It is a truth universally acknowledged that a teenaged male facing the hour of his examination has his own unique perspective on the amount of labour done to date and the amount yet remaining…

Next week is the Year 11 GCSE Maths exam. This week, J has been helping Jnr ‘revise’.

Dog has been under the table. Bel has been eating chocolate.

—————————————–

Version I: The Delusion

According to Pilgrim’s Progress:

Jnr’s Year 11 Secondary School Prom approaches…

Some of his classmates have been planning their ‘dates’ since Year 10, but just recently things have begun to hot up. Careful pairings have been agreed, dresses booked. The number of remaining singles has dwindled fast. Meanwhile, Jnr, aka Mr Mañana Man, has dragged his feet.

In the last six weeks, on and off, I have been party to a recurring conversation…

Me: Have you asked C to the prom yet?

Jnr: Nah. Not yet, no.

Me: Has she agreed to go with anyone else yet?

Jnr: I don’t think so.

Me: She’s waiting for you to ask her.

Jnr: Nah.

Me: She is. I’m telling you. Just ask her. Why not ask her?

Jnr: Dunno. Not the right moment.

Me: Why not? She can only say no.

Jnr: Exactly.

Me: But she won’t say no.

Jnr: *I’m not going if I can’t go with her.

Me: Then ask her. He who hesitates is lost. She’ll think you’re not interested. She’ll find someone else.

Jnr: Yeah. Tell me something I don’t know.

Me: [Laughs] What are you waiting for?

Jnr: [Emits a low moan] A week when I haven’t been a twat in class, when I can get her on her own…  Like yesterday.

Me: And?

Jnr: We got talking and. [Emits another low moan] It just went out of my head.

Me: Aw.

………………………………………………………………..

When I left school we were hardly aware of the date approaching.

The typical Seventies Comprehensive School Leaver’s Disco was a naff, disorganised, damp squib. The caretaker strung a few balloons and lights from a gantry in the drama room. There were no Goths, no Chavs, no Emos, no costumes, no concept of ‘dates’, definitely no limos. We put on our nothing-special glad rags - jeans mostly - applied a spritz of Charlie - tsssst! - gave our kissers a hopeful squirt of Gold Spot - tsssst! - a slick roll-on of cherrycoke lip-gloss (that stuff was like glue, if you ever did kiss a boy wearing it, he jolly well stayed there), hair - tssst! tssst! - were given a lift to school by our Dads, had a quick menthol ciggie behind the PE block, and crossed the threshold to adulthood, oblivious and entirely unnoticed. We cast off our school uniforms and left behind an important phase of our lives, feeling vaguely cheated, but not knowing quite why.

So I’m all in favour of this newfangled ritual, the Noughties Prom. I’ve had debates with people who think the fad for the The Prom is all Me-generation sleb-style excess, a vulgar American add-on which pastes tacky glitz onto the miserable acned face of traditional British adolescence. I disagree. I think the way the Americans have formalised and framed the transition from High School to life beyond - as a positive celebration - hits exactly the right note.

I’ve watched Jnr and his friends begin to assume a new maturity as the Prom draws closer. For a start, the fact that they’re looking forward to it is focussing their minds. Even the exams, which are inextricably linked to the Prom whether they like it or not, are coming into focus. This has benefits for everyone, for the imminent leavers themselves, and for their parents and teachers. Fear is sweetened by fun.

Because of the Prom, the Year 11’s seem to realise the transition is a big event and sense that they have an important part to play in it. There’s pride, not dread.  The need for planning ahead has helped; from what I’ve observed, the complex social negotiations and group activities which lead up to a Prom demand some fairly grown-up skills. As the details are finalised, these nascent adults are beginning to take the next stage of life,  and themselves, more seriously.

For the boys and girls to be formal, to wear stiff evening dress and have to deport themselves with a touch of decorum during a rite of passage, I think is a good thing. It’s the start of learning a useful trick - how to slip into a role and behave - at least at the start of the evening - like model proto-adults.

