Allow me to share with both of you a small poetic oeuvre (is that the plural of oeuf? Who knows...) of mine own, which is - alas - in danger of becoming outdated in the near future.
When a man receives some Dubya gaffes in letters through the post,
He dismisses them as junk mail with a single glance at most;
But when posted on a website he'll peruse them without fail -
For the e-mail of the speeches is more deadly than the mail.
I apologise to you all. Don't know what came over me. I'll just take my service revolver and step outside now, shall I?
Monday, 21 January 2008
Tuesday, 8 January 2008
Turning into one's father
When one reaches a certain age, with children of one's own, one tends to notice a disturbing trend to become one's own father/mother according to gender.
Let me say at the outset that this may not be in and of itself a bad thing. My father is a lovely man and I'd far rather turn into him than pretty much anyone else, and having a close role model into whom to turn is doubtless infinitely preferable to a fatherless childhood.
However, one does notice certain half-forgotten character traits surfacing at odd moments. Such as - in my case - while driving.
My father had, and I am developing, a habit of dissipating frustration by giving a sarcastic running commentary on other people's driving. I find this better than reacting angrily or noticeably to the other driver in question. So "road rage" is replaced by "road unsolicited advice"; and to the guilty party it appears that you remain placid and unaffected and are merely having a pleasant conversation with your passenger. Or - if alone, singing along to the radio.
"Reduce your carbon footprint by refusing to use either indicator on approaching a mini-roundabout! Brilliant!" I say, smiling broadly.
Or "Yes - why not wait until the last moment to change lanes on approaching the lights, thus neatly blocking two lanes instead of one!"
Mrs Byard, inevitably, takes the side of the other person. "Well he might be lost. Or confused by all those big painted arrows on the road indicating which lane to use," she will say.
For a time, I experimented with Shakespearean road rage. "Fie upon thee for an inobservant knave, sirrah!" I would mutter. But it became too predictable.
Let me say at the outset that this may not be in and of itself a bad thing. My father is a lovely man and I'd far rather turn into him than pretty much anyone else, and having a close role model into whom to turn is doubtless infinitely preferable to a fatherless childhood.
However, one does notice certain half-forgotten character traits surfacing at odd moments. Such as - in my case - while driving.
My father had, and I am developing, a habit of dissipating frustration by giving a sarcastic running commentary on other people's driving. I find this better than reacting angrily or noticeably to the other driver in question. So "road rage" is replaced by "road unsolicited advice"; and to the guilty party it appears that you remain placid and unaffected and are merely having a pleasant conversation with your passenger. Or - if alone, singing along to the radio.
"Reduce your carbon footprint by refusing to use either indicator on approaching a mini-roundabout! Brilliant!" I say, smiling broadly.
Or "Yes - why not wait until the last moment to change lanes on approaching the lights, thus neatly blocking two lanes instead of one!"
Mrs Byard, inevitably, takes the side of the other person. "Well he might be lost. Or confused by all those big painted arrows on the road indicating which lane to use," she will say.
For a time, I experimented with Shakespearean road rage. "Fie upon thee for an inobservant knave, sirrah!" I would mutter. But it became too predictable.
Friday, 28 December 2007
Children who normalise
Children growing up in abnormal families (i.e. all families) have a natural tendency to think that their home life is the norm. My daughter is baffled by people who haven't heard of David Attenborough or who can't name all the instruments of a Javanese gamelan, while one of Charles Darwin's offspring supposedly asked a schoolfriend "Where does your Daddy do his barnacles?"
A few weeks ago I was in the lobby of the local leisure centre waiting for my daughter to emerge from the changing room after her swimming lesson, and sitting next to me was a man on a similar errand, except that he had a three-year old boy to keep amused. He was evidently a keen fisherman, and was attempting to read a fishing magazine. "What's that Daddy?" asked the boy, pointing a grubby finger at a photo in the mag.
"That's a golden tench!" replied the proud Dad.
I safely predict that not only will the lad be able to name 100 types of fish by the age of 10, but will be baffled by anyone who cannot.
A few weeks ago I was in the lobby of the local leisure centre waiting for my daughter to emerge from the changing room after her swimming lesson, and sitting next to me was a man on a similar errand, except that he had a three-year old boy to keep amused. He was evidently a keen fisherman, and was attempting to read a fishing magazine. "What's that Daddy?" asked the boy, pointing a grubby finger at a photo in the mag.
