NaPoWriMo April 14th, Another Lifetime's Work

Where there are prophecies, they will cease
Because time flows incessantly
Pouring over ideas until they conform to reality,
Distilling the grain on which men feast.

Where there are tongues, they will be stilled
Because death is no friend of freedom
Though speech frames the notion society holds
Of an incurable desire never to be killed.

Where there is knowledge, it will pass away
Because the fallacy of the tide of progress
Is that it does not flow in one direction,
But forms and retreats as sure as there is hell to pay.

April 13th NaPoWriMo Cop Out

Oh cheese, you wore me out
And beer, you made me stout
I hosted a party
With guests hale and hearty
And it's left me with poetry, naught.

NaPoWriMo, April 12th - No Idea

NaPoWriMo, April 12th 

No Idea

I place you in the circle of my familial love, from whence
I gift you with my token, velvet compassion against dissent.

Now I can walk the universe's spectacular end, strangely neat
On the trail of sodden petals, gentle and soft under bare feet,

And you will remain encased in my protection,
Though you reject it a thousand times;

And I can swim to the deepest current, violently ripped
On the wicked thorns of thoughtless devotion, sweet-scented, blood-tipped

And you will feel the caress of my patience
Though you deny it a thousand times;

Then I can fly on the desirous breath of scented hurricanes
Through leaves pressed scathingly rough against my dubious aims

And you will bathe in the warm pools of my comfort,
Though you rebuff it a thousand times.

I place you in the circle of my familial love, from whence
My gift to you is non-consensual, uncivil in your defence.

Spell for Burn-Out, NaPoWriMo April 11th

Burnt orange rind, bitter ash

Scattered over damp dank earth

Dark grey dawn to dark grey night

Knocking at the window sash

Gather up the elements

Fisting, twisting, spit and snarl

Mould and mellow amber wax

Be still in sunlight's presence

Epic April 10th NaPoWriMo Fail

In desperation, and with a whole lot of help from my - errr, friends? - I bring you the epic April 10th NaPoWriMo fail:

#1 (Please use Canadian accent)

There once was an old man from Cambridge,
Who knew a sweet tweeter with cleavage
He had a face like an otter,
She could swim underwater,
Ducking ducks together they played quidditch...

#2 (Please use a very, very bad urban youf accent)

Cambridge,
Like a fridge,
Where you play quidditch,
It is quite rich,
It aint Stourbridge,
Not a ditch,
I aint no snitch,
But it aint got no urban rhythm!

NaPoWriMo, April 9th; Not The Whole Poem

NaPoWriMo, April 9th

Not The Whole Poem

You could be in a desert
With shimmering second sight
Salted sea to the North and
Crusted, white sand to the East, and
Flowering fig trees to the South, and
Bowers of roses to the West.

But they only have bowers of roses in poems.

I could be in a fool's paradise
With mist covering my eyes, and
Monkey's fingers in my ears, and
My lips sewed tight with butcher's string, and
Rose thorns in my fleshy hide.

But they don't beat hides with thorns in poems.

Ode to Bacon, NaPoWriMo April 8th

Ode to Bacon

My blood sings, as it passes through my veins,
Of empty mitochondria and lack
Of care and comfort, so vicious it pains
The delicate homeostatic plaque
Decorating arteries' finest walls
And hunger wails its divine truthful course 
Thundering, train-like, from stomach to brow
Descending again, fast as water falls.
Granulated hiccoughs, coarse,
Excruciating rumbles, announce how
Desperate a hunt is required through malls. 

'Feed me! Oh Mistress, take pity, I pray!'
What food can satisfy such pitiful 
Demand? Salty desire a dancing sway,
Phantom smokiness, tantalising full-
Tongued and satisfyingly delicious.
Meaty and pink-blushed, I follow the call
To the butcher's counter. Whereupon my
Eye discerns wonderful, meretricious,
The apple of lovers, all
Fatty and glistening, passive and - sigh -
Willing. Bacon, my intent's malicious.