As for the credit crunch doom-mongers - it’s not necessary to spend a fortune to do The Prom in style. The frippery is there to add to the mystery, to make the event memorable, to acknowledge a set of significant farewells and foreshadow a new phase. Prom night itself is intended to be a game of ‘Let’s Pretend’ and the elements of fantasy needn’t be expensive, they just have to decorate the gaudy gateway, help everyone to capture the moment of gauche precocity on the cusp, decked in glamour and dressed in fun.

Some have argued against the Noughties phenomenon of The Prom because it can be seen as a coercive heterosexist charade. There is a Barbie and Ken element to some of the clothing chosen, it’s true, but last year, one of the best dressed Prom couples at Jnr’s school was openly gay. It was scarcely commented upon. Having grown up in the Seventies and read accounts of the miseries endured at school by gay contemporaries on forums, I know this fact represents progress.

The sweet sixteens of 2008 may be a little dreamy about red carpets, for sure, a little dazzled by the X-Factor, but they’re not sleepwalking nihilistically into their futures with no demarcation line, the way my generation did.  They have a sense of direction and entitlement which will help them. If the more aware among them ask themselves, as we did, as they leave school and hover on the brink of what is looking like the start of another cyclical recession: **’What Do I Get?’ the answer in 2008 is - at the very least - you get to go to The Prom.

…………………………………………………………………

Update. Jnr came home from school whistling yesterday.

Me: How was your day, then?

Jnr: I-astCeetothprob.

Me: What?

Jnr: I-astCeetothprob.

Me: What?

Jnr: I-astCeetothprob.

Me: Look. Slowly and clearly, word by word.

Jnr: I ASKED C TO THE PROM!

Me: Hurrah! [Waits. Nothing] And?

Jnr: SHE SAID [Pauses for effect] YESSS! - MACHOP!

Me: Great. That’s great. See. What did I tell you. [Sings] ‘Jnr and C. In a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.’

Jnr: Shuddup. [Smiles]

………………………………………………………………………………
I was sixteen in the summer of the War of the Worlds - a battle raged in the UK Singles Charts between Disco and New Wave - there was Another Music in a Different Kitchen. Barry Manillo caved to Siouxsie Sioux. Take a Chance on Me wrestled Because the Night.  Donna Summer went up against Sham 69. On the outside there was no contest, I’d abandoned my purple Spandex™ flares for a pair of skinny jeans and a baggy jumper, but secretly in my heart I still loved a good Disco tune. I still do. This would have been my Prom classic.

*If I Can’t Have You: Yvonne Elliman

** The Buzzcocks

Earlier this summer we noticed a foul smell outside the house.

On windless days, the area between the back door and the garage seemed to fill with a swampy reek, like methane. I kind of got used to it, but one night, when I felt headachy and the stink was really noticeable, I rang Transco Gas, just in case. What they said alarmed me. We were to extinguish all naked flames not light any appliances, until they had checked everything; they would be straight round.

Sure enough, there was a leak. Gas had dissolved into the surrounding soil, causing a toxic miasma at ground level. The men dug up the path, drilled through a wall and fitted a new section of pipe. What a mess, but they were confident it was fixed and departed as swiftly as they had come, leaving five cones, a bag of cement and a section of cordon on the grass.

Imagine my surprise then, five weeks later, when I left the house by the back door and caught a whiff of - gas? Or something like it. Right, I thought, that gives me an excuse to ring Transco, ask them to carry out another set of checks and cart their crap away at the same time.

The gas man paced the area with his gas meter - no readings - what a headscratcher. He could smell something, too, but the meter said it was not gas.  Nope, not gas. Nothing for it but to fetch the other meter, the one which was sensitive to ‘traces of hydrocarbons’. I left him to his investigations.

Minutes later the back doorbell rang. The man had an exasperated air about him. His expression was one of amusement mingled with resigned irritation.

‘You got a lot of hydrocarbons out there,’ he said.

‘Oh?’ I said. ‘Not gas?’