"That's a golden tench!" replied the proud Dad.
I safely predict that not only will the lad be able to name 100 types of fish by the age of 10, but will be baffled by anyone who cannot.
Tuesday, 25 December 2007
Merry Christmas, everybody...
Looking out of my window, the apt song for today would seem to be "I'm dreaming of a wet Christmas". It's mild but rainy.
The oddest Christmas I ever had was spent in shorts and T-shirt in sweltering tropical heat without the benefit of AC, frantically trying to copy-edit a book which claimed to be a dictionary of idiomatic English, but which had quite clearly been written by someone totally unfamiliar with the English language.
It contained examples of 'idiomatic English' such as:
"World War I broke down shortly afterwards"
and
"Excuse me, can you tell me where I can move the bowels?"
I should have just let it stand as an inadvertent comic masterpiece, I suppose.
The oddest Christmas I ever had was spent in shorts and T-shirt in sweltering tropical heat without the benefit of AC, frantically trying to copy-edit a book which claimed to be a dictionary of idiomatic English, but which had quite clearly been written by someone totally unfamiliar with the English language.
It contained examples of 'idiomatic English' such as:
"World War I broke down shortly afterwards"
and
"Excuse me, can you tell me where I can move the bowels?"
I should have just let it stand as an inadvertent comic masterpiece, I suppose.
Monday, 24 December 2007
Why reading too many children's books is a bad idea
My daughter is currently unwell, having gone down with a horible cough on the last day of term (how crap is that?). Needing comfort, she asked the other night for me to read a Dr Seuss book that she hasn't heard for a while (admittedly babyish for a highly literate 9-year old currently reading Philip Pullman's "His Dark Materials" trilogy unaided, but comforting for precisely that reason).
That reminded me of an incident when she was about five. We were driving to the school at which my wife teaches for some reason, and were listening in the car to a tape of some Dr Seuss stories. She starts to become suspicious of my navigational ability.
"Do you know the way to Mummy's school, Daddy?"
"I know the way to Mummy's school -
I know the way - I am no fool;
I have a map upon a spool
I read it sitting on a stool."
[Pause]
"Shut up Daddy."
That reminded me of an incident when she was about five. We were driving to the school at which my wife teaches for some reason, and were listening in the car to a tape of some Dr Seuss stories. She starts to become suspicious of my navigational ability.
"Do you know the way to Mummy's school, Daddy?"
"I know the way to Mummy's school -
I know the way - I am no fool;
I have a map upon a spool
I read it sitting on a stool."
[Pause]
"Shut up Daddy."
Thursday, 20 December 2007
The culinary delights of Central Asia
I have received further communication from Major Fortescue-Trouserbugle, stating "Enjoyed yer vignette-thingy of life in Tashkent. Got any more amusin' anecdotes from that trip?"
Funnily enough, yes I have. Some colleagues from our office there took me out to lunch at a courtyard restaurant famous for its plov - a rice dish not dissimilar to pilaf/pulao for the good reason that they are all regional variations on the same theme. The restaurant featured a number of enormous iron cauldrons on brick hearths over open fires, each one containing a different variety of plov and capable of holding 100kg of rice at a time.
My colleagues order for me. The meal begins. We chat happily about this and that until suddenly, and a propos of nothing, one of my colleagues - a charming Khwarazmian lady - asks me "Do you like horses?". I am baffled by the question but assume it has something to do with the locals all being the descendants of steppe nomads and what-not, so I give a non-commital reply along the lines of "Yes, they're, erm, quite nice I suppose. Why do you ask?"
"Because you have not yet asked what it is you are eating."
Funnily enough, yes I have. Some colleagues from our office there took me out to lunch at a courtyard restaurant famous for its plov - a rice dish not dissimilar to pilaf/pulao for the good reason that they are all regional variations on the same theme. The restaurant featured a number of enormous iron cauldrons on brick hearths over open fires, each one containing a different variety of plov and capable of holding 100kg of rice at a time.
My colleagues order for me. The meal begins. We chat happily about this and that until suddenly, and a propos of nothing, one of my colleagues - a charming Khwarazmian lady - asks me "Do you like horses?". I am baffled by the question but assume it has something to do with the locals all being the descendants of steppe nomads and what-not, so I give a non-commital reply along the lines of "Yes, they're, erm, quite nice I suppose. Why do you ask?"
