Egos a-go-go

I am sure that alter egos run amok in any given household. Characters we play when not being our regular selves. Or, indeed, exaggerated versions of those very real aspects that are normally hidden under the many layers of etiquette and dilution/delusion. Just as the Incredible 'you wouldn't like me when I'm angry' Hulk takes over Dr Robert Bruce Banner when provoked, we all have our inner monsterfications.

And there is certainly more than our fair share in this family. I like to think it reflects our obviously advanced and complex intellects, the deepness of the Kirk psyche, and the sensitivity of our souls. That, and the fact that we just get really mad sometimes.

So when the invoked spirit of Bob Dylan, or a bat (as in totally batty) is not the prime motivation of the actions of N, for example, his alter ego is a household smoke alarm. Let me elaborate; they go on and on and on for no good reason, not being stopped by any human means, until they have been ignored for long enough and have saturated every cell with the incessant wailing noise. Then it stops for no more reason than it began, bringing welcome and delicious silence.

Dad's is a dopey guard dog. Sleepy and content for the majority of the time, doing his own thing, occasionally scratching. Until he will pick up on some obscure scent and pursue it for all it is worth, barking and growling terrifyingly at it until satisfied, safe in the knowledge that some nod to the job he is supposed to be doing has been made. Then back to a nap. An alter ego that makes an appearence every so often as well, is a history teacher, David Starkey-esque in tone.

Harry Potter (an ever reliable source) holds the key to J's alter egos. It'll be Dobby one moment, babbling excitedly but incomprehensibly, Moaning Myrtle the next, complaints abounding. And then, of course, there is the Whomping Willow. Watch out is all I can say. Those branches can seek you out however careful you are, giving you a big old metaphorical smack in the face. These all switch from one to another like magic. Yet all these personas can be summed up rather more simply: Teenager.

Having so many fingers in so many pies, and being the epicentre of home life, it is inevitable that Mum has so many alter egos. There is Delia Smith (or Nigella Lawson if in a more adventurous mood), Beethoven (battling on despite deafness) and Napoleon (strategist and general extroadinaire, and often striking terror into the troupes, i.e us) to name but a few.

And mine? Well, my alter ego is the sedate clam.

A Plea, Will Self, and I

This week I have been mostly being a freedom fighter and culture crusader.

Whereas last week saw me flying the flag for Fair Trade in assemblies, it was the turn of freedom and the abolition of slavery to be ignored by a hall full of blank, sleepy faces each morning this week. On the bright side, I do get to use a microphone and hear my voice booming about me in a diva-like fashion at an ungodly hour. There are perks.



Today marks 200 years since slavery was abolished and has been dubbed Freedom Day. Happy Freedom Day to all! To show our support at school we put forward a plea for all those interested to contribute to our Freedom Wall (which, I suppose, should technically be a Flimsy Freedom Sheet, but same difference) and we were inundated. It was the lure of paint, and mess, and the association with first school frolics with handpainting that drew the crowds. What we were left with would not look out of place as an instalation piece at the Tate Modern. I have only just rid myself of the paint beneath my fingernails. The lengths I go to for a good cause (looking like a grubby street urchin/child from down t'pit), and the sacrifices I make (my gnarled fingernails) know no bounds. Let's just hope that they fail to notice that the permanent marker and paint went through to the corridor wall...


And so from the charitable and compassionate, to the downright Self-ish (see what I did there? Clever huh?). Who would have thought Hexham was such a cultural hotbed, a literary feast of sustenance to nourish us throughout the weekend. And the patron saint of grumpy himself, blissfully acerbic, sardonic, and laconic, Mr Will Self graced our humble theatre with his mighty presence. Decked in head to toe black, walking booted and sallow cheeked, he enthralled with his drawl. The 'creative writing' tinged tone of the festival surroundings paled into insignificance as he took to the stage.




What a dude. And we have an autograph. Not for sale on e-bay. J insisted on asking him what a dystopia was (a preoccupation and repeated theme of the talk). Will - and I feel that we are now on first name terms - gave him the same answer as I did. 'You know what a utopia is? Well, it's the opposite of that really'. J was determined to ask a clever question though, and I looked like a pillock, knowing fine well what dystopia meant and grinning blankly. I should have made some cutting remark, looked really grumpy, and asked him for a cigarette or something stronger. That's the Self style after all.


