It's A-level results week. I still find it hard to think back to the day I got my A-level results (first attempt) with anything other than a chilly twinge of embarrassment.
I also find it hard to come to terms with the fact that I took my A-levels almost 30 years ago. Lord above, how did I get to be this old, eh? In my head I'm still a sprightly youngster, not a grouchy middle-aged woman with a knackered back and bifocals.
But results.
Back when I was a youngster, you had to go into the school to collect them. The headmistress sat in her office, and handed them to you to read whilst she sat and watched your reaction. She, of course, had already seen them.
I imagine it was a satisfying and cheering job for her, at least when she was dealing with the girlie swots who had got their predicted brilliant results and thus secured a place at the top University of their choice.
My school was not one of the ones which regularly sent girls to Oxbridge, but they did have a small group who were expected to get places at Exeter and Durham and Cardiff and other such second tier universities. They were the girls who took Latin and Italian as additional subjects while the rest of us were sent to the art class to learn to weave terrible pictures out of bits of string and nails hammered into fibreboard.
I remember that coterie of girls as being very short (but to be fair, most of the other girls at school seemed very short, as I was - and still am - significantly taller than the average female) with pale, earnest faces, neatly-pressed school uniforms, glasses and overly expensive shoes. One of them wore a pair of boots which, it was whispered in class, her mother had paid £150 for. Bear in mind this was back in 1983, and the majority of her peers were wearing Clarks desert boots or sandals to school.
Also, they all used to sit at the front in class. Every lesson. Every classroom. We kept the same configuration of who sat where almost without modification for the entire 7 years I was at that school. Multiple changes of classroom, teacher, classmates, subject, and we still all retained the same positions relative to one another.
There were several girls in my class - for all those years - that I don't think I ever spoke to. I didn't sit near them in lessons, we didn't spend time together at lunch or break-time, and as I was appalling at all manner of sports and games I was hardly ever on a sports team with them. I can't imagine that now. Spending so many hours a day with the same group of people in a small room, yet failing to interact with an entire chunk of the group.
Were all schools like that?
Looking back now, if I had spent more time sitting at the front in class, paying attention, and less time sitting at the left hand side at the back, idly staring out of the window, I might have passed more exams.
Some classes were allowed to put posters on the walls. I used to hate sitting in certain lessons with dozens of tatty pictures of The Police and Adam and the Ants, torn from Smash Hits and Jackie magazine, plastered all over the walls around the blackboard.
I know it's probably wrong of me to try and shift some of the blame for my own idleness, but I also feel that if some of the teachers had been less keen on fostering up the nascent talent of the "good" girls at the front, the rest of us might have done a bit better.
Maths, for example. I can't remember how many times my maths teacher shook her head sadly at me, saying "But you're top of the class in English. Why are you doing so badly in MY class?" When I shrugged in embarrassment and annoyance, she'd hand back my maths book, covered in reproachful comments in red pen, and return to the front of the class to continue encouraging her little gaggle of star pupils, leaving the rest of us to carry on staring out of the windows, drawing pictures on our rough books and exchanging hilarious notes with one another.
God, we must have been tiresome.
Anyhoo. Getting back to the results. I can still remember the exasperated tone with which the headmistress said "No-one else in the ENTIRE SCHOOL has had results like you, Lucy." She did not mean it as a compliment.
Turns out you can't just walk into an exam room, pick a selection of questions more or less at random, write for three hours about whatever occurs to you based on a few key words, and get a decent grade. Who knew?
I passed two exams with flying colours, well, with A grades - we didn't have the fancy A* thing they have nowadays, pah, kids, they don't know they're born etc etc etc - and failed the other two horribly. I mean really horribly. One grade up from the "didn't bother to turn up to sit the exam" horribly.
It was a bit of a shock. I had genuinely imagined that it would all be alright in the end, and that my native wit, charm, delightful smile and good teeth would ensure I passed with the grades I needed to get a place at any University I fancied, and that a few short weeks after being given my exam results (and possibly some sort of medal) I'd be on my way to a new life as a Student.
Finding out that not only was I NOT going to University like all my friends, but that I was also going to have to go and resit those two subjects after an extra year at the local technology college was like the proverbial cold shower.
Not that it taught me much except that getting a nasty shock is, well, nasty.
