Fran Macilvey's Blog, page 67

Martyrdom is never easy

Who said being a mum was easy? All cosy blankets and cute pictures it ain’t.  When my daughter starts going her own way, cherishing her right to be forthright (my own mother would call it rude) I just smile, mostly. Sometimes, like this evening when I burnt my fingers for the umpteenth time and let out a curse at a volume just over a mumble, she started to panic and fled the kitchen in tears. Hmmm. I guess this means I have to work a bit harder at being peaceful.

Question: Is it reasonable to expect me to place my feelings and my crossness on the back burner all the time? Is temper a sign that I should be making changes? More sleep would help. Meantime, life invites us all to be as patient as we can with each other, as often as possible, but ignoring anger is reputed to lead to ulcers, high blood pressure and heart disease. If I’m not in a place where I can ‘let it go’ all over again, is it better to curse roundly and finish with it, so that my daughter gets used to the idea that firstly, I am not divinely patient and have my weaknesses, and secondly, that these don’t necessarily have anything to do with her?

They say that when adults argue they should do so as honestly as possible, sotto voce, without hiding from their kids, so presumably I am off the hook here a bit too, when I get cross all by myself. I am allowed to get angry, and to point out that Seline can save her tears for another time, because my anger is nothing to do with her. I notice that being angry and careful with explanations for her, both at the same time, is impossible. Explaining to Seline, calms everything down.

Perhaps, in the same way as I would roll my eyes at a car driver tooting crossly at me if I am a bit tardy driving off my spot when the lights go green, I had best recognise that getting cross is a total waste of time: notice problem, feel cross and react; all that distracts from the main focus.

That anger has a place is without doubt, but where to place it becomes my concern. After all, I have no desire to turn my daughter into an over-anxious child who makes a situation worse by bursting in to tears. Emotions can be so confusing.

Working From Home

She’s hounding me again. The phone has rung five times in the last six hours so I just don’t answer when it rings. It could be anyone, couldn’t it? Mum, or my sister saying, “How are you?” It could be my agent saying, “Cheerio, I’m off to the States for two years, see you soon” or my husband reminding me not to cook this evening as it is his birthday and we are supposed to be going out for something to eat later. But I don’t answer, because I know I didn’t promise to visit the hospital this afternoon. Between three and five she gets no visitors and would like me to pop in to see her, hardly able to breathe, on the second floor of the high dependency respiratory ward. Her bed takes about twenty-five minutes to locate within the north wing of the hospital, after spending maybe forty minutes finding a parking space outside on the vast tarmac complex and actually getting to the main entrance of the building. It’s about forty minutes driving from here to our new, spankingly expensive citizens’ hospital on the outskirts of the city, all white and faceless like a starchy apron daring anyone to disapprove. With metered parking that costs so much, I bet the hospital uses that income stream to service interest payments. Impressive queues of people wait patiently at the pay boxes jingling change in their hands to slot in before they can leave, trapped into shelling out money for jam, as Mum would say.

Anyway, there is nothing I can do. I can hardly hear Ellie on the phone, with her thick vowels, trapped inside a bad reception space with no privacy, no telly and no-one else to talk to. I have to be at home by three-thirty most afternoons, which is why I know I didn’t promise to visit Ellie at the hospital. I can’t be in two places at once, can I? Though God knows, that would be a handy trick. As it is, I have spent most of this morning passing over my plastic card for presents for my daughter’s school friends – it is party season – or looking for “thank you” cards and stamps to stick on letters to Australia.

I really have to get down to some more writing, or else my agent is going to seriously question the wisdom of taking me on as a client. What kind of writer manages only three short books in three years? I have a host of smaller pieces that could do with being finished. I like my work and so, I count myself lucky. At long last, I have reached a compromise with working that works for me. I work from home, I can please myself. Of course, everyone imagines I am available to do the weekly shopping, to organise the social calendar, to cook and clean and to run thither and hither collecting, sorting, washing and tidying everything I can get my hands on. I wish that there was room to just write. If anyone else expects me to do anything else, I shall run screaming along the High Street. Or I would, if it weren’t so cold. Fancy being a stay at home mum with a career? Take my advice and get an office so that you are out. Out all day. It’s the only way. People take you seriously when you are out all day. Best way to be.

Changing Times – Part 4

Edith straightened her back and pulled her hair off her forehead, aware that time was passing so fast. She had come to the garden just minutes ago, and now, look, it was going to be dark soon. Glancing up at the lowering skies, she grimaced, collected her tools and basket and carefully went indoors. Her knees and fingers were stiffening and her feet ached. Good.

