When rude people are allowed out.

Can I smoke?
What can I say? You're outside, you're entitled to.
Well, you say no, I won't smoke.
Well, I can't say no, we're outside, you can if you want.

I'm simultaneously interested and offended that I don't qualify for an interrogation. Her table is directly midpoised between ours, yet my response is void. Possibly only having coffee disqualifies me from the ranks of potentially offended diners.

Well I'll just turn this way.

Thanks, lady. It wasn't enough for you that I'm downwind of your odious cigarette, now you want to turn and face me, too.

Forget tasers, I need a flamethrower.

Black, black, black, mistake...

I am a white failure. Put a white garment of any decription within a three foot radius of me and I will spill, spray, smear or just mysteriously blemish the damn thing inside an hour.

Who are these people who can swan about in white-on-white ensembles bestowing munificent smiles upon us lesser mortals? I strongly suspect they've had every pore sealed with hairspray and eaten nothing but naked white rice since they got dressed.

Even then, their laser-beam-shooting eyes would have to be activated every four seconds to ward off spouses proffering sweet chili sauce (for the rice) grimy-pawed pets and small children in search of climbing frames. I'm just not highly evolved enough for this.

Since my trip to Bunnings and heavy investment in wardrobe infrastructure, I've noticed a definite trend in my garments. More worryingly, the pink top that made an appearance on Thursday provoked a flurry of comments along the lines of "Omigod it's pink! You? Pink? What???!"

Clearly my wardrobe can be divided into two components: black & I can't believe it's not black. (Oh, and denim. But that doesn't really count.)
Or, as I prefer to think of it, camoflage & today I'm prepared to make an effort. Dammit, theyre finally onto me. I think I might need to try harder.

Nigel Kennedy: brilliant. MSO: Bunch of reanimated zombies.

On Saturday night Hubs and I saw Nigel Kennedy in concert with the Melbourne Symphony Orchestra. Great programme - Bach and Duke Ellington. A jazz band integrated very well into a truncated orchestra and both the classical and the jazz works were performed in characteristically virtuosic style.

There's just one problem.
The MSO (and possibly the Melbourne music scene as a whole, not just the classical half) are uptight ponces who take themselves far too seriously and come across as having the wit, charm, and personality of a granite boulder.

Perhaps I am spoilt; a child of the eighties and a teen of the nineties, I'm used to the pop stars who looked like they could dance, sounded like they could sing, and managed to dress themselves without stylists. They may have even managed some faux-acting every once in a while.

There is something irresistable about a man who can clumsily and with great delight soul punch the fist of a cellist when a duet goes well. Who dares to play conerto movements out of the accepted order (yes, I'm sure they did that in Bach's day too!) and nearly falls over a cello on his way to check the time signature of a jazz composition. There's a lot to be said for people who PLAY the music rather than dissect it.

After the concert I collided with another Suzuki teacher; also a violinist, she confessed that she'd had something of a crush on Sir Nigel at the tender age of seventeen. Given he's thirty years older than me, I don't know about the crush factor, but he did keep me playing through my teenage years.

Actually, my beloved uncle (not a muso in any shape or form) stumbled across Kennedy's genius and bought eight-year-old me a cd.

A few years later he bought me a pair of cherry Doc Martens for Christmas (Nigel having a serious fetish for this footwear). He'd agonised over them so much and been so happy with the purchase for his twelve-year-old niece that his girlfriend bought him a pair too. Together we kicked the ponciness out of classical violin in our matching anti-establishment cherry Docs, defiantly unlaced and scuffed to all get out. Ah...Docs...

So, the concert? Wonderful. Brilliant. My mother-in-law is damned fantastic. Possibly better, however, than the gift of the concert was the reminder that we are all human. We are all here for only so long, and what we leave behind will or will not resonate. I think I'll try to stay focused on the music. The theory, the science... well, that's all well and good, but will my students say "Hey, she really taught me how to accent the mathematical progression of sequencing in Bach!"? Hm.

It's not unimportant, but it's not everything. And in the words of the man himself on Saturday night: "After twenty years ANYONE can play the Bach [A minor concerto] technically, it's REALLY knowing it that's the thing."