NaPoWriMo April 7th, She Was Born

She was born on a mountainside

She was born on a mountainside,

The thirteenth child, bellowing her 

Presence to the rocks and goats. They

Tied her umbilical cord with 

Whatever nature laid to hand - 

Grass, or a vine, or her mother's 

Hair. Cut it with a stone. Quelled the 

Bleeding with ash and rags, and her

Cries with practised let down. Fifty 

Years later, bewildered in a

Heated classroom, she tells the tale

Of how her husband threatened to 

Kill her, just last night. Her legal

Aid doesn't cover the cost of

Good advice, and the police are

Only interested in crime.

We fill in the paperwork that

Will prove he did it, if he does,

And everyone tries to pretend

It never happened. But then there's 

Nigella Lawson in her posh

Frock, and she was born on no

Mountainside; if it could happen

To her... Then again, people say

Things all the time, and isn't it 

Easier not to get involved?

Mother mountain is half a world

And half a life away, and her 

Orphan children know their own way 

Home. There are no wild midwives here

In England's green and pleasant land.

For my Husband on his Birthday, NaPoWriMo, April 6th

For my Husband on his Birthday, NaPoWriMo, April 6th

True love is commonplace.

It's in the paintings that 

grace the walls of caves, ships,

Chapels, turrets, in the

Whispers of underground

Bunkers, behind rustic

Shutters of isolated

Woodland cottages and

Fifty shades above street 

Level. Find love in the

Shape of lips, delicate,

Curving, lifting, pressing

Against, giving life to

Words that hold hearts dear. Hear

It in the music of

A washing line in the

Wind, a kettle's whistle,

A baby's wail, silenced

By a warm nipple in

A sleepy bed. Taste love

In birthday cake crumbles,

Chocolate kisses and

Spaghetti wishes, in

The damp spot behind an

Ear after bath time, and

On a finger-full of 

Raw, sweet dough. True love is

In the letterboxes

Living in the copper

Wires, echoing across slow 

Oceans, broadcasting in

Outer space. In poppy

Strewn mountains and shadowed,

Grassy valleys, in dank 

Marshes and knife-edged plains,

In sweaty ballrooms and

Resined studios, love 

Sweeps feet into air and

Air into life. Love's in

The future and the past,

Seek it hidden in the 

Present, wrapping itself

Everywhere infinite

In minds and under feet,

Through fingertips' soft

Grip on elbows, bent knees,

Delicious tickled toes.

While ours is as unique

As a combination

In a pack of playing

Cards fifty-two love deep.

Monopoly, NaPoWriMo, April 5th

NaPoWriMo, April 5th

Monopoly

She skips barefoot and gentle
From King's Cross to Liverpool Street
Alone on her toes
Buying time
Mortgaging pieces of your soul
For imaginary facilities
Trading chance for electricity
Stripping community bare,
And you cling to your parking space,
Hoping for a double six.
So caught in her game, she doesn't know
You aren't an opponent
And in life,
There is no get out of 
Jail card -
Not one that's free,
Anyway.

Time and entropy are kissing cousins, NaPoWriMo April 4th

There are five minutes left of my  Eldest's 19th birthday - darnit, 4 minutes now...

Time and entropy are kissing cousins

Time and entropy are kissing cousins,
And their illicit tease is infinite
Scandalising the gossipy stars
While moons dance, hoping for more
In the way of a warm embrace
And meteorites may
While galaxies' might
Dwindles
To
A
Breath
Of
Promise
In
The
Void

But love is a gift
That holds its shape
Indefinitely
And faith is its
Fuel.

Oscitant Unfortunate, NaPoWriMo, 3rd April

These words from vocabulary lists for English language learners make me smile, so my poem for today is made of words that please me but make little sense. The poem doesn't make much sense either, but hey, it's been a protracted, incessant, interminable day.
Oscitant Unfortunate
Frisky glop eaten by a
Cogent Scrooge with

Prior whimsy between
Compelling philtre hiding from an
Avaricious sharpshooter, wife of a
Quibbling advocate despising
Coalescing pariahs withFugacious circumspection, enforcingObligatory windlessness duringTransient toil, leading toFrugal adroitness rather thanRefulgent furore, neitherPunctilious hostility nor

Maleficent malarky
Distress the sanguine
My friends.

