun sets before I am ready and look forward to several days of moderate grumbling about the clock change. As, needless to say, I do not do on return from a sunny escape on the Continent.

  • Can Hubris Get it Done?

    I am in pursuit of hope through twisted logic.

    There was much fan fare (primarily from the man himself) and some decidedly grudging admissions from his critics, when DT got his plan for peace in the Middle East over the line last week. “Kudos”, I muttered through gritted teeth…while all the while placing bets on when the first bullets would fly as this “peace” broke into smithereens

    So I suppose I should admit to some grim satisfaction when Hamas and the IDF went at it again over the weekend.

    However wrists have clearly been slapped and the ceasefire has been reinstated. While Israeli settlers knock an old lady to the ground during the annual olive picking season and Hamas shots young men in the back of the head, but the aid is still flowing as this blip is dismissed and the US envoys realise that they have to in situ to keep the ceasefire in place.

    The fear is that DT will lose interest. Hmmmmm… I suspect not. At least not until this time next year when he gets his horrid little hands on the NPP and
    gives his acceptance speech which will no doubt tell his audience how he is the greatest, most worthy, most historic winner of the NPP in the last 500 years (oh, please do point out that the NPP isn’t 500 years old), this is a man who thinks you can drop the price if medicines by 1000%…).

    So, we must challenge the envoys and diplomats and rulers and peacemakers (hell, even Tony Blair, if we must) to get their backsides into gear and get the structures in place to make this work.

    You’ve got less than 350 days to embed a two state solution, undermine the clout of Hamas by ensuring Palestinians have the infrastructure to survive without them and obliterate the stranglehold of the far right in on Israeli politics (for which read his Bibi-ship).

    What could be easier?


  • Diversity V Unity

    Still listening to Amal and his radicals.

    One week you get a radical headcteacher saying that diversity isn’t a strength. The next week a radical climate activist argues that diversity is a strength.
    The former said the strength can be found in unity.

    But are they polar opposites? I think not.

    We can be a diverse society and have a strong sense of being British, European, Londoners, Mancunians etc, etc.

    We can throw up the bunting and bake our scones, then order a curry for supper We can value our Christian traditions that anchor our calendar and also celebrate Diwali, Eid and so on.

    We can examine our history, our geographical world view and so on. We can look at science through diverse physiologies. And we can study Shakespeare who provides an avenue to discuss racism, antisemitism, Adrian, gender fluidity.

    By creating a diverse curriculum full of variety we explore skills such as critical thought and analysis as well as alove of learning.
    But we can also celebrate our unity in pride in our form, our house, our school, our community, our region, our country and our continent. Very little is all bad

  • Radical Ideas

    I have been listening to Amal Rahman’s podcast Radical and his interview with Katherine Barbarsingh. Hugely enjoyable and thought provoking.

    I like many of her ideas, particularly in relation to the importance of uniform and collective identity. I like her emphasis on discipline. I love her expectation that her students appreciate the importance of manners .


    Her views on how much emphasis should be placed on difficult backgrounds and whether allowances can and should be made is more challenging.
    This debate is hideously complicated. And this issue is hideously difficult to navigate in today’s education environment.

    So, I am going to wade in and say that we should be sending a firm – if complex and nuanced – message to all our students. Namely, “I know your individual circumstances and the impact they have on your life. I appreciate that this scenario is a challenge for you. However I expect you to rise to the challenge and meet my expectations. I expect you to do this, because I believe you can. And I will help you to do so.”

    I would combine this with “Your behaviour today was unacceptable. You know better and can do better.. I know this because I know you as a person and want you to make better choices for yourself. Because you matter.”

    It matters to all students that they are listened to and heard. But it should also matter to that this does not always mean they are right and their expectations are always valid. Vibrant, ambitious adults can grow from young people who are challenged to go above and beyond their best, in their learning, their engagement and their behaviour, aided by the security of clear boundaries and clear expectations.

  • The Power of the Pen

    To make one feel much better.

    Stinging complaint has now been delivered. Once on the feedback form – and yes I was happy to share my thoughts with the public (but they won’t be) – who may or may decide to share them with the wider public – and once on an official complaint form.

    Just the act of writing the tale and my thoughts and feelings is therapeutic. It helps to nudge the anger and frustration further down the path by which they might leave my system.

