First day

  First day

Ariella is four years old, the daughter of my second granddaughter. She is more than ready for school! Here she waits under a tree in her all-new uniform, keen to start the day. I love the boots!

Big cousin Fergus, nearly 11, is looking after her. He delivered her to her classroom this morning. He is starting Year 6, his final year in primary school, and Ariella is starting in Reception class.

It was a lovely sunny morning in Dorset, but Ariella carries her own sunshine, anyway!

Isla joined Fergus and Ariella for a photograph. Isla is twelve and at secondary school. She is my oldest great-grandchild and almost the same age as my seventh grandchild, Frankie. I cannot believe she is wearing a tie. I didn't think schools were still so unenlightened.

Ariella is very fortunate to have her cousins living so close. I'm sure her grandmother, my eldest daughter, appreciates how lucky she is to have all her family near . . . and handy for baby-sitting duties!

I don't suppose Ariella will look quite so neat and tidy at the end of her day. See here for a more realistic expectation.

Dancing

 

Dancing

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

I was educated solely with girls from the age of six to eighteen.

This had a lasting impact on my ability to interact with the opposite sex. I had an older brother, who was no help to me whatsoever, and a glamorous sister, fifteen years my senior. She had a stream of attractive boyfriends, and I used to watch wide-eyed as she prepared for an evening out, knowing I would never be able to achieve her level of sophistication. I overcame these obstacles to some extent, of course, but was always shy and never managed the easy relationships with young men that other girls seemed to enjoy.

Anyway, at the age of eleven, I duly went off to the next stage of my state education. Dancing was part of the physical education curriculum. We learnt country dancing -Strip the Willow and Sir Roger de Coverley, Old Tyme dancing - the Veleta and the Military Two-Step, and ballroom dancing - the Cha Cha Cha and the Foxtrot. We galloped sweatily round the gymnasium, enthusiastic but not completely enamoured of the exercise.

All the staff members were women. (The appointment of two male teachers a few years later caused a great buzz of unnecessary enthusiasm.) One of our PE teachers was a particularly good ballroom dancer, but I’m afraid we callow lasses didn’t appreciate her skill as we watched her spinning gracefully round the assembly hall with her female partner. Our comments were uncharitable at best. We had little interest in anything other than ourselves.

When we were about fourteen, the school organised a ‘formal’ dance and we all dressed in our finest. My mother was a talented needlewoman and made me a very pretty deep pink Empire line dress. Our pleasures in those days were simple, and one of the highlights of the evening was commenting on what everyone else was wearing. After all, we were accustomed to seeing each other only in our hideous green school uniform. We danced together decorously, the bolder girls inviting teachers to partner them.

I wonder what those women made of the event. Many of them, though they seemed ancient to us, were probably in their late thirties or early forties and had possibly lost fiancés in the war. It must have felt bittersweet to them as they twirled around the parquet flooring in the embrace of adolescent girls, some of whom, in the time-honoured manner of single sex schools, had crushes on them.

Looking back, I applaud the magnanimity of those adults in volunteering to supervise us and accept invitations to dance, or maybe they had been coerced into it by our less than amiable headmistress.

Homework!

 

Homework!                                              

 Almost the first homework task we had when we started grammar school was to cover our books. All text books for every subject had to be covered with brown paper – such a cheerful look. Of course, it was to preserve the books, which had to do duty for many years, in school, in school bags, at home; there were many opportunities for damage or loss.

Although I’m convinced we covered our text books, it occurs to me to wonder how we knew what subject they covered underneath the paper. Maybe the books were issued to each girl for each subject for the year.  Maybe my recall is completely shot!                

Harmony, a book on the theory of music, was somehow never returned to school. There are no helpful or interesting scribbles in it,  no little mysteries to unravel, nothing to prompt the imagination.

 On the fly leaf of each book was a library checkout card, indicating the user and the date of usage, much as public libraries used before the advent of computerisation. Sometimes, notes had been written in the books, though that was strictly forbidden. Occasionally, the scribbled notes would be useful.  

 We also had to number all the pages of our exercise books, to discourage us from tearing out pages. No-one explained why.

There were other rules we had to obey. No bottles of ink were to be carried around school. That was a rule I disobeyed, to my shame. The ink bottle I was carrying dropped to the parquet floor, spreading inexorably far and wide. I don’t know who saw or reported it, but the next morning I was summoned to the headmistress’s office to be reprimanded. My punishment was to scrub the floor. I can’t remember if the ink stain was removed – I rather doubt it, but I didn’t carry ink in school after that.

We had to change into house shoes when we arrived at school. They were unflattering, bulbous-toed black affairs and we hated them. Our skirts had to be knee-length, neither above nor below the knee and when we were out of school, we had to wear hats, velour in winter, straw in summer. We were left in no doubt that we were representing the school and it was our job to be good ambassadors. It was considered a grave misdemeanour to be seen without the school hat, though, of course, some risked it, crushing their hats into their bags as soon as they were out of sight of the school. One sixth-former cut a hole in the crown of her hat so that her pony tail could swing free. We thought that very daring. How innocent it all seems now.