Poetry the morning after didn't have quite the same 'struck right between the eyes' effect. Flowers and singing birds just don't strike the same tone funnily enough.

Save the Polar Bears!

Sorry for going all political on your ass and all, but my speaking out on the controversial issues plaguing the planet today is long overdue. And I know that the world has been unanimously holding its breath regarding my thoughts on the state of affairs in these modern times...

Well, I got to thinking when watching 'An Inconvenient Truth' (though as 'Inconvenient' as it was, I still took the trouble to watch it all the way through, and aren't you glad?) as to how things would be if the eco-warrior and fine figure of a toothsome, nutritious man, Al Gore-geous had indeed got his spade-savvy hands on the top job at the head of a superpower. Of course the film did betray signs of that wholesome American sentimentality which makes me faintly nauseous (they can't help it; being American, it's always going to seep in somehow), but he comes across as a genuinely decent chap. He is a little orange, and a little Donald Trumpesque for my taste, but we'll let that slide as he has proved he can pronounce such words as 'infrared radiation' and 'deforestation'.

Just imagine if he was in office today. The cartoons of Steve Bell would be a little less entertaining for one. And chimpanzees wouldn't have half the publicity they currently receive. Michael Moore would be a whole lot less successful, with less satirical footage to play around with. Ditto Dead Ringers. In fact, quite a bit of the entertainment industry would suffer. So maybe the economy really is better off without Mr Gore and his crazy ideas about (frantic hand gestures resembling quotation marks in air) 'global warming' and this thing they call 'climate change'. Would we really have wanted such a nutcase running the most powerful country in the world? Heavens no, that would be ridiculous.

Thank goodness for that pesky state of Florida and their inability to count or avoid corrupt dealings. Now that really is the American way.

Sorcery to Horsery; the transition of Harry Potter

Alas, we must mourn true innocence and purity of bygone days.

Just as Alice in Wonderland is forever ruined for me with the sordid suggestions that the once idolised author, Lewis Carroll, indulged in unsavoury acts with a young girl of his acquaintance named Alice, and Captain Pugwash was transformed into a perverted who's who of pornography, that little magical scamp, Harry Potter, has also undergone a vile desecration.

When not fighting evil, honouring his dead parents, and saving the world from dark deeds, he is flaunting his naked body in sex scenes on the stage.

Skinny, bespectacled, wand-wielder no more. Instead a sculpted-torsoed, brooding, sex crazed thespian. I doubt the transformation includes a new found ability to act however.

Are all cherished childhood memories (not that I ever watched Captain Pugwash, though young Master Bates is infamous) to be marred by corruption and be subjected to a sexual besmirching? Can Seaman Stains not just be a man who sails the sea?

However, it's about time that Hogwarts had a taste of gritty adolescence. I'm surprised Hermione's not already knocked up, impregnated by Ron behind the broomstick shed, and that some hardcore substance abuse isn't rife due to the all the magical ingredients available to them. But who knows, maybe J.K Rowling will inject a bit of realism into book 7. Cho Chang was already on her way to becoming school slut, so full blown smut could well be on the cards.

July 21st will be a sad day for all. It will mean the end of involving and entertaining Harry Potter theories.

Possible Murder on the Orator Express

Aaaand... I would also go to Central America and Africa and China. And then I'd go to Texas and Scotland and Afghanistan and Wales, and then New York and Ireland and the South Pole and the North Pole and the West Pole and Newcastle and England and Wales and Trafalgar Square. And South America and Italy. And then Spain, then Australia, then France, then the Moon, then Outer Space...

For the first hour it was truly adorable.

And then I discovered a kangaroo, and koalas and sheep and iguanas. Aaand... also... sharks and whales and beetles. And, and, and... ALIENS! They were from Mars and we went to the Sun and Pluto and Earth and the World. And they were green, and spotty, and purple, and also gold, and silver, and also stripy...