Thanks for the image http://www.edge-online.com/tag/words/

Living With Myalgic Encephalomyelitis April 2nd NaPoWriMo

My tired

Is in the skin of my soles

Protesting pressure into

Bare wool and cool cork

Bearing heaviness

With sunken desires

Shuffling dreams

Slow progress

Heel to toe.

Toe to heel.

Heel to toe.

My tired

http://www.personal.psu.edu/afr3/blogs/siowfa12/2012/09/polyphasic-sleep.html

Is in the space my words should

Occupy, unravelling

Quiet, blank and dumb 

Impressions only

Of indentations

Holes and hurt 

Breath over

Pitied tongue.

Tongued pity.

Pitied tongue.

My tired

Is in the broken china

Laughing with me, not against

The shattered plan I made

Which almost worked to

Circumnavigate

Why don't you

Why don't they

Never mind.

Mind never.

Never mind.

It's all good.

:)

1st April 2014 NaPoWriMo

National Poetry Writing Month - 30 poems in 30 days for the month of April. CAN I DO IT??

Conversations

Just between you and me,
She's a nutter.
Another one.

I get the impression,
There are normal
People.

I have never met one.

Things I wish I knew when I was 18

We made it. Our beautiful baby girl grew up despite us, and turned 18 this week. We decided to write her a list of all the things we wish we knew when we were her age, and I thought I'd share it with you.

 1. You can only take one step at a time.

 2. Bad things happen to good people, and good things happen to bad people, for no reason at all.

 3. Don't wait to follow your dreams.

 4. Be brave enough to be giving and forgiving.

 5. Use white vinegar to get the smell out of anything (even under your arms!)

 6. Appreciate your beautiful body, don't wish and waste it away.

 7. Always wash and pee after sex.

 8. Strive to be conscious of your decisions and choices – never do anything because 'everybody else' does it or it's what you were told.

 9. There is always a choice. Always. Sometimes it's a very hard choice, but it's always there.

 10. If you leave your socks in the boot of your car for long enough, they get clean again.

 11. Money is important, even when you don't want it to be.

 12. Resist oppression from the start. Don't wait and see.

 13. Pain is nothing to be frightened of.

 14. Buy your own condoms. Use them. Wrap them and throw them away, don't flush them.

 15. You don't have to be anything, or do anything, just try – and keep trying until you find out what you love.

 16. In a relationship, sex is like talking. Keep talking.

 17. Like your job, love who you are with.

 18. Cooking is both science and art. Apply your knowledge of both.

 19. Don't let being afraid stop you from doing what you want.

 20. Drink plenty of fluids every day. I know you hear this all the time, but listen this time. ;)

 21. Never go to sleep or leave each other angry.

 22. Remember how fiercely you are loved and keep that with you always.

 23. You brought light and infinite love into our lives. We are better people because of you. Just by living, breathing, smiling, laughing, you changed the world to make it better. So whatever you do, wherever you go, whatever you become as an adult, know that you have already achieved as much as you have to. Anything wonderful that you do from now on counts as bonus points to the universe. Bearing that in mind, you are free to strive to do a tiny, wonderful thing every day. Maybe it'll be a phone call or a social media message to someone lonely; or a smile for someone who looks sad. Perhaps you'll make someone laugh, or create something beautiful, or make someone look pretty; maybe you'll introduce two soul mates, or future change agents, or the leaders of a movement that will affect the future of everything. Maybe you'll make history by refusing to give in to a tiny piece of oppression, like not moving on the bus; or perhaps you'll make history by beginning a revolution. You might invent something incredible, or give someone who needs it a hug. You could ask a question that begins an avalanche of social change; or one that helps one person understand their world a little better. Any one of these things has equal value in the grand scheme of things, because you can never, ever know how a tiny, wonderful thing will turn out. What is important is to do the tiny things, and try to recognise the tiny things that are done for you; and be thankful for both. Be thankful for what you can give; and be thankful for what you receive. This is the secret to happiness.

 I'd love to hear whether you have anything to add (or take away?).

