Clarissa et al.

My first Christmas Card arrived today! It was from a real person with real handwritten letter - not that I actually know the lady in question: she was a student friend of my late mother, and I believe my father met her just once many, many years ago.

Well, is it a record? Is this the earliest Christmas card?

My beautiful little stray is dead. He went out for some fresh air at half-past-four on Wednesday afternoon, and some swine ran him over and killed him right outside our gate. They didn't even have the decency to knock on the door and tell us, but instead my father found him when he came back from a meeting at half-past-eight.

He had been with us for ten weeks and had developed from a frightened, hungry creature, always mewing who shied away from people and wolfed his food for fear that there would not be another meal, to a happy pet who lay in front of the fire or on a chair, sofa or bed, sleek, well fed and happily purring. While no-one was planning to have a third cat, he could have stayed here quite happily, and grown to be a much loved pet. Albert already saw him as a friend; he was also outside on Wednesday evening, but hasn't stepped out of the door since - not that I would ever let a cat out on November 5th anyway, but he hasn't even tried to go out.

Many years ago I collected a folk song. Of course, as I was only about five at the time I had no idea that was what I was doing when we sang it in the playground. None of us realised that those playground songs were all an important part of our heritage - they were just a part of our games, more inclusive, but less fun than pretend games of families, schools, hospitals or princes and princesses. Most of the songs we sung then were variations on the usual playground games - Nuts in May, The Big Ship Sailed, Wallflowers, In and Out the Dusty Bluebells etc., but I Love a Fisherman has I believe a very special place being an original Cleethorpes folksong. Years later I needed a folksong to sing in a festival so I dusted it off and gammoned more musical friends into helping me transcribe the music to hand to the adjudicator - no need of an accompanist's copy as it was to be sung unaccompanied. (For the record, by the way, I came third - the competitition being for singing rather than originality of choice.)

Anyway, here it is:-

I love a fisherman, a bonny, blue-eyed fisherman;
I love a fisherman, and that fisherman loves me.

And ev'ry Monday mo-orning he brings home for me
Some fresh and flapping fish, fish, fish;
fresh and flapping fish, fish, fish.
He brings it home for me.
So-o .
I love a fisherman, a bonny, blue-eyed fisherman;
I love a fisherman, and that fisherman loves me.

And ev'ry Tuesday mo-orning he brings home for me
Some sweet and tasty fish, fish, fish;
sweet and tasty fish, fish, fish.
He brings it home for me.
So-o
I love a fisherman, a bonny, blue-eyed fisherman;
I love a fisherman, and that fisherman loves me.

And ev'ry Wednesday mo-orning he brings home for me
Some white and flaky fish, fish, fish;
white and flaky fish, fish, fish.
He brings it home for me.
So-o
I love a fisherman, a bonny, blue-eyed fisherman;
I love a fisherman, and that fisherman loves me.

And ev'ry Thursday mo-orning he brings home for me
Some more of that damned fish, fish, fish.
more of that damned fish, fish, fish.
He brings it home for me
So-o
I love a fisherman, a bonny, blue-eyed fisherman;
I love a fisherman, and that fisherman loves me.

And ev'ry Friday mo-orning he brings home for me
Some day of penance fish, fish, fish;
day of penance fish, fish, fish
He brings it home for me
So-o
I love a fisherman, a bonny, blue-eyed fisherman;
I love a fisherman, and that fisherman loves me.

And ev'ry Sat'day mo-orning he brings home for me
He brings it home for me
rotten, stinking fish, fish, fish.
Some rotten, stinking fish, fish, fish;
So-o
I love the butcherman man, the bonny, brown-eyed butcherman;
I love the butcherman, and that butcherman loves me.

And ev'ry Sunday mo-orning he brings round for me
Some red and juicy meat, meat, meat;
red and juicy meat, meat, meat.
He brings it round for me
Bu-ut
I love my fisherman, a bonny, blue-eyed fisherman;
I love a fisherman, and that fisherman's wed me.

On Saturday we had an evening of Lincolnshire folk music in the village hall together with a meal of Lincolnshire food - chine, haselet, pork pie, sausage, plum loaf, poacher cheese - and very nice it all was. The entertainer (a young man who is a professional morrisman among his other folk credentials) sang and danced for us with a running commentary of how he came by the various songs (to which, at the interval, I was able to add a copy of the above).

I am, however, always a bit suspicious of the authenticity of some collected folksongs. Picture, if you will, the scene when Bert and Sid meet outside the White Hart inn in Mudby-cum-Woldthorpe somewhere in rural Lincolnshire around the year 1900.

"Now then, Bert, 'ave you 'eard about yon London chap offering 'alf-a-crown for any song what 'e' en't 'eard afore?"

"'Alf-a-crown, Sid! That's a mort o' drinking money! You know any songs, boy?"

"Not now, Bert, but I reckon by the time 'e gets to the White 'Art you n me'll know plenty, eh, boy?"

"Ay that we will, Sid. That we will."

The two old men chuckle and go into the pub.