    I use this technique in much of my everyday and working life. Writing an email to oneself about any untoward incident – factual, professional and honest – serves to increase the possibility that you won’t be brooding about whatever happened at 3am, while at the same time recording a contemporaneous account.

    As a special needs mum I rapidly learned to follow any and every conversation with the local authority with an email starting “Further to our conversation this morning, my understanding is…”

    Written records are invaluable. Even if you don’t come out smelling of roses yourself. And contemporaneous accounts are key . You are recording what happened and what was said while the memory is fresh. Memory gets faulty with greater distance.

    And honesty is vital. Admitting that you might have muttered “#%^*wit” under your breath from the outset gets your misdemeanour out there and can give you an additional sense of relief (the police have long said people who kill unburden themselves when they confess). It is also disarming.

    As a teacher rebooting and improving a relationship is way more successful if you ‘give’ a little at the outset. “start the conversation with “I know you think I was unfair and perhaps I overreacted for which I apologise. It might help if I explained how your behaviour looked from my perspective.”

    This kind of conversation has been dubbed ‘restorative justice.’ I prefer the term civilised conversation. Let us model this to the younger generation.

  • Bedside Manner

    Some 60 years ago my aunt Judy wrote a paper on bedside manner. Or lack there of.

    This was before my mother was subjected to a gynaecologist who shepherded his posse of trainee doctors to stand in a circle around her bed and announced to his acolytes, “Ah yes, Mrs Bradley here is a chronic aborter.”

    This was after her third or fourth miscarriage at least one of which was an ectopic. My mother was distraught. The ward sister wrote a very pointed to to say that she was the daughter of an eminent but dead professor whose numerous and powerful friends would have his guts for garters, in Grandpa’s absence. An apology followed, but only because the powerful connections were in place. .

    Well consultant who sawed away on my right hand yesterday needs a crash course. Urgently.

    So I am not comparing my pain and distress over my hand and my phobia of needles to the loss of a baby. But I did say to all and sundry that I didn’t like needles and anaesthetic takes a long time to work. I warned him.

    I will also admit that I have a very loud voice and got told off for swearing when I pushed out my son’s overly large head.

    Having your palm injected with local anaesthetic is excruciating. I cried out several times. But when he stuck the scalpel in and I cried out again, he told me off. Basically he was saying he couldn’t concentrate if I was screaming. Fair enough, but I did warn him.

    So , lying there on my own, feeling vulnerable and scared, while he disappeared behind me, presumably to have a fume about how feeble I was being, I started to cry. Eventually someone noticed and came to comfort me. I got a tissue, eventually.

    Anyway this ghastly procedure was done, I was sewn up and sent on my way. After Mr Bedside Manner Not waved the soggy tissue in my face asking me if so still needed it. I was escorted back by a nurse who was kind and, I suspect, a bit embarrassed.

    On the ward they asked me if it was better than the last time. “Err, no,” said my escort.

    After downing that all powerful remedy – a cup of tea – I was handed my paperwork and pottered back to my waiting husband whose smile dropped when he saw my face. Big hug, rapid exit, “I hate that man,” uttered loudly enough for the receptionist to hear.

    The envelope of paperwork contains a feedback form. When I can manipulate a pen I will sharpen it…

  • Quality of Care

    I am not sitting on the dock of the bay. I am sitting on a rubber chair in a day ward awaiting my slot to half the carpal tunnel on my right hand released.

    This is the snazzy private hospital round the back of the NHS edifice where procedures are farmed out to in the hope of reducing a waiting list. Apart from the complimentary coffee and and newspaper a (the relatively innocuous‘I’ and the freshness of the paint, there isn’t much difference.

    Because I am having this done on the NHS , I don’t have to sign away the cost of several months take-home pay. Hurrah!

    Unlike the last time when we found a private hospital round the back of Hatfield who could do this same procedure on my other hand in a timely fashion. While that operation was successful it did confirm my worst prejudices about the private health sector. Namely the risk of a surgeon deciding he doesn’t need to follow a protocol.

    If , as I have, you had the misfortune to get breast cancer and the blue dye indicates that your lymph nodes need to be removed, you are not supposed to have any form of tourniquet strapped to you arm, including blood pressure cuffs.

