Pushy Parents - Beware

They are everywhere. Thankfully I no longer have to deal with them, but at one time I did – a lot. I was a teacher and I had three of my own children. So they were coming at me from two sides for quite some time.

As regards my own children, the parents of the cohorts of my two oldest children were the worst. Or at least I believed so, but then I hadn’t yet had any real experience of the pushy parent, only the competition some people engaged in about how long they had breast fed their babies.

My own parents, particularly my mum, just expected me to do what I had to do and to do it as well as I could. ‘’No one can do any more than their best, so just do your best.’  Recalling my mother’s advice, it seems clear to me that many contemporary parents would do well to take that stance rather than engage in the helicopter parenting that is so prevalent today.

In addition, contemporary parents are continually praising the slightest barely virtuous thing that the child does. The child says thank you and the parent is in rhapsodies. The child puts some rubbish in a bin, that it had initially dropped on the ground, and the praise is fulsome, ‘Well done Hugo, well done Cordelia,’ and so it goes.

It is no surprise then that it is the middle classes who are the pushiest of pushy parents. As a parent I wanted my children to do their best, and, naturally, to do well. My eldest child was not academically interested. He was intelligent enough but interested in other things. Because of this I worried about him and misguidedly tried to force him to be academic. I was foolish – in the extreme. To excuse myself to some slight degree, it felt as if everyone else was pushing their child to academic success and a great university, followed by a brilliant career. So I pushed too. I should not have done.

My other two children were academically inclined and also I was much more relaxed. They did not need pushing, because they pushed themselves. Their teachers must have liked me, for the simple reason that I never complained, demanded more homework or harder homework, or asked for my children to be paid more attention. There was just one moment of awkwardness at a parents’ evening for my second son, when his teacher said to me, ‘Your son has got long hair!’ My response was, ‘And you’ve got short hair. Can we talk about my son’s progress in science please.’

It is a commonplace to say that some parents are inclined to live out their own thwarted ambitions through their children. Never is this more evident than on the football field. Of this, I have experience. Dutifully, on Sunday mornings, I would turn up to watch football matches in which a child of mine was involved. The parents’ behaviour was shocking. The children were fine, aged between eight and twelve. Some of the parents watching would behave as if each match was a cup final and that each referee was a subhuman, happy to be abused. The referees were paid £5 to deal with as many as three matches some Sundays. They were doing it for the love of the game, not for the princely wages.

It is usually men who come to mind when you think of those yelling at football matches, but the women are every bit as bad. One freezing cold Sunday morning we headed off to Maltby, once a mining town in Yorkshire. The ground was hard, the wind was biting, but you stick around to support your child. There was an incident. One boy pushed another boy on the opposing team. There was a bit of a do between the boys, but soon attention was drawn away from them by their mothers, who were scrapping on the hard ground. One woman had said to the other, ‘You want to have a word with that lad of yours, he’s a bully.’ The other woman replied. ‘It’s not my fault love if your lad’s a puff and can’t stay on his own two feet.’ And down on the ground they went, much to the amusement of the spectators, but what about these women’s sons? They must have been truly embarrassed. What’s more, the boys had been made to shake hands by the pitiably paid referee, and as a result they were fine with each other.

It is often the case that pushing your child too hard or in a direction they do not want to go, will result in rebellion or burn-out. One woman I know who boasted continually about what a genius her child was and whose child was involved in  some worthy activity after school every day, rebelled aged 14 and did poorly in her GCSE’s. I often wonder what effect seeing her mother weeping because she had not got into the Maths Challenge team, aged 10, had on her. It could only have been detrimental. Life is full of knocks, so it would have been so much better to have said, ‘Oh well, you win a few you lose a few. You’ll be fine. Let’s go home and have tea.’