I had now read the sentence I was on in my improving novel 23 times and still not reached the end or understood it.

Aaand...and I invented the Titanic and planes and cars and trains. And tables, and cups, and food, and windows. And also shoes and hats and computers and wigs and slippers and televisions. And plugs, and I became the most famousest person in the whole wide world and earned a million pounds and one thousand trillian dollars so I could buy... do you know what I bought? Do you know mummy? Do you know?

Just say yes, please just say yes. I beg of you woman.

No, darling. What did you buy?

The woman was a masochist. And my worst enemy.

I bought a speedboat, and trainers and a dragon and a sword and a tiger...

By this point a tree had fallen on the track, resulting in a delay. And the boy had not stopped talking, resulting in me wanting to hit something. Hard. Preferably him.

Mummy, can you remember what I had for breakfast? Mummy what did I have? Can you remember? I had sausage, and beans, and cornflakes. And... what else did I have? I had sardines and marshmallows and french fries and...

And I quietly muffled my exasperated sobs and prayed for salvation at the next stop.

An Anna for Any Occasion

Having a multifaceted persona is both a drag and a boon. It sums up my relationship to the much eulogised concept of choice; which Anna to be right at this moment? Except, thankfully, the decision is often made for me, detectable by how I am addressed.

So, the quick guide to the many faces of Anna...

Anna Kirk - Only used on formal occasions, and by people who do not know me. Strikes a sense of fear in me as will obviously be required to do something of an official capacity.

Banana - 'At home Anna', a term used when pottering. Light and detatched.

Lamb - Often with the prefix 'poor'. A term unique to pa, and in answer to some minor injury (eg, stubbed toe) or misfortune. Harks back to times past, when scrapes were common.

Small - Generic term of ma's for whichever one of her brood looks mopesome and dejected enough to warrant it. Helps lift the spirits. Small needs protecting and indulging.

Narna - Used by a closeknit group, and resonant of a certain intense period. Narna was mostly in a state of giggles and piss-taking. An endearment, but also used as a lighthearted insult eg. 'You tripped over in front of everyone? What a narna!'.

Kirky - The most common term, and who I am for a large percentage of the week. Kirky is a bit of a harmless div, chucklesome, bitchy and occasionally a stresshead regarding work.

Vodka and Kirk - Anna when out with cohorts. Dancer, drinker, waffler, gossiper.

Vodka - Anna when out at the end of the night, and those around are increasingly under the influence. Not to be mistaken with desperate cries for more intoxication.

AnnaK - Purely used by R, and not entirely sure why. Sounds cool when she says it, and I immediately know who requires me.

You'll find me at the freakshow all week: The Girl with Many Faces

Animal rights? What about computer illiterates, I say.

My mouse is going periodically bonkers.

It is hopping about all over the place completely of its own accord, in a manner far from rodenty, but rather infuriatingly frog like. I will be innocently trying to send an email to a worthy Fairtrade cause (on this occasion, to the androgynously named Silje, a contact at 'worthy cause' headquarters, who must at all times be referred to as 'it' due to not-quite-ascertained gender issues) when all of a sudden I will be linked to a penis enlarging website or highlighting details of how to purchase viagra on the net. The mouse is possessed. And the possessor clearly has erectile issues.

Anyhow, I've had enough of this computing tomfoolery, having spent days staring at screens, brain slowly melting into one big daydream as I try to escape the horrors of YET ANOTHER COMPUTER LESSON. Technically meant for research and, of course, the actual writing of the work. But literally for the purpose of mind- wanderings, planning of nights out, and checking out the J K Rowling website (surprisingly informative- for instance the Weasley's have a cousin named Mafalda). We know their game; it's merely a ruse for Hedley to avoid the sheer ludicracy of teaching us. So by refusing to learn we're cheating the system and playing them at their own game. Suckers.

Mouse going barmy again. Will have to get Fat Hector on the case. Better get out of this technological hellhole.

I'm becoming power-crazed.