On Parenting Teens

It's nearly midday, and you have to wake your teenager up. You are irritated, because there are promises they've made and broken and you are going to have to start their day off by telling them. Also, you are a teeny bit jealous. You want to sleep the day away, too. Well, a very small part of you does. Your parents never would have stood for this.

You open their bedroom door and stumble over piles of clothes, books, toiletries, cups and towels. You resist the urge to yank open the curtains and open the window to release the hormonal fug, because that's what your parent would have done. You step carefully over the detritus, not knowing what's precious and what's not. You reach the tangled bed.

And there – there with crazy limbs in twisted sheets, mussed up hair and soft, sleep-puffed lips – there is your baby.

That face curled and pressed into you right after birth, nudging you for love and sustenance.

That mouth smiled at you for the first time one crazy morning long ago, and your heart beat faster.

That nose bled out of the blue one day and the scarlet trickle shocked you for a second.

Those lips told their first joke one quiet afternoon, and it was so terrible you laughed.

That chin was grazed more times than you can count, falling off walls and trees and things with wheels.

Those eyelids closed on a secret shared, a bedtime story, a favourite song, a game of hide and seek.

You've kissed those cheeks a hundred times. A thousand. A million.

That's your baby lying there, in essence. Your own lips smile and sigh, but you wake the sleeper anyway, to begin the push and pull of parenting a teenager that you think might be the death of you before you're through.

I sometimes think that teenagers are exactly like toddlers, only bigger, and a helluva lot more knowledgeable. More knowledgeable than me, that's for sure.

They have the same exuberance as toddlers. They experience emotions in extremes, rocket-like excitement and searingly painful frustration. Their emotions overwhelm them and spill out at inappropriate times, frightening teachers and conservative party voters. Those supermarket tantrums have become street brawls and classroom riots.

Their bodies are learning new things, like toddlers' are. They learn how to dance and fight and have sex, a step up on how to walk, run, jump and push. They learn how to push, too though – just push in a slightly different way.

They have a desperate need to push you away. It's the equivalent of the toddler's 'No!' - the 'I can do this by myself, and even if I can't, I'm going to try and try until I can.' You remember? It's the drive that children have to learn to walk, get dressed, feed themselves, only grown up. It's an 'I can do this life thing on my own' urge, 'and even if I can't, I'm going to try and try until I can.' They push you away because they have to, not because they want to.

It's not a rejection. It's growing up.

And because it is nature that creates the push, it's nature that creates the pull, as well. We apparently live in a universe governed by rules, one of which is that where there is a push, there must be a pull.

You feel the pull on your heartstrings, don't you? Every time your teenager pushes you away to take a risk, learn something new, experience a new emotional extreme, your heart is pulled back towards them, snapping on the elastic of the familial dynamic.

That shit hurts.

You can physically restrain your toddler from running out into oncoming traffic, but the best you can do for your teenager is teach them about the perils of alcohol poisoning and buy them a pack of condoms.

It doesn't matter how much pain you are in as you watch them risk their hearts and souls in the maelstrom of society, you don't have a choice – you have to sit back and let them do it. Even if it nearly kills you. Or them.

Just because they push you away, though, doesn't mean they don't need you. All the time.

All the time.

They need to know you love them. That they are loveable. That when inexplicable words are pouring out of their mouths in torrents, you love them. That when their bodies crave things they don't understand and can barely control, you love them. That when they run out into the street in the face of oncoming traffic knowing it is an extraordinarily stupid thing to be doing, you love them.

They need to know that when you are at your wits end and you want them to go and live with a different parent for a while, it is because you feel as though you are failing them, not the other way around.

They need to know that when you say no (and sometimes you must say no), it's because you want them alive and safe and well, not because you want them to experience social death by embarrassment.

When you are hesitant about how they look, it's because you are wondering how other people will perceive the beautiful child in front of you, not because you judge them and find them wanting.

When they mess up an opportunity that you were desperate for them to take, your disappointment is for them, not in them.

When you punish them for not fulfilling a promise or an obligation, it's because you want them to learn from their mistakes, not because you don't believe in them.

You always believe in them.

All the time.

How could you not? That's your baby over there, learning to walk and talk and have a good time. Finding out what hurts, what burns and what feels really, really good. Discovering consequences and the cost of living dangerously.