So, a year or so of attending the local college, along with working at a local tea shop as a waitress, as I wasn't doing enough hours at college to be eligible for any kind of Government benefits, and THEN I got good enough results to get a place in tertiary education.
Mind you, having taken two attempts to pass my A levels meant that once again I received a slew of rejection letters from all the Universities I had applied to, and was left to the future horrors of Clearing. Lord, that was stressful enough the first time round. I think the only offer I got was from the University of Ulster, to study politics. I declined, having already enrolled to resit the A levels.
This time, however, I decided to take matters into my own hands, and went to talk to the Citizens Advice Bureau. The young lady in there was attentive and kind, and when I had finished my (probably) rambling and anxious explanation - I was too lazy and careless to pass my exams first time round! I've passed them now, but I'm no longer a good bet for a University! What do I do? - she said:
"Ok. Well, I went to King Alfred's College in Winchester. They were great, I'll give them a ring and see if they have any places left."
And she did.
And they did.
And two days later, a kind mate took me to Winchester on the back of his motorbike for my interview, where I was offered a place on one of their non-teacher training degree courses. And three days after that I left home to go to college.
Talk about cutting it fine.
I'd like to say the whole experience made me a better person, but I don't think it did. It did make me take deadlines rather more seriously though, and I never assumed I'd automatically pass anything, or qualify for anything, or be selected for anything again.
Is there a moral to the story? No. But I am comforted by the thought that there is always something else that can be done; there is no need to consider one set of dodgy exam results as the End of Everything. I mean, just look at me.
Actually, maybe best not.
Showing posts with label 1970s rock music can't be beat. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 1970s rock music can't be beat. Show all posts
Friday, 16 August 2013
Friday, 27 July 2012
Stop, cock.
The water thing. Part II.
The Wessex Water workmen didn't return the next day as originally promised, which meant we had a week or so with the jerry-rigged hosepipe supplying the house with running water. In the meantime, the local plumber was summoned. He's a very charming young chap by the name of Ollie, does a good job, is polite, friendly and doesn't demand unlimited tea and biscuits. Plus the dog loved him. He examined the work done outside, and then ferreted around the kitchen looking for water pipes.
He ascertained that all the pipes were sited behind the (new-ish) kitchen cabinets, so went to investigate the downstairs toilet for possible pipe access.
"Oh dear," he said. "It's a really nice little room, isn't it?"
Yes it is. Thanks for noticing. Oh, you mean too nice to hack holes in the walls to get to the pipes? Yes, that too.
We had a cup of tea while we decided how best to approach the problem. The problem being that the water pipes running from the OUTSIDE of the house to the INSIDE of the house are most likely in the same terrible colander-like state of corrosion as the external water pipes, and therefore need to be replaced.
And, of course, we have to arrange - and pay for - that part of the work to be done, hence the visit from Ollie the Plumber. The tea drunk, we decided on a plan of action. Sadly, some of the kitchen cupboard interiors would have to be sacrificed to the greater good, but there would be no visible damage to the exteriors. I was ok with that, and set about emptying cupboards with a will. Mr WithaY deftly dismantled the complicated corner cupboard can-store mechanism thingy, and we were ready to go.
Well. The plumber laid out giant dustsheets all over the kitchen floor and strewed a collection of tools across them. The dog immediately sneaked in and stole one of his screwdrivers, carrying it proudly to Mr WithaY. We returned it, and tried to teach the dog what "Get the most expensive-looking drill" means, but to no avail.
Ollie the plumber began carving holes in the back of the cabinets. He was very careful and tidy, but even so. When you've spent a bloody fortune having your kitchen refitted from top to bottom, it's not much fun watching it being partially dismantled and hacked about to fix something that is beyond your control.
I closed the door and the dog and I sat companionably in the sitting room, trying not to listen to the sound of holes being drilled in the house. Every so often I would pop my head into the kitchen and see how things were going. There was a deep, deep hole running from the back of the cupboard out to the garden. Ollie was trying to connect it up with the hole on the other side, and wasn't having much luck, it seemed.
The drilling continued, the house shook, the dust levels increased, and the long day wore on.
Eventually the plumber came and found me. He was unable to go any deeper until we had the septic tank emptied, as it was so full that it was backfilling the hole as fast as he pumped it out.