You see, I know the difficulties with even an authentic folksong. I was five when I sang I Love a Fisherman in the playground. I remember the tune, but I also know that as a singer I was pretty well tuneless until I was pushing nine, so how accurate is my memory? A tune which moreover went from my singing, though Ruth's notation to her father's transcription into a more conventional musical form. As for the words, I remember that the fish progressed through the week from "fresh and flapping" to "rotten, stinking" and some of the descriptions in between, but all six sets of epithets in the right order? No. So when I wrote it down I augmented what I remembered with what seemed to fit. Would, for example, anyone in Methodist Cleethorpes ever have come up with the concept of "day of penance fish" for Friday? (Though, if the song was more wide spread such an idea would certainly be current nine miles up the coast in Catholic Immingham around 1900 or earlier.)

Interestingly, talking at the end of the evening I discovered a fourth person who remembers this particular song. My father has vague memories of it from his childhood, Maureen (Issy'a and Becky's mother remembers it mostly for the frisson of actually singing the phrase 'damn fish', and now Veronica recalls it from the same playground as my father (Bursar Street) though about twenty years later.

PS My feeling was that the evening was slightly marred when the Chairman of the Village Hall Committee stood up to thank the entertainer etc. (reminding me of the large lady at the end of the Morcambe and Wise Show) when it should have been Trish, whose original idea it had been and who had organised it all, who spoke, with the Chairman only getting up at the end to thank Trish for all her hard work. Possibly only a minor breach of etiquette, but irritating for Trish who clearly had her speech planned and was trying hard not to look daggers at the chairman.

For the first time in months I write a proper letter. I don't do letters; I do emails - occasionally long, rambling letter-like emails, but more often a series of postcard-like messages. Normally the only letters that get the full handwriting and stamp treatment are the sympathy variety, but a couple of days ago I felt moved to write a real letter to a friend who isn't very computer savvy - that is a friend whose husband will yell "Email from Lissa - shall I print it out for you?"

I sent it second class on Wednesday, and now there's a postal strike.

C'est la vie!

Last week I worked every day. This week just the one - and I am the only Museum Education Assistant to work at all this week as we had just the one booking. It is usually like this either side of school holidays - even half-term - which I find rather odd. No school bookings in December I understand perfectly - there is much too much going on in school to have someone invading the school hall for half a day at a time, and the parents have enough calls on their money to be asked to fork out for another outing when taking the children to the local pantomime has already cost everyone a small fortume. But why the lull just before half-term?

Anyway, it was a lovely school - a church school in a biggish village where the caring atmosphere practically jumps out at you as you go through the door, and at playtime and lunchtime all the talk in the staffroom was about the children. I was doing the Egyptian workshop which went down very well as always.

On my way home I went shopping at Tesco in Market Rasen which is not my idea of the perfect end to a day, especially as I was coming home to a bit of a mess as we had a powercut last night so the dishwasher hadn't dishwashed and I seemed to have missed a good deal of the wiping down of kitchen surfaces etc. I caught up with what I could before setting out for work and, having added my breakfast things to the load in the machine, had left it washing away. Well, we have now eaten and I have put away most of the shopping, so I'd best empty the dishwasher before putting the supper things in, and wiping down where it shows. What was it someone said about a woman's work? I could be watching the footie, but it's only Fulham so I'm not really bothered.

Less than two months ago I was a stray . . . not any more! This is the way to spend these cold autumn days, not wandering around hoping to chance upon a meal.

Albert, apart from his first three weeks as an unweaned feral kitten, has for all his eleven years lived the life of a pampered pet, knowing that a nutritionally balanced meal will be put on his plate at regular intervals. He has never needed to defend his food from other cats and has tended to eat smallish quantities and return to the plate whenever he feels peckish. For eight years he shared these expectations and customs with Cally, the only gently born cat of my life (i.e. a cat of known, though not pedigree, parentage, born in a house and a pet from birth) who raised him as an aunt or godmother might a much loved nephew or godson.

Now he is sharing his home with two cats who have in their time known the life of a stray, and, despite the fact it is now a good few years since Sid had the good sense to land herself on Liz's doorstep, both have a tendency to eat their fill very fast and to finish up anything Albert has saved for a bon bouche later. Moreover, much to Albert's astonishment, they eat up table scaps - a practice he had previously believed was confined to those lesser creatures the dogs! Cato has filled out considerably in the two months he has been with us - and look at the shine on his coat!

Here they all are eating their dinner together, although Sid likes to keep her distance from the boys.

Most of us who work have signed something about not breaking client confidentiality or bringing our employers into disrepute.

As if we would!

But when it comes down to it, what do these words actually mean?

There are the things that obviously overstep the mark:-

My boss is a f~*$$^@+ b~*$$^@+!!! is clearly a step too far,

And My boss, Bert Bloggs, is a sexist pig and a f~*$$^@+ b~*%$^@+!!! is way over the top and should have been dealt with through the proper channels. (By the way no insult is intended to any real Bert Bloggs.)

but, talking about people at work, at which stage in this progression has the writer gone too far?

There was a bit of an atmosphere at work today.