While they are doing it, because they are doing it and as a result of them doing it, they must know that they are loveable – and loved.

All. The. Time.

Seventeen pebbles

Dear friends,

I came to the recent conclusion that if I am going to attempt to write poetry, I may as well publish it. Lacking any other forum, you valiant blog readers are the first to have your tolerance imposed upon. This is what it is like, living in my head. Don't worry, I don't expect anyone to actually understand! But if you do, or you have a theory, I'd love to hear your response.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Seventeen pebbles

They are aligned in military order
Obscuring the chaos of small experience
Atoms colliding, pressure binding
Soft grains linking short time together
Boiled and cooled in seasoned tides
Their experience common, yet
Each fissure, each yearning pull
Uniquely patterned to the discerning eye.

Seventeen pebbles span the way
From one perspective, virginal, grey
Smooth, solid weight, equal in demeanour
Holding space and time in balance.
The stones know all truth and
They know all lies
And experience has yet to teach
One knowledge from the other.

Another path beckons
And when seventeen become one more
The route will change
The sun-baked streaks of expectation
Foreshadowing dreams dissolving
Reforming, renegotiating what you knew
To be real and honest validity
The best and the worst of you, stirring sand.

How many pebbles are permitted
Before the sifting of salt and iron
Reveals the crux of matter?
Learning to weigh truth and desire
Lies and stories, myth and mire;
Stumbling upon gardens, fruit-filled,
Tempting you to beat your own tail
Pick your truth, choose your lies to soothe.

Take care, seventeen; life comes
To the lucky and the unfortunate
And it holds no grudge
Against those who take the easy ride.
Right now, you know all truth
And you know all lies,
Though experience has yet to teach you
One knowledge from the other.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When I was seventeen, I believed that I was an adult.

From the perspective of forty-five, I know with absolute certainty that I was a child.

The cliché that teenagers know everything allows us to joke about them, and belittle those feelings that we all remember well. But I got to thinking about it, and wondered.

When you listen to young people, and when you see what they create, you begin to question whether in fact they do know everything. Their words can demonstrate a clarity of perception that stops you in your tracks. Their writing, composing, art, performance – any mode of creativity, unweighed by experience, taps into truth and freedom of expression in a way that adult art does not.

Perhaps everything it is important to know about life is already known to you by the time you have lived seventeen years. What comes with experience isn't so much more knowledge, as the ability to distinguish truth.

It's the difference between theoretical life and applied life.

The extremes of childhood, recently lived, allow you to access all the theory you will ever need. By the time you reach seventeen, your story is already written.

But the highs and lows of adulthood require you to apply your theory, and that is much harder to do.

At first, when things happen to you and you are responsible for your own reactions, life can leave you confused and bewildered. You may anticipate your story, but the reality of what it feels like to actually experience it can be shocking.

Eventually, you reach a point when the pattern of your life-story has repeated so many times, applying your theoretical knowledge becomes a simple matter of recognition.

Ah, so deep, so deep – you just want to know how to feed your kids and make them happy, don't you?

Here are two recipes for soup, both soothing and nourishing for teenagers writing exams.

Butternut squash and apple:
Soften an onion in olive oil while you chop the squash into small pieces. Pop them in the saucepan with the onion and add ground coriander and nutmeg. Cover the squash with stock, and allow to simmer while you peel, core and chop three tart apples – Braeburn are good. Add these to the stock and simmer until the vegetables are soft. Blend and serve with sour cream or crème fraiche.

Spinach and parmesan:
Soften a couple of shallots in olive oil on a low heat, then bung large handfuls of spinach into the pot. Sprinkle with allspice and mild mixed spice (the kind you use in Christmas cakes). Stir until the spinach is wilted, then cover with hot stock and cream. While this gently simmers, grate in a chunk of parmesan. Don't let it cook too long. Blend and serve.

Now you have nourished your teenager, ask her about the meaning of life. Perhaps she'll tell you, if you can listen.

Why I think GCSEs are tantamount to child abuse.