Ugh.
So. We booked the nice man with the shit-sucking truck to come and do the dirty deed, and once that was complete we could get the plumber back to connect up the interior pipework. Once THAT was done the Wessex Water chaps could come back and reconnect our water supply to the proper underground pipes rather than the temporary blue plastic hose.
It was like some sort of evil nursery rhyme. The old lady who swallowed the fly, then swallowed the spider and so on until she swallowed a horse*.
Anyway. Where there was once a deep pit several inches full of dirty water, now there is a tidy patch of concrete with a neat little plastic drain cover in it. And we have a stopcock inside the house, which I don;t think we had previously. All we need now is the bill from the plumber.
One a different note, this week I watched a 1970s TV documentary about the first English chapter of the Hell's Angels that I was pointed to via Twitter. It was interesting, in a weird "Withnail and I" way, and the voice-over commentary made it sound like an old Monty Python sketch. One of the gang had wildly crossed eyes, the result, the commentator explained neutrally, of having "both his eyes knocked out of their sockets in a fight."
The thing that struck me the most, apart from the lack of traffic on the streets, was how young they all looked. I assume that's because I am getting old.
*She's dead of course.
The Wessex Water workmen didn't return the next day as originally promised, which meant we had a week or so with the jerry-rigged hosepipe supplying the house with running water. In the meantime, the local plumber was summoned. He's a very charming young chap by the name of Ollie, does a good job, is polite, friendly and doesn't demand unlimited tea and biscuits. Plus the dog loved him. He examined the work done outside, and then ferreted around the kitchen looking for water pipes.
He ascertained that all the pipes were sited behind the (new-ish) kitchen cabinets, so went to investigate the downstairs toilet for possible pipe access.
"Oh dear," he said. "It's a really nice little room, isn't it?"
Yes it is. Thanks for noticing. Oh, you mean too nice to hack holes in the walls to get to the pipes? Yes, that too.
We had a cup of tea while we decided how best to approach the problem. The problem being that the water pipes running from the OUTSIDE of the house to the INSIDE of the house are most likely in the same terrible colander-like state of corrosion as the external water pipes, and therefore need to be replaced.
And, of course, we have to arrange - and pay for - that part of the work to be done, hence the visit from Ollie the Plumber. The tea drunk, we decided on a plan of action. Sadly, some of the kitchen cupboard interiors would have to be sacrificed to the greater good, but there would be no visible damage to the exteriors. I was ok with that, and set about emptying cupboards with a will. Mr WithaY deftly dismantled the complicated corner cupboard can-store mechanism thingy, and we were ready to go.
Well. The plumber laid out giant dustsheets all over the kitchen floor and strewed a collection of tools across them. The dog immediately sneaked in and stole one of his screwdrivers, carrying it proudly to Mr WithaY. We returned it, and tried to teach the dog what "Get the most expensive-looking drill" means, but to no avail.
Ollie the plumber began carving holes in the back of the cabinets. He was very careful and tidy, but even so. When you've spent a bloody fortune having your kitchen refitted from top to bottom, it's not much fun watching it being partially dismantled and hacked about to fix something that is beyond your control.
I closed the door and the dog and I sat companionably in the sitting room, trying not to listen to the sound of holes being drilled in the house. Every so often I would pop my head into the kitchen and see how things were going. There was a deep, deep hole running from the back of the cupboard out to the garden. Ollie was trying to connect it up with the hole on the other side, and wasn't having much luck, it seemed.
The drilling continued, the house shook, the dust levels increased, and the long day wore on.
Eventually the plumber came and found me. He was unable to go any deeper until we had the septic tank emptied, as it was so full that it was backfilling the hole as fast as he pumped it out.
Ugh.
So. We booked the nice man with the shit-sucking truck to come and do the dirty deed, and once that was complete we could get the plumber back to connect up the interior pipework. Once THAT was done the Wessex Water chaps could come back and reconnect our water supply to the proper underground pipes rather than the temporary blue plastic hose.
It was like some sort of evil nursery rhyme. The old lady who swallowed the fly, then swallowed the spider and so on until she swallowed a horse*.
Anyway. Where there was once a deep pit several inches full of dirty water, now there is a tidy patch of concrete with a neat little plastic drain cover in it. And we have a stopcock inside the house, which I don;t think we had previously. All we need now is the bill from the plumber.