One of my colleagues was in a filthy mood and there was a bit of an atmosphere at work today.

My line manager was in a filthy mood and there was a bit of an atmosphere at work today.

It must be my line manager's time of month; she was in a filthy mood at work today, and was making life impossible for the rest of us.

It must be Mavis Blogg's time of month; she was in a filthy mood at work today, and was making life impossible for the rest of us.

There are probably some people who would say that writing anything to suggest that all are not permanently happy of the good ship Thingummybobs Ltd. was bringing the business into disrepute. Others would say that making the cause of the atmosphere identifiable was the point where the blogger had gone too far, while some might say that point was only reached with the mention of her name, but I'm willing to bet that no employment contract actually makes it clear so that we are all at the mercy of some individual's interpretation. I have been told a story of one blogger who wrote amusing stories about her work in which she named her colleagues: all of them were cool about this, and most read and enjoyed the blogs. However somebody in the firm's hierarchy took exception to her use of real names and she was sacked, although until then she had no inkling that she had done anything in contravention of the company's rather loosely worded code of conduct.(Again, I stress that Mavis Bloggs, like her husband Bert, is a figment of my imagination - and with him as a husband who wouldn't be stressed?)

And what of the business itself?

Good day at work - lots of new orders. Well, nothing wrong there.

Good day at work - massive new order from Widgets PLC. Maybe not?

Good day at work, I think - massive new order from Widgets PLC, which could be a bit of a problem in view of their outstanding debts to us. Too far.

And then there is protecting the children -

It was 'Bring your child to work day' and we had a delightful pair in. Well that's safe enough, but at what point in the next half dozen observations does the blogger overstep the mark?

It was 'Bring your child to work day' and Sue brought in her delightful pair.

It was 'Bring your child to work day' and Sue brought in Josh and Emma.

It was 'Bring your child to work day' and Sue Clutterbuck brought in Josh and Emma.

It was 'Bring your child to work day' and Sue Clutterbuck brought in Josh (9) and Emma (7).

It was 'Bring your child to work day' and Sue Clutterbuck brought in Josh (9) and Emma (7) - see photo of them operating the Thingummy machine.

It was 'Bring your child to work day' and Sue Clutterbuck brought in Josh (9) and Emma (7) who behaved like a pair of hooligans all day - see photo of them wrecking the Thingummy machine.

So, without ever even reaching the still more murky waters surrounding the rights and duties of the whistle blower, my next question is at what point do such codes of conduct come into conflict with our right to freedom of speech?

Apparently there has been a report, rejected out of hand by the government, which recommends that formal schooling should not begin until children are six years old.

Well, I suppose it depends what you mean my formal schooling, but to me reading came as naturally (and almost as early) as talking. Nobody had to teach me to read - the written word was all around and I read it: I read notices in shop windows, street signs, labels and, of course, books. I was reading at two and fluent by four. And before you think that I am setting myself up as some sort of genius, it was the same for my mother, her brother, my grandmother and a goodly selection of my cousins. I know about my family, but I am sure that there are many children for whom reading was a simple and and natural progression from speech which was acquired long before any formal schooling kicked in.

Because my grandfather was a fish merchant and part of my father's job was to run the market stalls, I went along to 'help' and learned numbers, arithmetic, weights and money just as naturally.

However, back with reading: my sister did not take to it with quite the same alacrity. This is probably my fault - at four and five I was a hard task mistress who undertook to teach my small sister to read and smacked her every time she misread a word. Although she learned to read, she was eight or nine years old before curling up with a novel became the pleasure to her that it had been to me since I was four or five. Now don't let anybody think it is because she is in any way less bright for it was she, not I, who topped the county's lists in her year's 11+ passes (just as Shelagh, one of the family's very early readers, had in her county ten years earlier). So very early reading cannot simply be a matter of intelligence.

I now move to family members who found - and still find - reading a chore. My brother-in-law is dyslexic, and all four of his children have inherited this problem to a lesser or greater extent. Joe went to a prep school which pushed literacy and numeracy, which were taught in formal classes, from the age of three. The school had a simple theory about which children were clever and which were stupid. Joe did not take to reading and writing, ergo he was stupid. By the time my sister moved him to a state school he was scared stiff of making mistakes and to this day will hardly attempt any writing beyond his signature. Josh, five years younger and taught first at a nursery and then at the village school by two wonderful and gifted teachers, is just as dyslexic but has no fear of either failure or the written word, and thus types away on the computer with his crazy spelling which usually comes close enough for the spellcheck or google search to make some sort of sense of it.

So, looking at either end of the natural reading scale from purely a family anecdotal point of view, it seems to me that the government is foolish to reject the idea of delaying formal teaching until children are six years old. Play based learning need not mean keeping children ignorant of numbers and the written word, just making them part of the fun with no literacy and numeracy targets for either the children or their teachers to fulfil.

Today Joe got a letter from the District Council (guardians of the electoral roll and administrators of the rates guaranteed to have every address in the area on file) addresed to "Free Vale Drive" - he actually lives at 3, Vale Drive. Somebody working on a brain by-pass that day?