My Dad - much missed

It is thirteen years now since my dad died. This afternoon I was driving back home and Canon in D by Pachelbel came on the radio. Within seconds of hearing it, I had to pull over as my eyes were full of tears. That was the music we had at my dad's funeral  - it was music that he loved, hence why we chose it. My tears this afternoon surprised me. Maybe they shouldn't have done. As I have heard people say so many times, you never get over it but you do learn to live with it.

My dad never once told me that he loved me. For a long time I didn't think he did love me. When I was  a small child, he was absent most of the time. He was working - working hard. Long hours were how it was for a proud working class man, with a wife and two small children to feed. Not only did he work hard, he also spent the time he did have at home making furniture. There was no sitting and playing with the children, no quality time, no story reading. Your children were fine if they were fed,  clean and had a roof over their head. No helicopter parenting in those days.

We fought, my father and I, argued viciously, during my teenage years. He railed at me for not spending every waking minute doing homework. He told me I was wasting my place at grammar school by wanting to go out with friends and by listening to 'that bloody pop music' with my brother. Then there were boyfriends who he loathed. He couldn't use their names - it was always 'laddo' or 'that bloody rogue' despite the fact that most of these teen romances were with really decent boys.

Despite his objection to my friendships with the 'laddos' he never realised quite the amount of anxiety and sorrow he caused by his affair with a woman who lived about a half mile away. My mum and brother never broached the topic - but I did. I called him a hypocrite, a liar and worst of all an absolute bastard for upsetting my beloved mother.

At eighteen, I went to university. I worried about my mum. She told me she was fine. What struck me though was that if I hadn't been home for the weekend for a while, my dad would ring me up. 'Now then,' he would begin. 'Time to get yourself home and to see your mother.' The phone would go down. That was it. Message delivered.

When I started working, things between my father and I began to change - for the better. I had begun teaching and was finding it hard-going. I mentioned this to him and he said, with utter conviction, words I will never forget. 'It might be hard, but I can think of no one better placed to do that job than you. So get stuck in and prove that you can.' So rare were my dad's words of praise, that these words were enough to equip me to keep going. I am so glad I did.

The relationship between my dad and me improved enormously when I had my first child. Then my second and finally my third.  He was a doting granddad and with my children; he would play, read and entertain them by dropping his false teeth down over his top lip. They loved this and would demand he did it again and again. For each birth he gave me ten pounds. He regarded labour as hard work, which it undeniably is. He gave me wages for hard work.

Towards the end of his life, i lived in fear of him dying. By now we had reached the point where we were very close. I could talk to him about most things. His wisdom, his suffering as a Prisoner of War for three and a half years, the family in general, my mum and brother in particular, his mum, his sister and all manner of politics and current affairs.

The end was approaching. My dad was in hospital, annoyed with himself for not getting any better. The fact was that with a sixty a day habit, which admittedly he had kicked several years ago, there was always going to be some serious damage to his respiratory system. His heart too was struggling and despite powerful steroids, my dad was getting worse; savage asthma attacks were  becoming more frequent.

The call came from the hospital. My mum, brother and I headed off. He died that night. The memory of his laboured breathing as he departed this life, is seared into my brain. I told him I loved him and though he never said it, I know he loved me.

I miss you dad.

The disgraced mayor of Tower Hamlets forced to stand down

It was with such relief and more than a little joy when I heard that Lutfur Rahman had been removed from his post as Mayor of Tower Hamlets. Almost any fraud, any cheat and any dishonesty that you can imagine, were committed by this man. For instance, the judge who ousted him found that this man used fake voters to win elections for him. He used public funds for his own aggrandisement. He offered grants to people who might bolster his position.  He took money intended for The Alzheimer's Society - yes, you did read that right. And, he took money from one of the poorest wards in East London - those inhabitants need every bit of help they can get.

 I am in the East End as I write. I have family here and I love to visit and sometimes work here too. Today, as I walked along Ronan Road in East London, I was struck by the obvious poverty surrounding me. Many have no education and many of theSeeing the people who Rahman cheated made his crime all the more hideous - preying on the very people whose lives he should have been making better. These people are the ones he intimidated and threatened, telling them that if they didn't vote for him they were bad Muslims and that they were making God angry.