One a different note, this week I watched a 1970s TV documentary about the first English chapter of the Hell's Angels that I was pointed to via Twitter. It was interesting, in a weird "Withnail and I" way, and the voice-over commentary made it sound like an old Monty Python sketch. One of the gang had wildly crossed eyes, the result, the commentator explained neutrally, of having "both his eyes knocked out of their sockets in a fight."
The thing that struck me the most, apart from the lack of traffic on the streets, was how young they all looked. I assume that's because I am getting old.
*She's dead of course.
Saturday, 23 April 2011
Cry "God for Harry, England and Saint George!"
It's so strange, waking up to day after day of glorious sunshine. It feels like Abroad, somewhere not quite real. And of course, it's so early in the year - April! - that it is still Spring here, pretending to be Summer. We've got daffodils in the garden, which seems faintly bizarre in blazing 26 degree sun.
I spotted an anemone this morning too - gorgeous dark purple, the solitary show from a whole pack of bulbs that we planted. There are also some Mystery Plants coming up next to it, also from bulbs, but I have no idea what they are. It's like a very sedate whodunnit - what will they turn out to be? Alliums? Irises? Exotic lilies? Deadly Triffids? We have to wait a month and see.
The clematis is starting to flower - it is covered in buds so in a day or two will be covered in brilliant white flat flowers that look a bit like Tudor roses. Love it. Even the roses already have loads of buds forming, so it's easy to visualise how pretty everything will look soon.
We've got cowslips growing in the lawn, and some lily of the valley colonising a dank corner under the hedge out the front. Mr WithaY and I planted more lavender. We are making a hedge alongside the path at the side of the house, ooh get us, which I have high hopes for. Yesterday I bought a new bench to go out the front too, as the old one creaks unnervingly when sat upon*.
I like the fact that conversations for the last week have all followed the same pattern. They begin with "Wonderful weather! Isn't it fantastic? Hottest Easter for a decade/century/thousand years, they said on the news last night. Yeah, we're having a barbecue tonight. Got sunburnt on Bournemouth beach yesterday."
Then the tone changes slightly and we get the qualifier(s): "Let's hope we don't pay for it later, eh? It can't last much longer, can it? It's bound to piss down all through July now." There may or may not be some sort of half-arsed gripe about global warming too, and of course dire predictions about smog.
I love that we can't just enjoy a spell of sunshine without having to add all the riders about how it can't last forever. Neither can any kind of weather. Britain is famed for its weird and variable weather. The fact that we've had more than 3 days of the same weather - in this case sun - on the trot is unusual. Remember the snow in the winter? That went on a bit too. That's why it made the news. Gah.
Other news: Looks like we may have finally FINALLY sold Father in Law WithaY's house, thank the lord. The estate agents overvalued it in the first place, and then, of course, all the offers we received were way lower than the asking price. We have managed to convince Father in Law WithaY that the market is a bit crap at the moment, and that it makes more sense to sell the place than to hang on to it, empty and unloved for another year. Plus Mr WithaY won't have to risk losing more fingers mowing the lawn down there.
So, I reckon we need one more trip to clean the remaining rooms, a skip to get rid of all the accumulated crud that is not sellable or recyclable, and a man with a van to take away the furniture that didn't get sold at auction, and the place is ready to go. I can't say I'm sorry. It's been a millstone around our necks, knowing it was empty, and until fairly recently, crammed with a lifetime's collection of antiques. At least all the stuff that could be sold at auction has gone, so all that's left is more mundane stuff.
Plus, with the hideous price of diesel (£1.42 a litre! Fuck!) the journey there and back isn't cheap either.
Mr WithaY has taken himself off today to volunteer at this place. Now that he's booked onto his axe-head forging course, he is all inspired to do more prehistoric technical shit. And stuff.
I declined, on the grounds that I am not keen to spend the hottest day of the year so far up to my oxters in an Iron Age cess pit, or digging a well.
I might make some new curtains for the bathroom. If I can be arsed. Or I might just have a long cold drink, sitting on my new garden bench, reading a book. I've discovered the Classic Rock digital radio station, and am loving it.
Happy St George's Day.