‘A lot of hydrocarbons. You’ve got some badly stored fluids out there. Open containers. You want to get Him to put lids on those. And I’ve moved that gas bottle. Shouldn’t store that in direct sunlight, He shouldn’t.’

I sensed he was building up to the punchline.

‘A lot of hydrocarbons. Round by that pile of motorbike parts under that tarp. And the meter went ballistic by the shed where those other parts are, and in the garage, where he keeps His bikes. But what I think it is -’ [and here he paused for effect] ‘- is that pile of containers in the small shed with the sink in. It looks like He’s been doing some sort of… experiment. With oil, or something.’

He led me to the shed and pointed,

‘There, see? There’s no gas, but if you ask me, that’s where I think the smell is coming from.’

I got to the bottom of it eventually.

Here, you can see for yourself.

J emerges from the bathroom, after a shower, dry, towel over shoulder, and hears Jnr, who is supposed to be doing his homework before we go out, playing the pernicious OCD teengame, Runescape. J bunches the towel over his bits, fig-leaf style, and approaches Jnr’s room, knocks briefly and enters…

J: Do your homework!

Jnr: Ugh - Dad! Put some clothes on!

J: You’re supposed to be doing homework. What are you supposed to be doing?

Jnr: German. Ugh - go away, Dad.

J: German, eh? The Germans* liked going about with no clothes on, did you know that?

Jnr: No they didn’t - ugh - you’re disgusting. Old man!

J: [Laughs] They did so. Germany is the home of naturism, and there’s nothing disgusting about the human body, we’ve all got one. It’s natural. Do your homework! [turns on his heel, arse out, and marches off like John Cleese doing his 'Don't mention the War' walk] Eins! Zwei! Drei! Vier! Eins! Zwei! Drei! Vier!

Jnr: Ugh. [Gets German book out. Pushes his door closed.  Mutters.] There’s nothing natural about it if you ask me…

Dad used ‘Nackende!’. It was super effective.

———————————————-

‘The Germans’ may be slightly misleading, but…

1893: Heinrich Pudor publishes Nackende Menschen: Jauchzen der Zukunst (Naked Mankind: a Leap into the Future), followed in 1906 by two books on Nackt-Kultur (naked culture).

1906: Richard Ungewitter publishes Die Nacktheit (Nakedness) which speedily becomes a best seller.

———————————————–

To Whoever it May Concern:

Please excuse Jnr for wearing his basketball shoes today.

It seems that the daily application of pavement friction to his right school shoe whilst skateboarding has entirely worn through the sole and rendered it susceptible to the ingress of water and flapping free. It is, in short, unwearable. The left one still looks almost brand new, which is irritating.

Contrary to his complaint, it is not our intention to make Jnr go about in the manner of a character from Dickens, but since there are only fourteen school days left until the end of term, and both Jnr’s feet are likely to extend to the next shoe size (again) during the summer holiday, we would rather not have to purchase a new pair at this point in time.

In order to avoid his being apprehended and detained wearing non-uniform shoes for rule-breaking, rather than legitimate, reasons, I understand that a custom has recently developed whereby ‘everybody’ is passing around defunct shoes to brandish as ‘proof’.

I thought it more appropriate to write a note.

The basketball shoes are black and sport no logos, so I trust, for this short end-of-term period only, you will appreciate our wish to economise and that Jnr’s uniform failings will be duly overlooked.

Many thanks,

B

………………………………………………………………………..

No, of course I didn’t send it.

ASDA knickers, they really are the living end.

I’m an average UK size 12, give or take, but I’ll tell you what, I’m convinced ASDA knickers fit no human female - of any size - anywhere. Whoever those Alan Whickers are modelled on, is not of this earth. I’ve had this chat with several friends. We all agree.

But when you’ve been round ASDA, scoured all the aisles, been hypnotised by the bizarre array of ’seasonal’ products (how many barbeque sets does a person need in one lifetime?) and then been dispirited by all the shiny, zany, chick-lit book covers in the ‘home’ section, and you’re just about ready to die, or at least to snatch an ‘indulgence purchase’ on your way out, you think, what’s it to be? Flowers? Chocolates? A cushion? And before you know it you find yourself in the knicker aisle. Knickers. Just the thing, a girl (or woman, even) can never have too many pairs of knickers.