She slammed the back door and locked it, twice, checking to see that the window was bolted shut and the light extinguished in the kitchen before retiring to her room. Her supper had been meagre: an end of bread, some mangled meat substitute from a tin and the dregs of tea that she had reheated over the small stove and put into a flask. But she had a few beans, some parsley, a handful or two of blackcurrants and a few dandelion stems for a bit of freshness, and these she ate slowly and with great pleasure. The scent of blackberries evoked the freshness of her youth. The earth still had a scent, which lingered on her clothes and in the sweat on her skin.

Late at night, with the curtains drawn and the small desk light for company, she wrote a reply to the authorities: Dear Sirs, thank you for your communication of 5th instant. I am pleased to accept your kind invitation to move into the Ninth Quarter. Please expect my arrival at the end of this month. Sincerely…Though she had no intention of moving, she felt better having written, addressed and stamped the letter. Now, she just had to work out what to do about the deadline.

She slept over on her arm, which, as it slipped off the desk, jolted her awake. The light was flickering, signalling the end of evening power, so she let it go out and waited, summoning the strength to reach her bed. Pushing herself upright, she stiffly inched sideways until the comforting feel of soft, cool covers brushed her legs and she fell, collapsing sideways. Scarcely able to unbutton her cardigan, she shuffled off her slippers and in a flurry of energy which left her exhausted, folded herself beneath the covers and slept.

The following morning she roused herself late, unusually drowsy and unwilling to move. Had the poison caught her system at last? The dandelion leaves, the beans that might not have boiled for long enough before the gas died? So many things seemed to be finishing, running out. What about me? Edith thought, with unaccustomed self-pity. Could I just run out there? She might be able to run…She sat bolt upright in bed, though her head sang with dizziness and her eyes were unfocussed. A light shone over the corner desk, the curtains had not been drawn and she was fully dressed, warm in her twisted, buttoned clothes.

Moving out into the cooler air of the landing, she felt her way gingerly downstairs and through to the back. The key was not in the door. She had locked it, but where was the key? Had she put it down? She felt for it, walked to the window and found it lying there, on the shelf. Strange, she had never done that before…her mug half-filled with cold water and the small pan were still waiting from the night before. But Edith was not hungry, not this morning. With an effort she opened the door and pulled it ajar, almost falling over herself to get outside. Out, into the breeze, the air which blew damply around her, filled with dripping coolness which she breathed in, hungry for refreshment. To breathe deeply was consoling, no matter what she shut her eyes against.

She considered what she would do.

“There are few things that cannot be tackled after a bath” Her mother’s words startled Edith.

“Mum? Are you there?”

“Of course! Go and get yourself tidied up, girl.”

Pleased to be told what to do, Edith retraced her steps, pausing as she reached the half way mark up the stair, gladly removing her clothes which caught round her neck and made her sweat uncomfortably. Hair could do with a wash, too. She left the bathroom ajar as she stripped and helped herself over the sill of the bath by leaning heavily on the sink. The old, faithful taps she gripped and turned had never let her down, never dripped, never wasted a drop.

Grey water was clean enough, un-rationed and plentiful, since Edith took few showers lately, forgetting them, more interested in drinking tea and thinking about the past. She must stop doing that, she reflected, as she washed away dryness, the hardness that clung over her face. Must make the most of what I have. A daughter who loves me – a grandson. What was his name? She flushed with shame to have forgotten that. There was little purpose now in rationing her soaps, so she fished the almost empty plastic bottle out of the cabinet, filled it with water and used that for a body wash and shampoo. The last time she would smell lavender brought tears to her eyes. She wept and washed beneath the water, cleaning away months of thoughts, combing through her hair and watching everything swirl down the drain.

The authorities would take her house, but she wouldn’t have to clear it. They would salvage what they could, recycle the building materials they might need, and leave the rest, or powder it for bricks. All she has to do was pack a couple of suitcases and a bag of food while she waited for permission to move. Their reply would not be long in arriving. They would be happy to have won a victory. She, on the other hand, knew that she was surrendering little. She would see more of her daughter, now that their conflict was ending, and more of her grandson, since she was about to turn respectable. She would have more to eat, and company.

She could choose to listen to Bach and Chopin on her personal radio. Personal programing allowed that, in between the announcements. She would have help with making supper and changing light bulbs. As she wept for her losses, Edith knew that she would manage. She would make her daughter happy again.