*Possibly only when sat upon by two large adults, but I am not risking my life, tea or dignity any longer.
I spotted an anemone this morning too - gorgeous dark purple, the solitary show from a whole pack of bulbs that we planted. There are also some Mystery Plants coming up next to it, also from bulbs, but I have no idea what they are. It's like a very sedate whodunnit - what will they turn out to be? Alliums? Irises? Exotic lilies? Deadly Triffids? We have to wait a month and see.
The clematis is starting to flower - it is covered in buds so in a day or two will be covered in brilliant white flat flowers that look a bit like Tudor roses. Love it. Even the roses already have loads of buds forming, so it's easy to visualise how pretty everything will look soon.
We've got cowslips growing in the lawn, and some lily of the valley colonising a dank corner under the hedge out the front. Mr WithaY and I planted more lavender. We are making a hedge alongside the path at the side of the house, ooh get us, which I have high hopes for. Yesterday I bought a new bench to go out the front too, as the old one creaks unnervingly when sat upon*.
I like the fact that conversations for the last week have all followed the same pattern. They begin with "Wonderful weather! Isn't it fantastic? Hottest Easter for a decade/century/thousand years, they said on the news last night. Yeah, we're having a barbecue tonight. Got sunburnt on Bournemouth beach yesterday."
Then the tone changes slightly and we get the qualifier(s): "Let's hope we don't pay for it later, eh? It can't last much longer, can it? It's bound to piss down all through July now." There may or may not be some sort of half-arsed gripe about global warming too, and of course dire predictions about smog.
I love that we can't just enjoy a spell of sunshine without having to add all the riders about how it can't last forever. Neither can any kind of weather. Britain is famed for its weird and variable weather. The fact that we've had more than 3 days of the same weather - in this case sun - on the trot is unusual. Remember the snow in the winter? That went on a bit too. That's why it made the news. Gah.
Other news: Looks like we may have finally FINALLY sold Father in Law WithaY's house, thank the lord. The estate agents overvalued it in the first place, and then, of course, all the offers we received were way lower than the asking price. We have managed to convince Father in Law WithaY that the market is a bit crap at the moment, and that it makes more sense to sell the place than to hang on to it, empty and unloved for another year. Plus Mr WithaY won't have to risk losing more fingers mowing the lawn down there.
So, I reckon we need one more trip to clean the remaining rooms, a skip to get rid of all the accumulated crud that is not sellable or recyclable, and a man with a van to take away the furniture that didn't get sold at auction, and the place is ready to go. I can't say I'm sorry. It's been a millstone around our necks, knowing it was empty, and until fairly recently, crammed with a lifetime's collection of antiques. At least all the stuff that could be sold at auction has gone, so all that's left is more mundane stuff.
Plus, with the hideous price of diesel (£1.42 a litre! Fuck!) the journey there and back isn't cheap either.
Mr WithaY has taken himself off today to volunteer at this place. Now that he's booked onto his axe-head forging course, he is all inspired to do more prehistoric technical shit. And stuff.
I declined, on the grounds that I am not keen to spend the hottest day of the year so far up to my oxters in an Iron Age cess pit, or digging a well.
I might make some new curtains for the bathroom. If I can be arsed. Or I might just have a long cold drink, sitting on my new garden bench, reading a book. I've discovered the Classic Rock digital radio station, and am loving it.
Happy St George's Day.
*Possibly only when sat upon by two large adults, but I am not risking my life, tea or dignity any longer.
Monday, 11 April 2011
Saturday, 10 October 2009
The Big Bhangra
I am downloading bhangra music from iTunes. Tonight we are having a Curry Extravaganza, with people coming round, and naan bread and mango chutney and everything. I decided that something more appropriate than AC/DC, Chris and Thomas or Lynyrd Skynyrd from my iPod, or Pink Floyd, depressing Gregorian chant or 1950s do-wop music from Mr WithaY's would be nice.
I know nothing about bhangra, other than that when we have visited our lovely Indian friends, or been up to Southall to go shopping with them, I have enjoyed listening to it. So I more or less randomly downloaded a few albums, after typing "bhangra" into the iTunes shop seach box.
I am still toying with the idea of downloading "Bhangra Bloody Bhangra", a tribute to Black Sabbath. It has a certain appeal.