Not content with organising a Ceilidh (yes, that's right a Ceilidh. Ridiculous spelling, ridiculous music, ridiculous concept. Yet I'm campaigning ardently for it to be in vogue), complete with raffle, Fair Trade booze, and the mere matter of raising money for victims of torture, I now seem to be chairing English teacher interviews. Da da daaa, Super Anna strikes again, crusading for moral justice and... seemingly the fates of English teachers.

Now surely this is the job of the current teachers at the school. Surely they aren't putting the career of an aspiring educational motivator and diciplinarian into the hands of a mere sixth former. Surely.

But it appears that they can't spare an hour to question a couple of possible inspirational literary leaders, and are instead handing over the responsibility to none other than... moi. No pressure then. Only somebody's future we're dealing with here after all.

I'm just a girl who can't say no. And who would to the frenzied, madness-tinged, hypnotic hollows that are the notably psychotic Head of English's eyes. Not me, I wanted to at least survive for a wee dance at this Ceilidh I've spent so long organising.

She dribbles no more...

They know. The other two know. It's hard to tell if she did herself; she was always the stupid one.
Stretched out, tongue protruding pinkly, paw reaching towards me and the tub of ice cream (with claws safely retracted for once), Archie looked settled and contented. Like he knew that it was all over now, that there was nothing to be done but longingly imagine me spoon feeding him melting vanilla ice cream. Once again granted permission to enter rooms filled with human comfort, and not obliged to wait outside doors, bereft of attention, the ginger ones (like Laurel and Hardy, or French and Saunders) are almost audibly sighing relief at the final rest of the matriarch.

I let Archie sleep on my pillow. He needed it. The unspoken (naturally, as he is a cat) acknowledging of grief and the necessity for contact and my duvet cover. Hector isn't so quick to catch on. He takes after his mother. But he definitely sought out a little more head-scratching and jowel-jiggling than usual, on my return in the evening. As always, it is not so much the loss at what has gone that is the heart breaking element, but what is left behind. A confused chubby son (the chubbiness makes it all the more heart rendering, like he needs his mum to give him nutritional guidance), and the resilient loner of an older brother.

Yet they will have to adapt, and adopt a camaraderie, a marmalade unity.

Perfumigated

I'm in the middle of a slightly psychadelic experience (if things can indeed be 'slightly' psychadelic) which has rather put me off course what I was intending to blog about.

I lit some incense to create ambience. What has in fact been created is a gagging, thick smoke stream headed straight for my face, filling my nostrils with a burning perfume. Not ambience. I think I'm experiencing an air flow malfunction, thus rendering the calming, settling qualities I wished to evoke, through the lighting of said incense, an eye-watering fug of surreal, blue-tinged smoke spirals, reminiscent of centaurs, gryffins, nyads and the like.

Nyads are all well and good, but they are beginning to make me feel a little woozy... and lightheaded... and... and...

Right. Smoke abated, and incense extinguished with a soft 'phut' between fingers. Can once again think clearly. No wonder N's the way he is. He goes through packets of the stuff, he must have centaurs coming out his ears. No space for room tidying or dishwasher emptying therefore.

Can't for the life of me remember what was going to be in this post now. Something about what a bitch Scarlett O'Hara is, how undeniably cool Rhett Butler is (ignoring all the misogyny etc of course), and how the Library Fascism is getting increasingly out of hand and, yes I'll say it, positively dangerous. But another time chaps. The old brain's atop a gryffin.

Quotilicious

Weeks, nay, months of work came down to just two measly hours, two measly questions, and two measly essays in a freezing cold hall.

Can now ceremoniously burn all notes for English. Hurrah! Ritual burnings of educational material! A pyre of improving works, brought to mere ashes!
Except I can't, as may have re-sits. No burning satisfaction therefore.

No matter however, as some lasting impression was gleaned in the form of a few jolly quotes, immortalised in my mind from repetition and frequent use, forever branded on my brain. These are my favourite...