ASDA knickers look okay at a glance. There are seasonal colours, nice designer touches, (little bows, see through side-strips, froufrou frills, hipsters, high-waisteds, whatever’s ‘in’). Nice, you think. And reasonably priced. Bargain. They’ll do a turn. So you pick a pair, hold them up to the fluorescent lights, yes, that size 12 looks about right, neither a baggy London Bridge nor a mere handkerchief of hope. So you give yourself permission, you go ahead, you pop them in the trolley…

Driving back, in the mirror, you catch sight of the shopping on the back seat and you get that little sashay sing-song going in your head, ‘I’ve got a pair of new knickers, new knickers, new knickers,’ and it lasts all the way home.

You put the freezer stuff away - the rest can wait - and run upstairs to try them on.

Oh. Will you never LEARN?

You thought you had a small arse. You thought you were fairly trim. You thought WRONG. So wrong. The label lied. Size 12? DE-LU-DED. Too thin there, too fat there. A plain bad fit. VPL nightmare. Your body is just, plain, WRONG.

You look miserably at the pastel coloured heap in the corner, where you flung the offending garment, and manage to retrieve just about enough self esteem to think, yes, but ASDA knickers? Ha ha. Of course. That’s it. It’s not you, it’s those damn cheapskate ASDA knickers! The patterns are wrong, corners have been cut, margins shaved, they don’t fit because of all the wonky sweatshop stitching. Endorsed by Jordan? Those knickers were not an ethical purchase and you’ve been punished for it, that’s all.

Oh, well. You can always take them back, but what a hassle.

Then you have an idea. Cheer up. Ebay! ‘Only worn once’. That’ll do it. Even factoring in the postage, you’ll make a profit.

Pass the faux-French catalogue, please. Time for some real consolation.

My first car was a Ford Anglia like this, below, with red seats, which a friend sold me for twenty quid. I drove it around for six months (without tax, couldn’t do it now) before it packed up and had to be towed away by the council. I used to take my cat in it. She became so used to cars she climbed into a neighbour’s car one day and ended up lost, miles away. Luckily, some ringing around traced her to the Cats Protection League and she was rescued. (I have more sense these days.)

It wasn’t until I got a job on an impossible bus route that I needed another car. This one was a white mini, 850 cc, with an unreliable starter-motor. In cold weather, in the winter, it would rarely do more than cough, let alone go up hill.

Every morning for weeks, before I could set off on my drive to work, I had to persuade my boyfriend (who would otherwise have laid in) to get up and give me a running bump-start. As I drove away (daren’t stop until I’d done at least five miles) I’d catch sight of him bent double in the road, wheezing. He hated that car. Particularly when I finally investigated how much a replacement starter-motor cost. Not much, as it turned out.

The Clio Years were the years of joint ownership. 1.8L, mint green with electric windows, compact and reliable, the Renault Clio was economical, fast, hatch-back, easy to park and together we drove the nuts off it, covered thousands of miles - Land’s End to John ‘o’ Groats - with lots of Big Loves in between. We were good on the move; not so good at staying still. The Clio never broke down, not once. Unlike the relationship between its owners…

Which brings me to the Rover Montego. If ever there was car designed for an Old Geezer, this was it. ‘The Montego comes from an era that earned Rover the kind of reputation it has since successfully lived down.’ Plush seats, central locking, automatic gears, in-car cassette player, de-mister, soft suspension and a big, fat, 2L engine. I bought it from my father. He had a good sense of timing, the old man.

That car was nothing but trouble from the moment I drove it away: the gear box fell out, something about it invited pranks, students sprayed it with foam and glue, every passenger with a hint of motion sickness from aged Aunt to babe-in-arms, instantly threw up in it. The seats were midnight blue and hard to clean. It broke down on the way to a funeral. Reverse gear failed on the new gearbox and, owing to the fact that we could not reverse, that same day, it was clamped. ( In a moment of minor triumph I did manage to persuade the clamper - almost unheard of - to remove the clamp. By then, I think, I had a mad look in my eye. ) Ah yes, the Montego. How we loved it. But that didn’t stop us selling it to a Banger Racer.