When I began writing this, we were in Cape Town. The weather was perfect – hot, but not too hot. The sea was glinting below the mountain we were staying on, next to its companion curve of soft, white sand. Youngest Daughter coped well with the long, uncomfortable flight, despite our trepidation. My Man was working any chance he got, but was prepared to be enticed away by his girls without much complaining. I was delighting in the peace and freedom to read and write at my leisure. And Oldest Daughter? She was trying very hard to avoid soul-crushingly boring studying.

I knew what I wanted to write about, but it has taken me a long time since then to work out quite what it is that I wanted to say. Being away from the relatively brutal reality we had been ensconced in, while wonderful, wasn't helping me to understand myself. At all. This afternoon, I think I finally have. It is all about choice. I acknowledged the reason my brain was hiding from this understanding, and it popped into focus without another murmur. So these are my thoughts on choice, GCSE exams and child abuse.

Oldest has just entered her sixteenth year. Her South African cousin, who was born a year and a week before her, just turned seventeen. Due to population pressure in South Africa when she was six, Cousin still has two years left at school before she joins the confusing and choice-ridden world of 'adulthood'. She is spending her time discovering who she is and who she wants to be. Her experience of school is very different to my daughter's.

When she was fourteen, Oldest and her English contemporaries were made to choose subjects to study that would potentially impact on the direction their lives would take for ever after. Subject choice at this age is not unique, but the method of examining them in this country is a singular decision.

National political agendas determined the core of the 'choice' – science, English and maths, as well as physical education and some woolly ideas about citizenship and personal health that were to be hidden around the curriculum.

Local political agendas determined that at my daughter's school, a language was compulsory, and in her particular circumstances, her choice was between German and French. Religious education was another locally-determined non-option, I can only speculate as to why.

Logistical agendas determined the narrow range of acceptable combinations of other subject areas that were available. These ranged from vocational courses to academic selections, courses for those unlikely to achieve any qualifications at all, and courses for those likely to achieve more than most. The 'choice' appeared immense, but the reality was a lot less impressive. Once you had decided on the most common, i.e. academic route, there were three subjects available to choose from; two if you decided to take the misnomered 'separate sciences' course.

The three choices had to be popular enough to ensure that a class would be made available, but not so popular that places were limited by clever timetabling.

Lots of advice was handed out. Printed information, parents' evenings, ten minute interviews with a member of the management team, many of whom were interacting with our children for the very first time, so that was effective. Apologies for the sarcasm.

Subject teachers enthused about how wonderful their subjects would be – although, I suspect they were only really this enthusiastic towards the pupils they expected good grades from, my daughter included. There was subtle competition between the heads of academic departments, and fantastic (and expensive) school trips were touted unashamedly to bewildered students. Our awkward, spotty teenagers were courted like investment bankers, if their teachers thought they might deliver the grades they needed to prove their own worth.

I'm a teacher, and paid by the government. If I worked in a state secondary school teaching GCSE subjects, I would be touting for the good students come options time, believe me.

There are probably as many management positions in your average UK state secondary school as there are in the whole of the Microsoft corporation. Well, perhaps not, but this is the sole mechanism for retaining good teachers in a role in which they are judged to within an inch of their sanity by their paymasters; the State; deranged parents; brutalised children; issue-hungry journalists; power-mad politicians; society at large.

But the responsibility and pay rise each mini-management position brings is equalled and overshadowed by the necessity to justify it, hence raising the judgement stakes.

No wonder heads of department try to 'sell' their subject area to unsuspecting kids.

Once they have their prey safely ensconced for the next two years, these poor teachers are made to devour any creativity and passion for particular ideas and notions the pupils initiate, forcing them instead down the narrow alleys allowed by league tables and exam results.

Does that sound harsh? I don't blame the teachers. I don't believe any of them came into their jobs thinking, 'gosh, I can't wait to bully children into doing only and exactly what is needed to get grade C or above in my subject area, so that I'm not judged to be failing them'.

Adolescence is hard. Those of us who've been through it remember that. And teaching adolescents is exhausting, in a soul-sapping kind of way. They have so many difficulties to contend with in life – hormones, sex, no sex, acceptance, being different, being the same, pushing those they love away while desperately needing to be loved; rapid brain growth and body changes at the root of it all.