    But this chap decided that it would all be much easierr and quicker if the blood supple to my hand was reduced. So he overrode the anaesthesiologist and insisted on applying said rubber band.

    The huffing and puffing as he sawed away at the rigid block of tendons that had developed over several months, was alarming. He said afterwards that it was like cutting concrete.

    Anyhow I hope for better this time around…. this , I wrote, yesterday.

  • The Cat on the Lap

    Is snoring loudly but not digging her claws in. You win some, you lose some.

    Of course she is also leaving hairs on my lap as she snoozes, so I will have to use yet more sheets of my roll poly to get them back off my black trousers.

    This is annoying. But I must credit her with functioning as a hot water bottle. For I am a quite cold.

    For clearly there is a difference of opinion on whether the heating should or should not be on. I am sympathetic to he whose bank account pays for the gas and electric but I am cold.

    And now I am even more cold as cat has vacated my lap on appearance of he who pays the bills (in the hope of food, perhaps). She knows which side her bread is buttered on.

    Fickle beast as cats can be.

    Must now find the roly poly thing…

  • Channelling their Inner Parisian

    Many moons ago BB and I stopped for a cup of hot chocolate in a cafe near Notre Dame. I was about 7 months pregnant so needed to sit down.

    The presence of one’s derrière on a not particularly comfortable wooden spindle chair at table with chequered red and white table cloth appeared to warrant the equivalent of a £10 surcharge. A voluble WTF preceded our protest which was met with the inevitable Gallic shrug and almost comic “Zis is Paris”.

    The other thing that trip ensconced itself in our dual memory was the teeniest, tiniest of hotel rooms somewhere in behind the Moulin Rouge (plus being charge £10 for a breakfast consisting of chocolat chaud and a pastry – 30 years ago FFS, so I am entitled to fume – where my then boyfriend, now husband, was propositioned for my services.

    This was brought to mind when we eventually succeeded in negotiating the locks to access our apart-hotel and then our room. The building was extremely quaint and extremely snug. Its charms flew out the window when we realised that we would be spending the next three nights sidling around the bed and trying not to electrocute ourselves on the dodgy wall sockets.

    To add insult to injury the kitchen and terraced promised in the advertisement was closed. So all that palaver in Montreal Station with redistributing the various breakfast items, fruit and half bottle of wine had been an unnecessary headache.

    And my vociferous complaint to the office was met with a “We are sorry that you missed our notification about the kitchen etc that we sent out…” Passive aggressive gas-lighting, arghhhhh! Well we were not the only weary travellers who didn’t get the memo as we met other guests acting with equal bemusement as they hunted for somewhere to boil a kettle.

    I suppose I should be grateful that the third or fourth eventful event – me leaving my bag in the Musee de Orsay (Sp?!) but not realising until we were about to climb Mont Matre – was not repeated. Though I recall myself marching back across the city in a fury to retrieve said bag – deprived of the cash in my purse – and can only admire the speed I achieved given the size of my tummy.

    Quebec City has architecture that reminds you of Rouen.e Complete those high walled fire breaks which I have now learned are designed to stop flames leaping from roof to roof.

  • Leaping Ahead

    With all this talk of peace in Palestine (alliteration there…) and awarding DT the NPP, I can’t be the only one thinking “Hang on a sec, this is a ceasefire. It’s fragile. It can break down anytime.”

    Yes there is a glimmer of hope. Yes, people are entitled to feel joy. And one doesn’t want to dampen the mood.

    But Hamas is just about to give up its only remaining bargaining power. And, given the Israeli government’s current record of blatant disregard for the lives of innocents and/or the opinion of any other nation who has proffered one, surely we should hold our breath and see what happens next?

    DT has his eye on the prize. Will he lose interest once he has it in his ghastly little hands?

    Remember the excitement of the Arab Spring? Remember what happened next?

    Let us hold our breath. Cross our fingers. Pray to our god, join hands in praying with others of another faith.

    Imagine that this glimmer of hope is a tiny candle flame struggling for life in a howling gale. Cup your hands around it. Protect it from the malevolent winds of hatred.
    And only sit back and bask in its glow once that flame burns brightly, with strength, flickering in the silence when the guns cease their unrelenting racket because peace really has prevailed.