His urine is congealed ice - summons the pleasantest of images

The rebellion of a codpiece - always amusing

Man, proud man, dressed in little brief authority - sounds impressive, and a little epic

Groping for trouts in a peculiar river - another comical innuendo

Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall - my favourite epic quote, almost Lord of the Rings in tone I think

Th'impression of keen whips I'd wear as rubies and strip myself to death as to a bed - that Isabella is a kinky one; it's always the quiet ones

By God, I was a lusty one! - she says it like it is, that Wife of Bath

By very force he raft her maidenhead - who knew rape could sound so poetic?

I could not withdraw my chamber of Venus from a good fellow - pick up on a running theme?

As a bittern bumbleth in the mire - I just like how this sounds. God knows what it means.

So, you see, something was learnt. Even if it is that the majority of all English literature is sex-obsessed. So that's why so many boys take it in the sixth form.

Some things I would like to know

Why I am currently allying myself with technology and the modern craze of blogging instead of being an ancient historian and doing the essay that I very much need to do.

How old Clenny actually is. And if the undertaker should be on speed dial.

What imperialist triumphalism is.

The reasons behind having yet another Celebrity Big Brother.

The reasons behind anybody actually watching Celebrity Big Brother.

Why there is about a million and twenty six themes in 'Measure for Measure', and only two in 'The Wife of Bath': sex and more sex.

How Zach Braff is not beloved by all and praised as a God by some small tribe.

Why it isn't allowed to read the paper in a certain section of the library, despite reading quietly and not disturbing anybody, and having to relocate to the 'Newspaper Reading Section'. For crying out loud.

Why I seem to be the most blasphemous heretic alive whenever in the presence of a religious person. By the way, have a good joke: Jesus checked into a hotel. He had a handful of nails and asked 'Can you put me up for the night?'

What the point of an AS level in Critical Thinking is.

What the mysterious illness is that TimmyB is suffering from.

Why I have still not started that freakin essay.

Woe

January really is the deepest, deepest pit of despair, from which only the scrabbling of tiny little desparate arms trying ever so hard to climb out, and the faint, hopeless screams of those who have unwittingly fallen into said pit can be heard.

Only been back at school for three days and already reassessing my former 14 year old relationship with education. No longer going steady that's for sure. Things that have gone amiss so far include...

The loss of planner (though has since been found so structure, memory, life will not, in fact, collapse into wallowing mass of nothingness. Which is a relief)

Lent copy of Juvenal to J, who has of course screwed it into ball, scribbled all over it, chewed it up and spat it out since, refusing to ever return it as claims it is indispensable to him. What I am supposed to do for the Juvenal essay is of course inconsequential and remains a mystery.

Complete and total disappearance of only good Ancient History notes made. Though suspect they may be in shreds at bottom of J's bag also.

Am going to end up in a Preston-like nightmare of a uni, due to nobody saying 'look at this amazing individual, we must snap her up'. Absolutely no sign of any acknowledgement from UCL, yet J has interview down there. He has already been offered place at Oxford so that is just plain greedy. Jeez. He never does any goddamn work anyway, just copies mine, steals my notes, and generally crushes me with his laissez-faire intellectualism. Phew, that was somewhat of a rant. Though necessary.

Accused of being a know-all. Well not in so many words. But only 6 in our philosophy class and I am always first to crack in the awkward, bottomless, everlasting silences when asked class questions, despite everyone knowing the answer. Not an eager, precocious type really, just need to fill the silences. But it is always with my own, tedious, rambling voice. The teacher requires me to not be quite so vocal. Oops (she whispers)

No sign of TimmyB. Still cuckoo then. And us still going to fail philosophy then.

Heavily involved in a ceilidh. Which is the height of cool. But is for Human Rights and Fair Trade. And we're going to the pub after. Also, on a related topic, still only 4 members of Fair Trade so seem to be required as a driving force. Despite me totally feigning any sense of authority or relevant knowledge.

One half of lovely couple I know is being forced against will to return halfway across the world, thus breaking them up once more. Tragic star-crossed lovers. Sad.

Mr S told a truly dirty joke. Which is always disturbing. (despite sniggers)

So, to sum up, January really is the pits.

Aftermath

Many more musical instruments, means to make musical instruments a lot louder, conributions to the demise of the earth through use of fossil fuels and rolls of discarded wrapping paper, and about 3 tonnes of Roses chocolates later...