Changing Times – Part 3

One calm day in August, a letter from the Relocation Ministry landed in her box stating that she “was requested to move into the modern, safer environment of the Ninth Quarter Dome.” She sighed, dropped the communiqué onto the carpet and went to the back door to look out into her beloved small garden. A few blackcurrant bushes, an elderberry and a hazel bush all clung on around the boundary fence, while dandelions populated a small piece of border. She also grew nasturtiums and poppies, which liked the space and seemed to take neglect in their stride. When the shrinking band of her neighbours shook their heads at her pointless pottering, she could smile and say that, well, blackcurrant bushes  yielded good tea and jam, the nasturtiums brightened her salads, as did the spring dandelion leaves. Dandelion roots were delicious roasted and used for coffee and the hazel and elderberry bushes were useful…a large tub which Edith kept filled with moist earth, always contained something salad-like. Aidan dragged it indoors when necessary, to stand under the glass porch.

“I suppose I should write to them and decline their kind offer…” she muttered crossly, as she picked up the letter and read it over again. It was typical, written by some young zealot straight out of the government training school, peppered with spelling mistakes and errors in syntax…and unambiguous. She was required to relocate within the month and at the latest before 1st October, so that provisions could be allocated for her needs over the Closed Season (which meant November to February). Any failure to comply would result in a scheme of forfeits implemented over a six month period with a view to securing compliance. After this, Town Hall reserved the right to use other methods.

“It can wait.” She spoke aloud into the silence with unusual defiance. “It can all wait for a colder day than today. Now I am going to put on my old clothes and do the garden.”

A cool start, with pains in the bending and an unusual, breathless huff when she turned her shoulder away from the breeze, just so. Maybe, she hoped, the time was coming when she would be finished with all this. But just in case there would be another winter to live through, she pulled, swept and tidied, clearing away what had grown taller, denser or pricklier in the last few weeks. Weeding didn’t much concern her, but bramble stems pulling at her skirt and tripping her up did, so she gladly pulled on her warped gardening gloves, found her sharp knife and set to work, gradually snipping and pruning back their greedily stretching tendrils, but leaving blossoms and greening buds of fruit. There would be more than just and handful this year, which she would eat fresh heedless of all the scaremongering. Why should she not? It made no difference to her now.

She was utterly freed, she realised, to think and do and say what younger, more respectable citizens held back from. If she spoke the truth, people would assume she was rambling, offensive because of an illness of age. Few people now lived as long as she had, despite all the promises of longevity that she had grown used to hearing. Who wanted to live to a hundred, anyway? What would be so wrong about finally reaching heaven and seeing Harold again? Dear Harold, with his balding crown, his crooked spectacles perched on his beaky nose, his wise smile.

Suddenly, an ache leapt up from her heart and blocked her throat. Edith missed her husband and the pain kept her rooted to the spot, her knife held in mid-air. She had been alone for decades, quietly keeping her counsel. Around her as the scenery changed gradually, the colour leached away. People increasingly told her what to do, as she kept her own mind, quietly resisting. She slipped away from them and they had no heart to run after her. But evasiveness was tiresome. What Edith most longed for was friendship from those who understood her, could read the meanings in her face and did not continually try to subvert her decisions. When had disagreeing become an anti-social element?

Changing Times – Part 2

Edith’s daughter, with husband and single child, came to visit each weekend, regular as clockwork. Dorothy was always begging Edith, with her particularly earnest expression, all wrinkles and furrowed brow, that guaranteed Edith would retort “No!” Poor child, reflected Edith. If she knew how much I hate that face she makes. If she would only smile, I would do anything for her. But Dorothy rarely smiled, and so mother and daughter seldom agreed on anything.

Dorothy and Aidan had been assigned an apartment (if you could call it that…Edith screwed up her face in distaste) in the new Fourth Quarter Dome. Edith suspected that there had been undertakings given to move the old woman out, which had secured a favourable deal for what was, after all, a very ordinary family. They were always arriving on little missions to try and persuade Edith how wonderful, easy, cheap and safe it was to live in a dome. Any dome, they said, as long as she was safe, away from the rain that stung the skin, the clouds that wept ice, the debris collapsing out of the sky – people had died, didn’t she know.