Gee. You think?

NB: Being the slave of a "serious" art form does not mean you are permanently in thrall to it. It will just make you incredibly boring, possibly devoid of the emotional depth and nuance that's necessary to play with conviction.

Possibly this is my nail in the coffin of our 'cultural' scene; it's perpetrators don't look like they're having fun and I don't really feel like joining them.

There's just not enough vitriolic anger in the world.

Apparently no children make their own toast anymore. Goverment kickbacks cause deaths, not greedy human nature, and stupid people need the most help.

Let me explain: segment of Grade Three Science class features the projection of a jar, with the following multiple-choice question:
What force do we use to open the jar? A. Pull, B. Twist, C. Push.

I teach several children this age and younger and we routinely talk about the mechanics of sound.

They understand that the amplitude of string vibration is directly correlated to the amount of sound they output. They understand that the shorter you make a string (and thinner) the higher it will sound when plucked or played. They know that the hair on their bow comes from horses' tails' and that the cuticle looks like a lot of hooks on a pole and resin will make those hooks stronger and therefore make their bow feel 'stickier' against the string.  I could go on, but you're all probably already clutching your heads and wishing I would stop.

What's my point? I don't want to send my children to school because it will make them stupid. Being smart is not the ultimate goal, don't get me wrong. But we treat kids like they're stupid and expect RESPECT? We expect engagement? Give me a break.

School is daycare. School is damn good training for the rigors of a workplace that want you to clock on, clock off, watch some tv and drink a few glasses of wine.

The families I know who have abolished a tv have a problem. Their kids can concentrate. They can create. And they no longer fit into the bite-size, life-support model of education perpetuated in the traditional classroom. Oops.

I can't believe how badly we fail our kids every day. That we have the nerve to call it education is preposterous; that no-one will stand up and try for a better model is a damning indictment on the complacency that has befallen the inhabitants of "The Lucky Country".

I don't know what to do about this. I don't know what I can do about this. Part of me wants to establish a Suzuki preschool, but as soon as these things are regimented and law-abiding somehow all the energy gets sucked into obeying the rules. Suddenly half our time is spent accumulating data by which to judge the achievement of benchmarks instead of leaping over the damn things in blissful ignorance of the limits they impose.

I know five-year-olds doing algebra. I know kids that can play classical repertoire from memory for HOURS on end, and read Tolkien well before they finish Grade 3. I was one of those kids.
No, I don't advocate hothousing. This is not about spending hours chained up - I will forthrightly tell you it was a rare day I spent more than three hours doing any type of academic work.

I advocate the right of each child to fulfill their potential. I advocate schools that will nurture the individual possibility and strengths of each child while challenging them to improve and conquer their weaknesses.

We don't even scratch the surface.

This is what I tell hubs, whose expertise in primary school routines is based on having attended one for seven years, unlike homeschooled yours truly.

Imagine you are the principal of a small primary school (290 children) and that said school is undergoing some intensive renovation. To facilitate rebuilding, most of the oval is now occupied by new portable classrooms, decreasing the available space for recreation and playtime by about one third (there still remains a basketball court and two playgrounds plus a small bare space, volleyball-court-sized).

Obviously, since space is such an issue, recess and lunch should be staggered. Half the school gets "little play" from 10.30-11.00, half 11.00-11.30. Half the school lunches 12.30-1.30, half 1.30-2.30.

So, given that this may go on all year, how would you organize this?

Blinding flash of brilliance: "Well, you'd probably split so that prep to two or three go first and then the older kids."
I nod, thoughtfully, and move on. "So always give the kids the eary recess and the early lunch or the late recess and the late lunch?"
He thinks about this for a minute, and agrees. "Because otherwise they'd have ages or only an hour, so yeah, sure."
"And should they go out at the same time each day or change it around, like early Monday, late Tuesday?"
"No, just stick to the same time, so they have some kind of routine."
"Ah." I say thoughtfully.
Hubs knows me well, and I swear he actually huddled a little further away in the couch, bracing for the impending rant.