Rahman used the race card innumerable times. One of those times, he attacked, with great ferocity, the Labour candidate John Biggs. When Labout began its canpaignm the whole campaign was racist. Rahman himself to anyone who tackled him said that they were members of the English Defence League. In fact anyone who challenged him including the BBC, was branded a racist. So, thank goodness that we have the courts to decide who is and who is not guilty. Rahman was found guilty. So, the consequences of his crimes are that he must pay a huge sum of money. The worst one though is total humiliation. Those he frightened and those he cheated can afford a satisfied smile, at the very least.

What I can no longer tolerate - Part 2

So, here is the second part of what I can tolerate no longer. The first point of this second post concerns those who have no joy in their lives. To be able to laugh, to see the funny side, to want the best for those you care about are all integral parts of a person who has joy. These people have the capacity to lighten the mood, to raise the energy in the room. Sadly for me, there is a person in my family, not a blood relative, I will swiftly add, who brings misery to any living room she seats herself in - mine unfortunately on every New Year's Eve. No matter how cheerful you try to be she will bring you down with tales of immigrants running and ruining everything, the country's debt, the deteriorating behaviour of young people, the proliferation of homosexuals and the fact that she doesn't see her family as much as she would like to. I have given up trying to change her  - she is old, will not listen to reason and actually wants to stay as she is - and be  joyless of course.

I can no longer tolerate those people who show so little sensitivity for others that they boast about their lives in the presence of those who do not have such a good life. In one group of friends that I am a part of, there is one woman who is very wealthy. She talks, often dominating the conversation, about her properties abroad, the hotels she has stayed in, both abroad and in this country,  her shopping trips, her wardrobe, her many kitchen gadgets and her inheritance from her wealthy mother. Her little girl voice is employed as she says thank you to a compliment you might pay. For instance, 'I like your plates and dishes.' Then comes the cringeworthy response. 'Oh, do you? I'm so pleased. It's so kind of you to say so. I love their pattern, don't you?' And on it goes - to the point where you wish you had kept silent. She who has everything should keep schtum in the presence of those who don't. Thankfully she has moved away now, and that was one leaving party I was more than happy to attend.

I can no longer stand competitive people, in particular competitive parents. It feels as if it never ends. I regret - massively, having got caught up in all that when my children were at school. What on earth was I thinking?  The reading books at infant school were colour coded and therefore it was clear as to which child was on which level. One of my children learnt to read when he was very young. That meant that he was flying through the reading scheme. Consequently, the number of parents who asked me, how was it the case that my child was reading so well, grew each day. The truth was that my child was just good at reading. I had another child who was not good at reading and the comments, this time were along these lines. 'Don't worry. They all get there in the end, you know.' How bloody patronising!

But it doesn't end there. At secondary school, GCSE results were a real contest. Bumping into one woman on the street, she asked me how my child had got on. She didn't listen to the answer - she only asked so that she could tell me that her daughter 'was drowning in A*s'. I ask you!

There's more - the A levels, the university, the degree, the job and on and on and on. Is this a new thing - this discussing your children with your friends? I have no recollection of my parents talking about me or my siblings with their friends. No doubt they had better things to talk about.

I can no longer tolerate those who talk about themselves, r their family all the time. No matter what you say (if you can say anything) this person brings it back to themselves.

Meanness - that I can tolerate no longer. I used to say nothing, accept this trait in people while not liking them. Those who leapt out of the taxi first, to avoid paying, those who never had any change so could they settle up tomorrow, if you don't mind. Those who will stay in someone's house for a fortnight and who, throughout that time, will not offer a contribution to the food or suggest that they treat the host to a meal (several, surely). It is not just about paying your way, by not being mean, in other words, being generous, you will no doubt feel better about yourself.