Whilst still in the depths of Christmas fatigue, a heavy fug of alcohol soaked fruit and chocolate settled, blanket like, about me, I am attempting to flop. As in relax, do nothing, chill. But I am plagued by an infuriating cough, phlegm fest in nose, and the need for lists. Lists for leisure. Things to do when doing nothing, if you will.

It is in this interim, between Christmas day and the whole New Year fiasco, that one finds oneself experiencing a little of the anti-climax and at a loss as to what one should actually do. No present buying/wrapping/unwrapping to do, the Compulosry Family Walk over and done with (and with surprisingly low quota of grumbles this year; Christmas therefore a success!), feast preparations all done, feast consuming pretty much done (with the exception of the Christmas cake, which with a bit of luck should serve for next year's aswell), novels, dvds etc all beckoning to be indulged in. Which is what I should be making the most of and doing. Cultural stimulation, guilt free. But it isn't guilt free, and that is the nagging problem. Though I have the odd bit of homework, it isn't pressing. And room is reasonably tidy. So I should be free to enjoy the contents of Santa's sack. Except guilt is well and truly impressed upon my dna strands. May have something to do with all the religious connotations of the season, we are all born sinners, must tirelessly work to improve ourselves and must consistently feel guilty etc. God knows why it is supposed to be a time of cheer and jollity.

I will try, however, to take time out from guilt and, indeed, from outside world as books, television, dvds etc take precedence. I'll save the guilt for after New Year, when it will really be needed. That it is the time to face the consequences, after drink-fuelled revelry and the realisation of true laziness have occurred. Tis the season and all that.

Festive = Frazzled

You know it is the festive season when...

1. Enough nights are spent out drinking and celebrating to start being endearingly nicknamed 'Vodka and Kirk' by fellow merry revellers.

2. The arguments, chez Kirk, increase at an exponential rate, regarding such things as bauble placement, who actually gives two hoots about the advent calendar, whether the person 'in charge' of decorating the tree is also given licence to select the tree in the first place, why people just aren't being goddamn festive, cheerful, or merry enough. The list goes on.

3. Tacky, kitsch, and overthetopness are good. Crucial even.

4. The most amount of money is needed, yet the least amount of money is available in my account.

5. Not only are people going out unattractively donning their skimpy finery, goosepimples and all, but they are doing it wearing Santa hats, red and green colour schemes, and liberal doses of glitter.

6. It is acceptable to listen to Wham. 'Last Christmas' is a classic.

7. Ditto Mariah Carey, with 'All I want for Christmas'

8. The idea of hot wine with things floating about in it is an appetising one.

9. Religious services, songs praising God and Jesus, and scenes depicting the birth of Christ are positively encouraged by the resolutely irreligious mother.

10. Overindulgence is suddenly alright. Nay, necessary.

11. 'The Snowman' can reduce one to tears.

12. The air smells of spices, chocolate, pine, and log fires.

13. Sentimentality is a must.

It's a wonder we survive it every year. And a wonder we want to do it again the following one. But, as every Kirk knows, you can never ever break traditions.

I'm rather taken with this quote from a novel I'm currently reading,

'There's no need to intoduce exciting words like 'want'. It's what I'm realistically anticipating'

Ain't that just it in a nutshell. Nothing like a bit of literary summing up.

It's not what you know, but who you know

A common and banal question often asked is who would one like to have as guests at a dinner party, living or dead. Well, anyone can avoid interesting and scintillating conversation when glugging booze and gushing over the lightness of the beetroot mousse or cauliflower froth. A far more telling situation would be when browsing in a bookshop, in a booth at the local pub, or sitting in the waiting room of a sexual health clinic, for example.

This is my list...
Simon Amstell
Jo Brand
Colin Firth
Cleopatra
Paul Merton
Margot Fonteyn
Jon Ronson
Nancy Mitford

I, of course, would be far too intimidated and terrified to utter a word however.