"Because you have not yet asked what it is you are eating."
Saturday, 8 December 2007
Escape from TEFL
One of my two readers, a Mr Ward of Brazil (which I hardly need remind you is where the nuts come from) has inquired about the possibility of Life After TEFL.
For me, TEFL was less a career option than something which paid my modest bills while I was really doing something else - in my case trying to complete a rather pointless PhD (in the 10 years since its submission, my thesis has been read by a staggering total of four people, one of whom - my internal examiner no less - freely admitted that he hadn't really understood the main section of it. Fortunately he demurred to my external examiner, who had been brought in soleley becasue he was the one person in the country apart from my supervisor who could understand it. Such is academia.)
Where was I? Oh yes - TEFL. Having a PhD to complete and no money, the only viable option was to move to the country I was studying and get a TEFL job, passing it off as 'fieldwork' to my college authorities. For four hours work five days a week clowning around and showing off in front of the exotic, dark-eyed college girls who made of 80% of my student clientele, I got a house and a livable salary.
It hardly needs stressing that while this was a fine way of life for a single man in his 20s, I can see why it would rapidly lose its appeal for anyone with a wife to point out their financial, social and moral responsibilities.
Having said that, I did meet a charming young lady during my year of TEFL and returned a few years later to the scene of my crimes against education with the letters 'PhD' after my name (which impress people who haven't read your thesis, so I'm generally on safe ground) to start a university lecturing job.
The reason for this was entirely down to her - romance only blossomed fully during a year she spent at her university's expense doing an MA at a British university, and on hearing her plans to get married her employer felt it better to offer me a job than to lose her, if you see what I mean. Thus it was that I walked into a job teaching - believe it or not - 'British Studies'; a subject which - being born British - I had never studied in my life. All went swimmingly well for a while (being newly married tends to give one a rosy view of the world); and then the country went seriously pear-shaped and we had to flee. We arrived back in the UK with two suitcases, a baby, and no visible means of support, to land in my parents' spare room and start perusing job pages. As a way out of TEFL, I honestly wouldn't recommend it.
Soon I saw a carefully misleading job advert, applied for it, and found myself at a crapulent desk next to No Good Boyo drinking tea at the public expense and complaining about everything. I am now into my ninth year of tea and whingeing and going strong.
For me, TEFL was less a career option than something which paid my modest bills while I was really doing something else - in my case trying to complete a rather pointless PhD (in the 10 years since its submission, my thesis has been read by a staggering total of four people, one of whom - my internal examiner no less - freely admitted that he hadn't really understood the main section of it. Fortunately he demurred to my external examiner, who had been brought in soleley becasue he was the one person in the country apart from my supervisor who could understand it. Such is academia.)
Where was I? Oh yes - TEFL. Having a PhD to complete and no money, the only viable option was to move to the country I was studying and get a TEFL job, passing it off as 'fieldwork' to my college authorities. For four hours work five days a week clowning around and showing off in front of the exotic, dark-eyed college girls who made of 80% of my student clientele, I got a house and a livable salary.
It hardly needs stressing that while this was a fine way of life for a single man in his 20s, I can see why it would rapidly lose its appeal for anyone with a wife to point out their financial, social and moral responsibilities.
Having said that, I did meet a charming young lady during my year of TEFL and returned a few years later to the scene of my crimes against education with the letters 'PhD' after my name (which impress people who haven't read your thesis, so I'm generally on safe ground) to start a university lecturing job.
The reason for this was entirely down to her - romance only blossomed fully during a year she spent at her university's expense doing an MA at a British university, and on hearing her plans to get married her employer felt it better to offer me a job than to lose her, if you see what I mean. Thus it was that I walked into a job teaching - believe it or not - 'British Studies'; a subject which - being born British - I had never studied in my life. All went swimmingly well for a while (being newly married tends to give one a rosy view of the world); and then the country went seriously pear-shaped and we had to flee. We arrived back in the UK with two suitcases, a baby, and no visible means of support, to land in my parents' spare room and start perusing job pages. As a way out of TEFL, I honestly wouldn't recommend it.
Soon I saw a carefully misleading job advert, applied for it, and found myself at a crapulent desk next to No Good Boyo drinking tea at the public expense and complaining about everything. I am now into my ninth year of tea and whingeing and going strong.
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