When we say someone is mean, we don't always mean that they are mean with money. There is meanness of spirit, when someone will use a friend to their own ends, where they need to discuss their problems but where they are not happy supporting someone else because they are so self-absorbed. Friends are there to help not to be helped.

 One thing is for sure though, if you're not mean you will be happier and much more popular.On your death bed do you want to reflect on the fact that you were kind, generous, thoughtful, or do you want to congratulate yourself, for using people and for screwing money out of people when you will shortly be going where all must go and where money means nothing?

The Hair on our Heads

We all have it - at least we all had it. I do not know anyone who is happy with their hair. If it's straight, the owner would kill for curls. If it's curly then only poker straight will do. Ever the way. Other man's grass.

Because we have hair, a massive multi-billion dollar industry has developed. Shampoo, conditioners, gells, serums, mousses, masks, hairsprays, anti- frizz products, dyes of every possible colour and more - all exist essentially so that you can change what nature has given you.

From the age of 16 I have been dying my hair. My natural colour is medium brown. Sadly now, medium brown with plenty of grey.  I began my hair dying career with an enticing package called Hint of a Tint. Because at the age of 16 I knew everything, including how long I should keep the purple mixture on my hair,  I decided that ten minutes was not enough, as stated on the instructions, and that half an hour was really what they had intended to say.  It was a mistake. My hair was the colour of cherries. That would not have been so bad for a 16 year old today, where any colour goes and we are so used to seeing rainbow colours, but this was a few decades prior to contemporary teenagers, so I had to shampoo my hair many times, many times. My forehead was purple as were my temples. Hint of a Tint. Not so much a hint as a definite instruction.

Next came Harmony. I believe this one was a permanent hair dye, unlike Hint of a Tint. Again, I knew best. Now though I was at university and even then, in the late seventies ideas about hair colour were becoming liberated. I ended up with an intense mahogany colour, which I really liked. It was probably my favourite ever hair colour, and I have known a few.

For a while I dispensed with hair dye and my colour changer of choice became peroxide - neat peroxide applied with a ball of cotton wool directly onto my hair. How my hair did not just fall out, I do not know. I continued doing this for three whole years.

Bored with blond I decided to use henna - natural henna. You could buy it from health shops, which were new things. Henna was sold in plastic bags. It was green powder and it had to be mixed with warm water. The smell was earthy, wood like, not really the desired scent for hair. The bathroom would take a hit too. So much to clear up. Weeks later I would spot a blob of henna somewhere in the bathroom, which made me feel guilty because at that time I was sharing a house with six other people.

Later, Nice'n Easy became my dye of choice and regularity. It continues to be so. In between applications of Nice'n Easy I sometimes go to the hairdresser's to have a 'full head' as the term goes.

Some say you can tell much about the image a person is trying to project by how they wear their hair. There is something in that, I'm certain. A precise, perfectionist is unlikely to have a mane of flowing hair, any more than a free spirited, loving the outdoors type, who lives off the land is likely to have a neat, precise no hair out of place, Mrs. Thatcher style, wouldn't move in a force nine gale, head of hair.

This leaves me to wonder that if we do, at least to an extent, choose how we have our hair, then why does the current Chancellor of the Exchequer imitate Caesar Augustus?

I no longer ...... That which I can no longer tolerate.

I believe I'm a pretty tolerant person. Having taught for 30 years I think I could claim that I've  experienced many different types of people. Apart from a very few, there was something redeemable in all of them - hence my justification to the claim of being a being a tolerant person.

Though it might seem rather grand, I would like to start with Schopenhauer, the German philosopher,  1788- 1860. Because he says it so well I am going to borrow his words on a topic I feel very strongly about and that is our treatment of animals. I can no longer bear to be in the company of someone who doesn't care about animals. Here goes Schopenhauer,

'Compassion for animals is intimately connected with goodness of character and it may be confidently asserted that he who is cruel to animals cannot be a good man.' 

