Coffee stalker

She has a cup of ice and allows her mother to pour bottled water over it; of course, before she drinks she checks the label for all the evil calories that could be lurking in a bottle of purified water.

It's okay to drink because it's so cold that processing it will burn more calories; these are the diet tricks and tips we all know.

Her mother drinks a regular drink from a regular cardboard cup - I know the taste of the emptiness of that ice water. When she stares over at me there is revulsion. I'm not fat, but I have breasts. I have substance. My hair is thick and shiny. I too drink coffee made with milk and containing sugar.

I'm grateful that she is, at least, drinking water. She even refills her glass by herself- well, sometimes it's better the devil you know. In the weight of the empty bottle I feel her fatigue.

I don't know the words to break through this mindset; I understand the trigger point, the need for control which spirals out of control. These are the martyrs to our excess, the conspicuous protesters.
I don't understand the sicknesses of our society.

And the winners are...

Most weeks we visit a little local bar. There's always a band and we like to oust the drinkers from their hard-earned leaning posts by spinning, kicking and twirling alarmingly close to them. I'm sure our attempts at dancing look a lot more impressive (and potentially dangerous) after a few beers.

If we're really lucky an inept (and drunk) guy will usually attempt something he thinks looks like dancing and then someone accidentally crashes into or kicks him (suspiciously, this someone may be me ninety - one hundred percent of the time, but there's no need to discuss that, as it's pure coincidence, I assure you).

Like any little bar in a little town, it has it's weekly melodramas. There's drunk muso guy, who bailed me up in a corner to tell me about the amazing, fascinating, utterly original and trippy dance beats he was laying down with a group of friends and I should totally collaborate because I was a strong, amazing woman.  Mmhm. Sure. I have a feeling the music's not the only trippy thing going on, nor are the beats the only thing he's attempting to lay. I nearly pulled my own earlobe off trying to get away from that one.

However, for me the main attraction would have to be Odd Transvestite Couple. You're intrigued, right? Of course you are.

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.