Edith didn’t really care for safety. She was well aware that she had few friends remaining in the world – the sensible ones had all died years ago and she had no dependents, not at her age. On the contrary, everyone else seemed so quietly determined to point out her growing dependency.  She ate only a little food and knew her carbon footprint was very faint. A dozen commendations sat in the drawer of the kitchen table. No, what Edith cherished most, what lay in her deepest thoughts, was freedom to do as she pleased: the choice to lie late in bed, wearing what she liked and eating when she wanted, the luxury to suit herself, pottering harmlessly about the house, humming and singing tunelessly.

Domed life was increasingly sophisticated. As was intended, you could almost believe it was the real thing. Weather machines were old hat. There was piped music for walking to and sleeping to, there were birds in the roofs, countless indoor gardens, terraces and spaces for contemplation and rest. There was even an inbuilt roughness to the weather, so that occupiers could feel a shimmer of the old gratitude for creature comforts. However, making a dome was very difficult and exceedingly costly, both in terms of finding suitable materials and re-populating domed spaces with flowers, trees and shrubs, some undoubtedly filched from nature, against all the Protocols. Of course, computers controlled the Dome’s air conditioning, sky and bad weather.

Given the costs, Edith wondered when it was that technocrats had gained the upper hand, creating snow by machine, sending meteor busters into space, populating food and land banks with synthetic plants. They were building domes everywhere now, and beginning to use compulsion to make people settle inside them. The authorities exercising their civil duties could be very persuasive. Ordinary citizens were expected to be thankful, falling over each other to oblige. Edith remained obdurately old-fashioned, hanging back and praying daily to be quietly ignored. She clung to the old ways of thinking.

Edith was grateful for all the love implicit in her daughter’s repeated attempts to “rescue” her from a solitary life. There would have been something terribly frightening in a daughter who never came to visit or who only wanted to get her hands on mum’s carbon account. Edith had heard of many children of other ageing parents, offspring who suddenly flapped around in February like vultures – just before the annual allocation was re-calibrated – hoping to mop up surpluses on their parents’ accounts. Some districts were so poor that being alive on 30th February was a dangerous business.

Changing Times – Part 1

Here was only soft, muffled silence. Elsewhere, a million miles away, she knew a shining sun hung suspended in a vast, clear sky of shifting blues. She hoped faithfully to see the stars again, the Plough, Andromeda and Great Cygnus. Meanwhile, Earth waited, wrapped in deep grey, protective cloud beyond which playful starlight hung back out of sight with the myths. Naturally, it would clear, but we had no idea when.

Months ago all the strangeness started: large moths in July that clung on everywhere silently filling and occupying all the spaces from the ground up, so that playful schemes for summer were overlooked: the mock fishing parties, the state-sponsored harvests, the tree planting jamborees. Since all-in-one pellets had been lab-perfected, people had not worried so much at the soil, had not forced food from it. Communal gardens wilted in the grey heat, un-watered and thoughtlessly trodden over.

Many of the old, slow, ways were bypassed in an age when constant technical advancements seemed to promise so much. The earth couldn’t help being old-fashioned, though our few impatient efforts yielded little. There was small patience and no faith whatsoever, in the halls of our technocrats. The white coats clung ferociously to their ascendancy, but for how much longer?

As she slowly and patiently got out of bed that morning, Edith puffed a little, straightened her back and grimaced as she felt the itchy blanket of small aches and pains begin their accustomed jig over her joints. Must ease up on the late nights, be a good girl, she thought carelessly, as she cranked up her day. Creeping downstairs in shabby gown and slippers, clutching a deliberate fondness for those plodding, careful things of her youth which she understood marked her as eccentric, Edith used a fifth of her daily allowance of drinking water to make a pot of tea, partnering the nondescript china with a stained tea cosy. Though plain and small, the small brown piece was her favourite, one of the few pleasing and useful items she had inherited from her mother. The gentle roundness cradled exactly in her hand, like a warm, live thing.

This morning, as every morning, there was a calm slowness in the small rituals of breakfasting. The early air breathed balm through her kitchen windows. Many times she had been urged to leave the shabby, peeling old house, which was very gently falling apart, sliding peaceful into decay. But Edith would have missed the sweeps of wind under the grey sky, the blowing clouds that welcomed her each morning at the kitchen window. She had remained in this house for over sixty years, had moved back in permanently after her mother had gone over to the other side in 2071, and in the midst of the everyday tasks of cooking, cleaning, washing and baking, she would glance up and grin at the changes outside, the colours that clung on within the seeping seasons which, despite the grey, slipped innocently forward with a faith that Edith always found moving.

