Why oh why, when questions such as .... "Who'd like to volunteer for ...." arise at meetings, does my arm suffer from an involuntary spasm and shoots upwards ? Is it a hangover from school days when I'd sit, arm higher than everyone's, shouting "Miss , Miss ... " begging to be asked the answer to a question read aloud ? Can't be, I'd have been sitting on my hands hoping not to be picked. Maybe that's it then . I'm repenting for my lost school youth when I should have been participating rather than hiding behind my desk.
In any event , I find myself on a Sunday having just baked umpteen scones, whipped litres of cream and decanted jars of Robinson's finest, in preparation for my hosting of the 'Jubilee Street Party Bunting Get together ' for all the neighbours.
Now I know it will be fun when we get going but today of all days when I'm trying to fathom the difference between Osmosis and Diffusion , in an attempt to de-mystify eldest teen before his Biology GCSE tomorrow morning. Feel like I've just done a crash course on all 3 sciences and then there's Eng Lit as we used to call it , to wade through tonight ... and the perils of ' unseen poetry' .
My version of an English Lit GCSE would be to ship the whole class off to the Hay Festival to absorb ( by osmosis .... see I do know what it means ) the loveliness of the English Language in all its written glory . But no . The Head Honchos at Edexcel have other ideas, They're gonna make the parents suffer by forcing them to speed read every one of the set books the night before the exam in a vain attempt to explain their contents yo their reluctant teens, the morning of the exam. I'm talking here about my dyslexic and dyspraxic son who will read each book , albeit over the course of a year, thereby forgetting how it started by the end of the 12 months and be none the wiser at the end of the last chapter. Guaranteed to put you off reading for life.
I shouldn't really be wasting time blogging but it's therapy and cheaper than gin. Excuse me whilst I go drag the sewing machine downstairs , dust off the cobwebs and prepare to cut a million little triangles from assorted discarded clothing. This may just put me off bunting for life. When the next Jubilee wheels around in a decade ( pearl ? ruby ? Corgi ? ), I'll have learnt from my mistakes , in theory , and be sitting on my hands when the question " Anyone want to volunteer to make bunting ? " rears its ugly head.