So what has brought all this on?

This. In April, our VW Passat (relatively new, relatively reliable) began belching black smoke on the way to the county town. A towaway job. Head gasket gone. The turbo mechanism was irreparably damaged, coolant from the air-con had gone everywhere and we were lugubriously informed that it was not ‘an economical repair’. Right now, it looks like a giant green metal carcass has landed between the hanging baskets and is in the process of slow decay. J has started dismantling and ebaying the good bits for parts… there is bubble wrap everywhere.

So we’ve had to re-animate The Dinosaur, the beast with the V8 engine which has been parked up, idle, untaxed, for two years - yes - the Landrover Discovery. Our big, embarrassing, bad-decision baby. The dreaded 4×4. The engine, of course, turned over first time. That thing will never die. As cars go, though, given it’s age, it can hold its Big End up against many another younger car on the *carbon footprint calculator, but the bad press makes me (a smallish blonde woman driver, the Demon Stereotype) feel like I’m going to be pelted with eggs on my way to town. (All say, ‘Ahh!’)

On the upside, it has always been fun to drive. For dump runs, standing stone hunts, beach trips, camping, you can’t beat it. We’ve shifted motorbikes, sideboards, most of the contents of a shed and carried out the greater part of two house clearances with it. J was even in an impromptu Landrover + trailer race up the bypass on the way to the dump once. What a white-knuckle ride that was. Yeeehar!

Cars, they’re not all bad, are they?

Kraftwerk: Autobahn

————————————

* the Cars v Carbon Footprint issue is a complex one, but I would just gently remind readers, in case there are any holier-than-thou’s out there, this car-driving socio-economic unit is only rearing the one Jnr future consumer…

Today, after listening to an incomprehensible tale of travails and woes concerning his P.E. t-shirt, I was prevailed upon by the Jnr party to write another Excuse Note…

……………………………………………………………………………………..

Dear Head of P.E.

Please excuse Jnr for not having the correct P.E. kit today.

I had thought he had a P.E. shirt, but I’m told I don’t understand. Apparently, the uniform has changed and the P.E. kit Jnr had been wearing (a white polo shirt) is not allowed.

A white cotton t-shirt with the school logo printed across it is now the thing. In search of one such, Jnr went out of his way, on his bicycle, to the usual uniform supplier, on his way home from school. Not only did they keep him waiting, they claimed not to know what he was talking about. They didn’t understand.

I’m told that today is the eleventh hour for the procurement of the said regulation replacement garment. Unfortunately, the conspiracy of ignorance around him means that Jnr has been unsuccessful in his quest.

Given my evident limited understanding of matters to do with school, my generally old and addled brain and my inability to perform magic at short notice, it is probably my fault. Sorry about that.

All I can say is that now I know about it, I will try to do better and ensure that he has one by next lesson.

Many thanks,

B

……………………………………………………………………..

No, of course I didn’t send it.

jnr_mothers_day,

We’ve all witnessed them; the slips of speech, traitorous words, fluffed lines, mis-remembered details, the little things which betray the subconscious motivations which lie beneath our conscious actions. (The Psychopathology of Everyday Life: Freud, S.)

Today was Mother’s Day, aka Mothering Sunday. What better day for a Freudian slip?

Like Christmas, like Valentine’s Day, like Father’s Day, Halloween and all the rest, Mother’s Day seems to have become yet another excuse for our culture to flog stuff to itself. I’m not keen on the principle, so, last week, I subtly let my family off the hook, urging them not to spend any money, not to make a fuss. Mother’s Day in our house is a little loaded, as those who know the story/s can imagine.

However, all that aside, I was given a treat; tea in bed, a poached egg on toast, a fruit yoghurt (decanted into a glass dish), a flowery napkin, two daffodils in a vase and a fine homemade card. [See above. Jnr has recently 'done' Roy Lichtenstein, dot art, at school.]