Exactly! (Of course he means women too but in those days they always used the male person. We'll forgive him).

Also, I can no longer be bothered to try to make those who clearly don't like me, start to like me. I'm done - your loss. Arrogant? Maybe, but that is the truth of how I feel.

I can no longer bear to be in the company of those who are so keen to be perceived as politically correct that they ignore or deny the fact that gangs of Pakistani men groom, then sexually abuse young white girls. They do! The denial is cowardice and it prolongs the torture of the girls who, some say, have lost everything. They are empty shells after the abuse. They have no trust in the authorities as they have been ignored by the vey people who should have been protecting them.

I can no longer bear to listen to the unfounded nonsense some people (women) splurge, about how women are superior to men. It may be fashionable to say so, but to genuinely think that all women are superior to all men is patently stupid. As Doris Lessing said, 'It is now acceptable for the most stupid woman to insult the most intelligent and kind man.'

I can no longer bear to listen to those who trot out the party line unthinkingly. All disclaim racism, which is fine, except that, if the racism is towards Israeli Jewish then bizarrely, it is acceptable. It is as if there is an acceptability in 'hating' the Jews if they hail from Israel. Say what? Quite - nonsense.

I can no longer bear the attitude of people who do not believe in second chances, especially when the offender is young. I have met, in all my years in the classroom, no one who does not deserve a second chance. People change and often those who were the worst behaved, are those who, when given a second chance, make the most of that chance.

 There will be more of this, but, for now, I'll stop. (Need to allow my blood pressure to fall).

The Tragedy of some Animals' Lives

I am a relative latecomer to an awareness of animal abuse - abuse that humans inflict on animals. Without Twitter or Facebook I doubt I would have seen the horrors that I have seen and sometimes wish I hadn't seen.

Social media then, opens up the world and allows us to see so much that we wouldn't, in the natural way of things, have seen. We are able to see some of the beauty of our planet but it is not that to which I wish to draw people's attention.

What I have seen, I cannot unsee.  Those images are with me constantly now. The worst horrors that I have witnessed are those which animal activists have posted on to the internet. They include unconscionable scenes from China of bludgeoning dogs almost to death, then ripping off their skins while the dogs are still conscious. The dogs are stored by the hundred in net style cages. They are unable to move, dogs are piled on top of dogs. Many of the dogs have been stolen and were once family pets. The wait for slaughter can be several days. The dogs are neither fed, nor given water, at any time during their wait. Already, having been kidnapped, the dogs are traumatised. Seeing other dogs brought out of the netting cages, bludgeoned with hammers, chopped at, often with blunt knives, then having their skin ripped off, while still not dead, can only be the very worst of human cruelty.

As I write, the sound in the killing place is turned off. Can you then imagine the sounds of distress - the squeals, brought about by the traumatised dogs' utmost fear.  Can you smell the blood? Animals are keenly aware of blood, for their own protection and in the wild for their survival.

Some dogs are simply plunged into cauldrons of water - alive. They scrabble in desperation to reach the top of the cauldron but are callously shoved back in. It is to be hoped that death comes mercifully quickly.

Maybe, if you do something over and over again, even killing, it is the case that you become resistant, immune to suffering. Some people say that the dogs that are being killed are just that - dogs. They don't feel, they are just animals and therefore wholly dispensable. But. If you have ever owned a dog you KNOW categorically that your dog has a soul, that your dog has feelings, emotions, that your dog feels sadness and joy. You KNOW.

Often I wish I did not know about this cruelty. That way I would not feel like crying when images flood my head. It can catch you unaware, just as grief can, often many years after the loved one's death.  Nor do I want to know that my fellow human beings can behave in that way, so routinely, so callously and cruelly, without an iota of concern for sentient beings.

But worse, much worse is the knowledge that the dogs see other dogs killed right there in front of them. They know what's coming to them. They will experience such distress, torture and devastating anguish - and there is nothing I can do about it.

It is enough to make the angels weep.