"So that's exactly what didn't happen today. Because why would you take the sensible option. No no, let's put a prep class out with one of the grade 2 classes and two of the 3/4s and a grade 6. And just because those children had early recess doesn't mean they automatically get the early lunch!" Hubs is aghast.

Why anyone in my proximity would behave this moronically is a mystery to him. Actually, if I'd ranted like this AT the school, maybe they'd be less stupid. Unfortunately for everyone, I've now had a few hours to stew on the stupidity of this DAILY-changing timetable and the behaviour I observed in my students today. It's not pretty.

"Let's just think about this from a purely physiological point of view, leaving aside the whole psychological issue of no routine, no certainty, and so forth." I put my fork down before I stab myself with it.

"Blood sugar is going to be all over the place. Seriously all over. If you expect preps to hang out between 10.30 and 1.30 you are deluded. We've been trying to promote the healthy breakfast thing and it's link to attention span and behavior- this is just as important." Hubs doesn't look entirely convinced.

"Look, I teach eleven-year-olds and I can tell them what they snacked on twenty minutes ago. Fruit juice? They're attached to the ceiling. Nothing? They're whinging and moaning and fading away. This whole non-routine thing makes no sense."
He tries a valiant defense of the professionals who've made this ludicrous decision: "Maybe it was about timetabling resources..." but I only fire up again: "Then timetable breaks so these children can concentrate and then they might be able to USE some of these resources."
There was more. Of course there was. This is why I can't have a taser. There'd be far too many unexplained (they were STUPID, cretinous IMBECILES probably doesn't justify fatal tasering, although it should) fatalities in the already underpopulated education sector.

Very briefly: I sought (and received) explanations from four different teachers. They were all (a)vague and (b) crap, suggesting a general lack of thought and/or understanding. Hm.

Tell me they're not all like this.

It's official. I've become a laundry Nazi.
"I'll just hang it on the line," says hubs.

Listen carefully. HE just offered to hang out the washing. BUT, and this is the rub, I hate putting away washing. I hate it even more when my tops have peg marks in them.

I really hate it when pegged-up stuff has to be unpegged, is laid or folded carefully in the basket, brought inside nd THEN requires further sorting, hanging, or refolding (he folds stuff up weird, ok?).
I hate this double handling so much that I will instead do it all myself.

Hello clotheshorse! Hello coathangers! Enter the sublime pegless system of drying that means everything which needs hanging is hung. Once.
Oh god. I'm blogging about laundry.

Parents: instruments: listen! Part 1.

If you're over me ranting, go away now. If your child learns an instrument or you know someone who does, read this.

Let me give you a little analogy:
You're learning to drive.
You have a bomb of a car.
It doesn't always start.

Sometimes the brakes don't work, and the accelerator doesn't always depress reliably. The steering can't work out whether or not it's power or manual, and the gears just sound weird. Like the car's about to die any second.
This is what playing a cheap (insert instrument of your choice here) is like.

Now imagine that you see your instructor once each week, for half an hour. When they get out of the car they remind you of the things you have to improve on.

In five minutes on Thursday you try to remember what they said on Tuesday. By Friday you've completely forgotten, but you drive up to the shops and, in doing so, practice all your bad habits again, because this car is hell to drive.

On the weekend it's just too busy to practice, so on Monday it's panic stations as you cram for Tuesday. Surprise, surprise. Tuesday rolls around and you're still a crap driver.

Your instructor is sad? Shocked? Resigned and disappointed? Angry? None of these are productive. You feel bad, you might promise to try and do better, but somehow, it all goes wrong again.

I'm going to bet that in the future, you will drive as little as possible, because it doesn't make anyone happy.

This is where the analogy falls down, as so few people in our society can function without their car. But bear with me. I'm trying to say that motivation is everything.

If you had a brand-new car that WORKED and was comfortable to drive, you'd learn.  If you could have a lesson every day (and therefore minimise the insidious bad habits) you'd learn. With progress and positive reinforcement a positive feedback loop is created, and referred to in the future when presented with a new skill to be acquired.
Conversely, a poor experience can easily create a mindset of incompetence and futility.

Oh, and you know how you service your car? Pay insurance, put fuel in, change the oil, buy new tyres, etc? Think of the instruments in your family like a car.