When her husband and only son had still been alive, the small family had kept together here. Before Harold had passed on (they had said it was “cumulative toxicity” a diagnosis she thought was surprisingly honest) he had worked all across Europe. He was lucky, since his work carried with it options to travel on business all over, from Paris to Moscow, and Edith had sometimes travelled with him. She cherished vivid, child-like memories of the grand, old government charter planes, which were equipped to take those able to pay (or who called in favours) away from The Protectorates. Harold, with his responsibility for seeing through the effective administration of fuel coupons, was able to secure occasional holiday flights to Madagascar or Tunis, where the sky had then still shown through as glimmers of patchy blue and shards of yellow.

That had been when Edith was in the first flush of her married life, a fresh and beautiful wife of twenty-six. Now she had walked so far into her dotage, there was great comfort in knowing that her happy days were safely in her past, for her to recall as she wished. With quiet gleaming pride, she was aware that she was almost entirely beyond the reach of the authorities, simply because she was “pushing” ninety. An image of herself dressed in a combat outfit, brandishing her broom (the nearest thing she possessed to an “offensive weapon” and therefore liable to be confiscated by the Civilian Authority) came to mind and she chortled, a deep, happy chuckle. Although this broom of hers was so ancient that the bristles were ragged, falling out, and the shaft was pulling away at its moorings, Edith would not be persuaded to part with it even for one of the “nice new ones” being offered down at the Exchange. No doubt some covetous busybody was anxious to get their hands on the wonderful wooden handle and top, but they weren’t having it, not yet. In her faded slippers Edith stepped silently about, dancing a small dance of freedom.

Life With Arial

I see life clearly in Arial twelve point, when I am typing. My mother says it is too basic a font, unrefined and rather ambiguous. But I see it as straightforward, smooth and undemanding, generously allowing me get on with what I want to write, rather than having to work through the sweep of clever lines and blocking corners. Times New Roman, for example, feels quite alien to me and rather overblown. Since everyone chooses to use it, it seems to have become rather full of itself.

Perhaps my preference for the Arial typeface merely reflects the differences between my mother and me. While I enjoy a challenge, at times I can find myself too easily unbalanced and overthrown; I need to be able to see where I am plotting my path, well in advance and with no nasty surprises. Keeping going can be a rather tedious, short sighted sort of preoccupation, so that the last thing I need is life with extra knobs on. My mother, on the other hand, seems to be able to dismiss complexity easily. “Darling, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” It makes me smile, broadly, but I keep my loyalty to Arial. Besides, Arial sounds like its brother, the Archangel Ariel, whereas Times New Roman sounds like an oppressive, imperialist stride.

Before long, I’m going to start narrating for the audio copy of my first book, which is being published on 4th March. I’ve never done anything like that before, but it will get me out of the house, make me work, and focus my mind on producing a good sound. When I write, I like to talk through my work anyway, which I hope has been good practice for what happens next. In a sound-proof booth I shall be speaking into a mike, a sound engineer working with me just beyond the glass. Hopefully, just me and her. (I was going to say “him” but I threw that in there just as a little surprise.)

I’ve been busy preparing an audio script, double spaced, lots of room to remind me to slow down, and in twelve point Arial, which will feel familiar and soothing. I like the thought of an angel with me, when I am speaking aloud the most intimate details I have ever shared – an unusually emotional challenge. It is easy to write confessional material late at night in the privacy of home. But speaking it aloud, how will that feel?

Innocence is Precious

“Hundreds of Benefits Claimants are fined every day” is the headline in a recent paper, revealing a dramatic increase in the number of sanctions issued to those who fail to turn up for DWP interviews or to attend to the other requirements of finding a job. You had no money to phone the jobcentre because your mobile phone ran out of credit because you were sanctioned last week? Too bad, here is another sanction to reward you for your efforts….. Sanctions appear to be levied for the strangest reasons, including, not being able to attend two appointments at the same time, and waiting to start a new job.

The current belief that underpins the increase in sanctions and the general tightening of belts is one that screams, “Scroungers, wasters, the lot of them” and so, with that assumption firmly in place, automatically the collective mind charged with administering benefits goes on the lookout for evidence to support that belief. Subconsciously, evidence is found which bolsters that assumption, as well as a whole raft of other assumptions, which are naturally filtered and selective.