It is rare that science provides explanatons for things that happen in everyday life. Despite what the scientific folk claim. Being an arts student myself, I cannot personally see the justification of having been compelled to partake in lessons such as chemistry, biology, and (even more heinously) physics. Apart from when it comes to things such as why all the biscuits end up tasting and smelling of lemon when a packet of lemon creams are dispersed in the tin, and why my hair dryer has a cold setting to finish off the flick of my 'do. Crucial things like that.

But I am convinced that there must be some scientific explanation for the so called 'blanking out' of a certain brother of the little and eccentric kind. Perhaps it has something with the density of dreadlocks, or the dispersion of grime about his person. Maybe it is the chemical imbalance caused by excessive amounts of red bush tea coursing through his system. Whatever it is, scientific research should be carried out forthwith. I will even personally fund it. As it is beyond exasperating and the arts are suffering due to this exasperation experienced. Therefore, science will be justified.

It could of course be down to pure genetics.

But are children human?

'The right to POO!'

Teaching a first school class of 36 all about Human Rights was never going to be easy. Emerging from the class an hour after entering, the three of us Human Rights Group representatives were shaking, slightly hysterical wrecks. The most stressful, yet hilarious hour, with even a little moral education thrown in for good measure.

The fact that by the time we arrived at the first school they had already heard that we had gone to the middle school by mistake beforehand was not the best start. They obviously thought we were nutcases. Nutcases who would be teaching young children about the rights that every human being should have. Though, on meeting the teacher before the lesson, she reassured us that although there was an autistic boy in the class, he could be removed immediately if he started heckling us. Rather naively, and more than a little foolishly, the three of us decided to split up and single handedly run a small group of the terrors. And with that, all remnants of authority or discipline were thrown out the window.

I took a rather anarchic approach to dealing with my group, therefore promoting rights to freedom of speech, free choice, and the problems of state intervention. That, and them just not paying a blind bit of notice except to ask why I was wearing a short sleeved t-shirt over a long sleeved t-shirt. If they only learnt one thing today then it was the importance of layering.

With one child expounding on the importance of medication, security and community (all written down and spelt correctly), and another shouting how everyone should have the right to fart, hairspray and trees, it was abit of amixed bag. Mind you, there's definitely some activists in the making... 'Marcie, you do letter writing don't you, to try and change the world?' An earnest nod was the reply. The same girl and discounted all the other rights being discussed for her own three, which had obviously given great thought to. To look after yourself, to look after other people, and to look after your environment. That kid'll go far.

In voting for the most important three rights we came up with, the children treated it as a competition, taking it personally if the right they had come up with wasn't voted. Liam, head in his hands, was last seen wailing 'Curse you! Curse you, whoever voted for the right to life!'

The oldies are the best...

The problem with wanting to go to an Operetta at the local theatre (and no, it's not what you would think. I happen to be very fond of the odd Gilbert and Sullivan. Despite being teenaged. They have a lot of clever, witty wordplay, doncha know) is that lots of other people want to go to. Lots of other people who are of a certain age. Lots of hard-of-hearing, brittle-boned, infuriatingly slow people of this certain age, which hovers at about the 80 mark.

They all know the music inside out and back to front naturally. Which is fine. Just not at a low hum in my ear, vibrating at just under the actual note and causing an under the skin irritant. The man next to me (a small, solid, leathery chap) insisted on intermitently deciding to hum the odd phrase during the opening medley, flitting between under the breath mindless noise and launching into out-and-out accompaniment. The whole thing was entirely unrecognisable as what was actually being played up on the stage. But he was content, chuckling every so often, and obviously thinking himself a true Gilbert and Sullivan connoisseur.

We, in our youth (and that is including the menopausal mother) were sandwhiched between coachloads of geriatrics, which meant that it took f-o-r-e-v-e-r to get in or out of our seats. No matter how apologetic one is, the guilt is still instilled within you when you are forcing the poor dear to ease their aching frames, uncomprehendingly slowly, out of their imprisoning seats. That is if they see or hear you wanting to get past in the first place. Polite coughs just don't cut the mustard in senile situations.

I was spared the humming in the second half. The man didn't turn up next to me. I hope to God he didn't suffer a stroke during the interval.