Other news: We decided to put off going to the Wood Fair till Sunday, which means it will probably be raining when we go, but we have wellies and raincoats. I assumed we were putting off today's trip becasue of the upcoming Curry Extravaganza, but no, it is apparently because tomorrow is the day they are running didgeridoo workshops. Thankfully Mr WithaY is not planning to take his along, but I am sure it will require more than my mere mortal strength to stop him joining in when he finds the workshop.
Also, I have successfully uploaded a couple of sound files of Mr WithaY playing his didgeridoo. Well, one is of him playing it "properly" and the other is him trying to impersonate wild animals of the Bush. I leave you to decide if he is successful.
I think I need to add them as a special stand alone linky thingy though, as I can only upload pictures or weblinks here. Gah.
I know nothing about bhangra, other than that when we have visited our lovely Indian friends, or been up to Southall to go shopping with them, I have enjoyed listening to it. So I more or less randomly downloaded a few albums, after typing "bhangra" into the iTunes shop seach box.
I am still toying with the idea of downloading "Bhangra Bloody Bhangra", a tribute to Black Sabbath. It has a certain appeal.
Other news: We decided to put off going to the Wood Fair till Sunday, which means it will probably be raining when we go, but we have wellies and raincoats. I assumed we were putting off today's trip becasue of the upcoming Curry Extravaganza, but no, it is apparently because tomorrow is the day they are running didgeridoo workshops. Thankfully Mr WithaY is not planning to take his along, but I am sure it will require more than my mere mortal strength to stop him joining in when he finds the workshop.
Also, I have successfully uploaded a couple of sound files of Mr WithaY playing his didgeridoo. Well, one is of him playing it "properly" and the other is him trying to impersonate wild animals of the Bush. I leave you to decide if he is successful.
I think I need to add them as a special stand alone linky thingy though, as I can only upload pictures or weblinks here. Gah.
Tuesday, 29 April 2008
Broken
Well, I feel like I have a cold now. Bloody great. Woke up with a sore throat and sniffed unattractively* through my meeting this morning. Lovely.
My lovely guitar teacher has fractured his hand (playing cricket, the careless idiot) so no lessons for me for a bit. And of course he can't play guitar either, so his band might be a bit grumpy too.
Other news: Mr WithaY's car seems to be improving slowly, but it is still too screechy and scary to drive any distance at at speeds of over 30mph, so I have been taking him to work and picking him up in the evenings. It's rather nice. Maybe we will car share more often. It takes me about an extra 10-15 minutes, but it means we save fuel, and I like us both getting home at the same time.
I have been smitten with a cooking bug (so to speak) and have been perusing recipe books for inspiration. I might make brownies later. Or soda bread. Or a pie. Can't decide. Will definitely be baked though. Unless it's soup.
Oh yes, we need some date recipes. The fruit, not the chronological things. Mr WithaY's runaway successs re: the quince chatroom makes me feel confident that we wil find something suitable.
Am listening to Rush "A Passage To Bangkok". Bloody great. Funny how you go through phases of liking stuff. And now it's The Sweet's "Hellraiser". All good desk-based music.
*I did have a tissue but sometimes you just have to sniff.
My lovely guitar teacher has fractured his hand (playing cricket, the careless idiot) so no lessons for me for a bit. And of course he can't play guitar either, so his band might be a bit grumpy too.
Other news: Mr WithaY's car seems to be improving slowly, but it is still too screechy and scary to drive any distance at at speeds of over 30mph, so I have been taking him to work and picking him up in the evenings. It's rather nice. Maybe we will car share more often. It takes me about an extra 10-15 minutes, but it means we save fuel, and I like us both getting home at the same time.
I have been smitten with a cooking bug (so to speak) and have been perusing recipe books for inspiration. I might make brownies later. Or soda bread. Or a pie. Can't decide. Will definitely be baked though. Unless it's soup.
Oh yes, we need some date recipes. The fruit, not the chronological things. Mr WithaY's runaway successs re: the quince chatroom makes me feel confident that we wil find something suitable.
Am listening to Rush "A Passage To Bangkok". Bloody great. Funny how you go through phases of liking stuff. And now it's The Sweet's "Hellraiser". All good desk-based music.
*I did have a tissue but sometimes you just have to sniff.
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