We have just had Oliver’s Parents’ Evening.
In the way of the modern cyber-universe, we did not need to trail all the way up to Gordonstoun for this. We sat at home in front of my computer, which was very convenient from the point of view of not needing to do sixteen hours of driving for the privilege, but rather less convenient in that my computer has become elderly and temperamental, and the teachers kept disappearing mid-sentence.
They do not do this if you are sitting in front of them, although I suspect that some of them might have liked to, most especially the ones who taught Number Two Daughter.
We learned all sorts of useful things, including that Oliver has spent the week performing in a dance show, about which we knew almost entirely nothing. Well, entirely nothing, including that he was doing it.
Teachers kept saying things like: But I expect he will have told you that, and we kept saying things like: No, what on earth are you going on about?
It appears that he is working very hard in class but not actually reading the questions that are written on the exam papers, and just answering with whatever he thinks might be nice at the time. I can sympathise entirely with this. I am currently writing a dissertation assignment based on exactly that premise.
I do not know why the school persists in telling us all this sort of stuff, it is not as if we are going to do anything about it, since he is three hundred and fifty miles away. I could write him an email telling him that he must Read The Questions, but it would probably get filed in exactly the same place as the Biology Handout. I am not surprised about this, my own teenage attitude to education was fairly similar, which is why I am currently driving a taxi for a living.
In fact I am not in the least worried. Oliver is entirely capable of passing some examinations if he wants to, all that needs to happen is that they need to be more interesting than hanging about with his mates. Once he is sufficiently terrified he will do just fine. I know because this is exactly the way that it works for me. A huge injection of adrenaline always helps.
Apart from that, I have done laundry and sweeping and dinner and Symon the Black. So far I think I have written about fifteen thousand words, mostly the same ones several times over, and I am beginning to realise that I have got to leave it and write something else for the assignment. It is quite simply too complicated, too intense, to be pared down so tightly, and it is not working.
On the whole the best stories are the ones that flow, not the ones that leave you squinting and grumpy, and I am going to have to tear myself away and write something else. Mark said that I should turn in an assignment and then start thinking about Symon the Black as a novel, and maybe I should. Certainly I can’t afford to spend another day staring at it and scowling. I have drunk so many pots of Spiced Red Chai Tea that I am going to be in and out of the bathroom all night, and I have got a secret bar of chocolate under the desk for the darkest moments.
Actually I have now got half of a secret bar of chocolate under the desk, because it has been a difficult day.
I will have to make a change tomorrow. Really I must. I will have to write something smoother and flowing and simple.
Hmmm.