And so many of their parents have no clue as to how to deal with them. The social change akin to extreme sports we've experienced over the last century has made it impossible for each generation of parents to keep up with what is required by their children. They experienced bad parenting themselves as teens, so the parenting many of this generation of teenagers have to bear is beyond endurance.

Teachers know this. The best and the worst of them struggle to contain the rage and the pain and the fear they can feel emanating from a fluctuating proportion of their classes of thirty or more students at a time. But what can they do? Only use the tools at their disposal to channel the young minds in their care down a well-trodden route, with the prize of a future beckoning them from the other end.

The tools, between the ages of 14 and 16, are methods of teaching which both take away all choice from their learners, and simultaneously fool them into believing that the very heavy burden of responsibility of all future happiness falls into their own hands.

I'll try to explain this another way.

GCSE courses make students unbearably passive. Teachers herd them like sheep through the coursework and exam study that, highly specified as it is, will achieve the grades they need. These, by the way, are the grades the teachers need, not the students so much.

Students believe they need the grades. It is drummed into them regularly that without the correct qualifications at this level, they will have no future.

Given that they learn little of practical use within this curriculum, and given their extreme youth, this notion is absurd.

Isn't it? Can you really tell me that if you don't achieve an A grade on an English exam at the age of 16, you will never be able to access the skills required to live a long and successful life in our society? Bullshit.

On the other hand, if a significant proportion of the class don't achieve grades A* to C, the teacher will be sidelined; the long line of managers above her will be in danger; and the school will be reported as failing its pupils. Reputations will fall; middle-class families will fight to leave; grades will potentially be lost further; morale will drop. It doesn't bear thinking about. For the school, anyway.

So students are given no choice. Their responses to learning are tightly controlled. Like iron. And to reinforce their compliance, they are continuously told: “The choice is yours – your future is in your hands; learn these responses well, or you won't be able to access further education, and then you won't be able to access higher education, and without that, you will have no job – you will end up stacking shelves in Asda.” A fate worse than death, indeed.

Does this amount to child abuse? I think it does. Have you seen a fourteen-year-old lately? They are so painfully young, it hurts. A fifteen-year-old? What do you believe a fifteen year old should be doing with his or her time? Making friends, making music, making out? Or buckling under the responsibility of making their teachers and their schools and their government look as though they are doing a good job?

Let's give our children back their childhood. I want my daughter to come to me in tears because her best friend called her a bitch for flirting with her boyfriend, not because she is completely overwhelmed by the pressure of coursework that she has to do. Not that the first scenario is ever going to happen, because my daughter and her friends are just lovely, they really are, but you understand the sentiment. I want her to be her age. I want her to be dreaming of an exciting future, not terrified of not having one at all because she chose the wrong subjects when she was fourteen.

My beautiful, talented, amazing daughter – who knows what the future will bring. Let her live, explore, want and dream now. Don't expect her to look back at her young self from the other side of forty, and think 'if only I had learned my Geography better, I wouldn't be in the mess I'm in now, filling up the shelves in ASDA with goods from all over the world.'

It's absurd. It's institutional abuse of a whole generation. It's a violation of youth. And it's making my Oldest -still so very young – miserable.

I invented Rice Pie to cheer her up:
Cook some good rice in a steamer – I used Jasmine. In a casserole dish, sauté an onion and brown some mildly spiced sausages. Add some carrot pennies and sauté for a few minutes before adding some frozen petit-pois. Turn the heat down and add good stock, not enough to cover, about a cup full. A couple of tablespoons – okay, a good slug – of Grand Marnier or other orange flavoured liqueur finishes it off. Now spoon the rice over the top, sealing the food and liquid underneath, and allow the stock to gently steam into the rice for about ten minutes or so. Use a giant spoon to serve. It tastes delish.

Some of you

Something a little different I wrote while on holiday, triggered by some incredibly generous people:

Some of you

Small seeds of information
About you
Fall from your boughs
And drop onto the surface
Of my still pool.
Some skim the cool surface,
Skating over the rippled waterscape
Of my understanding;
Others drop to the depths,
Their hard casings
Saving them from the relentless
Decomposition of my insecurity.
Still others are drawn
To the reeded shore,
Where they take root
Grow, flower, change
The aspect of my outlook,
Beautiful additions to my soul.