We had a lovely afternoon, doing the expected things, and by 4pm Jnr was freed to hang out with his mates, on condition that when he came back he tuned up his work placement letter ready for posting early in the week. [Update: Company X has written back asking for more detail. His face showed something more complicated than pure delight when he opened it...]

So. Come this evening, he sits down to continue with the reading around and drafting and… Oh, no. You’ll never guess what he’s done? You know that card he made me? Well, he must have left the letter, the one from Company X, face down on his desk, because - and he actually can’t believe he did this - he must have been so caught up in making the card - he accidentally grabbed that very piece of paper, to cut the rose out of it and… he holds up said letter and, sure enough, there is a rose-shaped hole right where the specifics should be.

But I shouldn’t worry, he adds, fixing it nonchalantly, hole and all, with the bottom part flapping free, to his pin-board, because he can remember what it said.

Today, that truth may stand. Tomorrow, after a day of school and the usual merry-go-round of happenings, I can be pretty sure he won’t remember the existence of Company X, let alone a word contained in any letter from them.

What now then? Decimate a Mother’s Day card, destroy a work of art, a labour of love, just to piece together the requirements of some dull task?

I’m hedging my bets on this one. As you can see, the card has been scanned.


…………………………………….

K - holiday’s over. Back to MsAnnThropy.

Today starts like this:

Two separate letters from Jnr’s school.

1. LATE ARRIVAL AT COLLEGE

It has come to our notice that Jnr has arrived at College after the normal registration time on two occasions…. will lead to a college sanction as mentioned above and possible involvement of the Education Welfare Services.

Two occasions? What? Give me strength. Is it me, or is the tone of this preposterous missive not just a tad disproportionate to the nature of the offence? Is it not a case of a nuke to *Nix™ a gnat?

2. WORK EXPERIENCE PROGRAMME

According to our records Jnr has not yet informed Mrs P (Head of Vocational Learning) of his work experience details…. despite the students being encouraged to secure their placement by the end of December 2007…. could you please contact Mrs P as soon as possible and complete the response sheet below.

Response sheet? Here, sir, is my response;

Jnr’s attempt to secure a work placement has been a long, agonising saga of letters drafted, rewritten, tears, frustration, apathy, epic battles, surrenders, rallies and defeats, the tedious details of which I will refrain from recounting here, but - after all the sturm and drang - I had thought it was sorted.

His father and I had done all that was humanly possible - I had thought the bloody letter had gone off, that the wheels were in motion, that the week’s placement - in May - still three months away, mind - was now in the lap of the gods.

However, I am now unreliably informed that something must have gone awry, that the gods have it in for him, that something much more complicated and unintelligible has conspired against Jnr’s noble sally upon the barricade of temporary gainless employment and…

In short, I will never get to the bottom of it and…

Gah. Of course I didn’t put that on the stupid form. I did the right thing.

Today ends like this:

Exhausted by the determined interrogation and nailing of an equally determined, highly indignant and slippery suspect, I finally take my socks off and sit barefoot, with a glass of wine, warming my toes by the fire, turn on some bubblegum t.v. and pick up my book.

I’m cheered - out of the corner of my eye I catch a fleeting glimpse of male forearms and hands plunging into a bowl of strawberries, mashing and squeezing the fruit rhythmically, sensuously, caressing the solids, playing in the juice, going all Nigella (in a male way) and I forget my trials - until - the camera pans up and - oh - it’s - Jamie Oliver.

I drain my glass despondently and slink into into the kitchen for a refill forgetting that Dog will not eat any brand of biscuit dog-food mixer without first delicately picking half of it out and spitting it onto the kitchen floor and, as I head for the bottle, I tread on a trail of cold, nasty, soggy, dog-biscuits, three of which stick to the soles of my naked feet.

Great.

(*Nix™ is a nit treatment with which we became familiar in Jnr’s earlier years. Instructions for use: First, catch suspect, then apply. Repeat.)

…………………………………….