The same process happens when we go around saying to ourselves, “I feel sick”. We look for any evidence that vindicates our belief; and the difficulty or discomfort we create in passing is thus not seen as regrettable, but as inevitable.

In that sense, the fact that there has been a huge increase in the number of sanctions being levied against the poorest and most desperate merely bolsters the underlying belief that there are lots of chancers out there, who will do anything to fiddle the system. This is just the tip of the ice-berg, we are just beginning to uncover the scale of the deception…. The presumption of innocence is very precious, yet seems to be under attack in all quarters. The Scottish Parliament seems bent on abolishing the doctrine of corroboration in Scotland too, so that more guilty people will get the justice they deserve.

Innocent people deserve a break too.

Sleeping

Today has been interesting. I slept in, in my – finally! – super-comfortable bed. (Buy a very cheap duvet and tuck it in under the mattress cover.) I tidied the house, went for a swim and came home to scoff lunch and do some writing.

By the by, I may have discovered why partners in life find it hard relating to each other – both parties are working too hard for meaningful leftovers, though it does help when we can laugh about it.

If my husband works an extra hour a day, that equates to four hundred and eighty hours a year, or thirteen work weeks a year. If I am sitting here typing in the evenings (he is a lark, I am an owl) then all he sees of me when he finally achieves his armchair, is my back. Okay, my shoulders and my mop of hair, but these are not good conversationalists or listeners. Both would be dominated by a clicking sound which is me at the keyboard…

I suspect that it would not take long to retrain my bad habits, though. A couple of weeks with more self-respectful expectations might be all that’s needed to start something different and more fun. I’ll give it a go. Meanwhile here is a piece of flash fiction, which some of you have met before.

Vive La Difference

In the evenings, he reads ‘til he snores, and when I quietly turn off the telly, he jerks awake, saying “Hey! I was watching that….!” By then, I’m all worked up, waiting for the final piece of some crappy police thriller drama he wanted to catch – not me – while there’s him, snoring peacefully. Did I miss anything? I am the one sat freezing in my dressing gown, while he sleeps, fully clothed, his arms hanging limp. Why did he switch the telly on?

The boy looks at me as he clambers into bed: Don’t put your book away, he urges, as I politely lay it aside. I am the one who wants to be noticed, caressed, loved, while he sits and reads. But I brought him into that habit, and now I don’t know how to ask him to stop. He, having slept soundly, is now wakeful and happy to read…there is a glint in his eye, enthusiasm, and all I feel is exhaustion.

I am sharp, his edges are smoothly rounded and gentle. He is funny, I am either weary and tired, or acid and bile. I wear the trousers, he is fond of his kilt. All in all, we mix and match, because he is what I am not. A gentle man who smiles, who finds much to enjoy in a sharp woman, who is all elbows and sticking out hair. He likes his women strong, I think. Do I like gentle men? Yes, of course I do. We both smile, we laugh.

R & R

I was just telling my daughter it’s not surprising I like her to read. The three R’s, – reading, writing and ‘rithmetic – are rapidly being overtaken in the common lexicon by R & R, rest and relaxation. I spend a lot of time either reading or writing. I use my three R’s all the time, even during R & R.

Do we need to learn our three R’s, when we have kindle, google and i-pads to give us all the answers and to write for us? Some of my daughter’s school friends take their i-pod touches to school, keep them in their trays and play on them in their spare time. Each classroom also has its own smartboard and i-pad. No-one thinks this is a bad idea, because any time anyone needs any answers, they can just look them up, which makes them great learning tools.

Are we simply treating these learning resources like vast libraries? Undoubtedly, by those who develop and refine them, that is how their use is most creatively envisaged, but perhaps an unintended consequence is that pupils begin to take their learning into their own hands. If they don’t want to listen to the teacher, there are probably lots of subtle ways to bypass their authority. Will teachers become redundant?

Perhaps it is new concerns like these which are leading the mainstream media to flag up the dangers of creeping dependence and overuse, on youth programmes such as “Newsround”. I doubt, though, that a few targeted features on the dangers of x-box will withstand the tidal wave of new, innovative and exciting technology.

R&R is what I do. I read and write for fun, and recently it has also netted me a few bucks, so I’m not complaining. And I seem to remember that when I was my daughter’s age, I spent much of my time reading either ‘Peanuts’ or Tintin books. It was only later, at the start of adolescence, that reading actual books with no pictures became a fixture. Seline is at that tantalising age where it could go either way, so I wait and watch, and hope that my compulsion to read and write will also inform her learning.