My normal blog post is half written and on my mind, I just wasn't happy with the direction it had taken. It will appear soon!

Primal Parenting

We sat in the school room that looked nothing like a school room, and the pain and desperation of the parents in the air was a living, breathing, wounded animal. It was palpable. Our children had suffered, and there had been nothing we could do to stop them suffering. Then, we had been given something good, that worked for them in the way that no other education or social enterprise had, and now they were taking it away from us.

This could be the opening paragraph of a dramatic fiction, but it isn't, it is the opening paragraph of a description of a real life event. Our real lives. We are the painfully real result of a social policy that has arisen because of a dozen or so egos, a few decisions that have gained momentum, and a refusal to go back.

We were well brought-up parents. We listened as politely as we were physically able to, as they rained their philosophy and politics on us like blows. We challenged, reigning our anger and fear and desperation in as far as we could, but it slipped through in every word. We all understood that the people sitting in front of us absorbing our response were only part of a whole. They weren't going to stop the wheel of policy change rumbling over us any more than we were. We just wanted to understand their justification for it.

The truth is, there was no justification. There are no reasons. They can close a centre of excellence that has been of unmeasurable benefit to our children for no better reason than that they don't have it in Fenland; they need to get out of the building; 'we' think children are always better off in school.

Do they really, truly believe that children are always better off in school? Surely that is not a belief that an intelligent, thinking, functioning human being can actually hold?

Schools are brutal. Even the very best – and by what measure we define the very best requires a long debate of its own – brutalise children in some way, in order to have them conform. That's okay. For most children, a brutal training ground for the adult world is more beneficial than not. We might not like it, but we understand it, and so we allow it. Parents are protective of their young, but they are pragmatic, too.

Some children, though, through no fault except of fate and nature, are made to suffer inordinately. It might be through physical illness, like us; mental illness – no less painful; or circumstance. Life can hurt, and it can hurt our young before they are ready to take the pain. The idea of taking children who have suffered beyond others, and forcing them into the storm of a huge, statutory institution - an institution with not only the potential of making them suffer more, but the experience of having already made them suffer more - to their parents, at least, is anathema.

And to have had something good – something soothing and stretching and challenging and gentle, an imperfect gift, but a gift nonetheless – to have that withdrawn, for no good reason – that hurts.

There are good parents and bad parents. Mostly, there are parents who do right and wrong by their children every day. We respond to the circumstances of our bewildering lives as best as we can, and sometimes we get it right. In that painful, anguished meeting, we did do something right.

It is important that our children see us fight for them, even if we don't win. They need the lesson that the smallest of us can effect change; and it is more important to show our love by standing up to the juggernaut of social policy than to actually achieve our ends. If the only change we manage to make is an understanding of why something is wrong, we have done something good.

Even though our children will remain subjected to anxiety beyond their reasonable capacity, shifts in understanding will make a difference. Tiny changes in attitude and motivation, even at this stage, will affect the actions of policy makers and policy activators. Determination to control our lives, though control is an illusion, will motivate us to take our own steps to put alternative measures in place.

As parents, we are in a better place to protect our young than we were before we went in to that room; even though it doesn't feel that way at all.

Following on from this meeting, we met with the Head and management of the local school that is going to take responsibility for educating our daughter back. The Head, with no conscious instinct for survival, felt compelled – driven, almost – to make us listen to his political and philosophical reasons for wanting to provide an education for our daughter.

I have never in my life come so close to physically attacking a relative stranger.

Social policy can, and frequently does, come between good parents and their children. It is the world we have to live in. There are too many of us for it to be any different.

Those who wield social power would do well, though, to remember that the bond between parent and child is primal. You have read my words, you can acknowledge the breadth and depth of my understanding; you know I am no fool.

But if you want to hurt my child - even though you think your reasons for doing so are justified by beautifully constructed and morally sound philosophical and political motivations - you have to get through me first.

And I know that you, for all your standing in society, would do the same for yours.