Some were more knowing than others. One girl appeared in school one morning in full, heavy make-up, claiming she had mistaken the day and had been getting ready for her Saturday job. She was made to scrub it off. Bearing in mind the amount of orange foundation, it must have been quite a task.

Another girl in my year became pregnant and was suspended from school. She was allowed back to take her public examinations but we were not permitted to socialise with her. Perhaps they thought she would corrupt us, or that pregnancy was catching! Poor soul, she must have felt very isolated and scared. She was only 15 or 16 at a time when unmarried mothers were viewed with, at least, disdain and more often, condemnation. I don’t know what became of her.

Today’s secondary school students are more mature, more aware, but the world they have inherited and must inhabit is more difficult and complex than the one my peers and I had to navigate. I look at my youngest great-grandchildren, the three who are 3, 16 months and 1 year, and wonder and sometimes fear what manner of world will become familiar to them.

Making school interesting

 

 Making school interesting

                  School photograph circa 1909, a class of 25, not 40.

        My father is in the sailor suit, 2nd row from front, 4th from left

                  I like the little dog in the middle of the front row

The following is a rambling post, (aren’t they all? I hear you say) so, if you’re not in the mood for hiking, it would be wise to stop here.

Primary school was never boring. One teacher taught every subject in a year group. Each member of the class was known, for better or worse, and there was no escaping notice. It may not always have been comfortable, but it worked. There is more flexibility in primary schools now and pupils receive lessons from different teachers, though usually one teacher has overall responsibility for one class and knows the children well.

It’s a different experience at secondary school. There are many more students and staff. Children are separated from others with whom they may have been at school for six or seven years and put in tutor groups or registration classes with people they may never have seen before.

Pupils move around the school to different areas, to be taught by teachers they may see only once a week. It’s a new and disconcerting life, but one to which they adjust quite quickly.

My introduction to history at grammar school revolved around the repeal of the Corn Law. As I recall, we were given a list of dates to learn without much understanding of the politics behind the law. This was less than interesting to a class of 11-year-olds.

Maybe the teacher was engaged in her subject but she could not capture my attention. To be fair, I was a daydreamer, easily distracted. My interest was sparked a couple of years later by a different history teacher, who told us that the Sun King, Louis XIV, lost his toes through disease. Subsequently, I discovered that he had developed gangrene in his left leg in August 1715 after a hunting trip. It spread rapidly and he died a few days later.

Thereafter, I developed an interest in history.

Biology was always taught in a stimulating way and I remember drawing amoeba and spirogyra during my first lessons. I was fascinated by those single-celled organisms, and the interest and curiosity they awoke developed and endures.

Drawing maps and plotting names of rivers and towns in geography was a little stultifying, but quite a lot of it stuck. Physical geography was much more exciting. My recollection is that the geography teacher was enthusiastic about it and transmitted her interest to us.

Sadly, chemistry and physics were poorly taught, or perhaps I poorly listened, and the mysteries passed me by until much later, long after I had left school. Similarly, mathematics was taught unimaginatively. Not understanding was the fault of the pupil, not the teacher’s delivery.

When I listen now to experts speaking about their field of study, I hear the enthusiasm and passion in their voices. I am impressed by how articulate they are and the ease with which they explain complex concepts in a way that any listener can understand.

Why cannot schools draw in such expertise? Of course, some do, and there are numerous examples of pupils being inspired by their teachers in all fields. For many, though, education only really has significance once school has been left far behind. 

Maybe that is the purpose of school – to jumpstart curiosity so that it can remain an integral part of life – but how many people regret the lost opportunities that school could have offered and spend years ‘catching up’? There is some truth in the saying, ‘Education is wasted on the young.’ It certainly is wasted if it has been poorly delivered.

The end is in sight

 

The end is in sight

                                Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons 

For some, in Scotland, it has already arrived but the rest of the United Kingdom must wait until the beginning of September for the end of the looooonnnnng summer holidays and the start of the new academic year. Quite why Scotland has to be out of step with everyone else is anyone’s guess. Maybe it has something to do with being much further north, with shorter daylight hours in winter, though that seems illogical on a warm day in the middle of August before the clocks have gone back.

     Regardless of start of term dates, small children about to begin the 14-year journey called ‘school’ will have been hauled or are still being dragged from shoe shop to hair dresser to uniform suppliers to stationers to set them up with everything they could possibly ever need and may not necessarily ever use. Hereafter, thrift shops or PTA organisations do a roaring trade in good quality, second-hand uniform.

Thus, tiny girls and boys are thrust into unfamiliar clothes which are too long and too broad, but which leave plenty of room ‘for growth’. This is particularly noticeable if the child is about to enter an ‘independent’ school – that is, not a state school.

 Independent schools often require garments that are not easily available online or in the chain stores. Indeed, some schools insist that all uniform must be bought from the official uniform suppliers, at official uniform prices, of course. The colours are sometimes startling, and the cut can be unique. I have seen small girls drowning in ankle-length plaid kilts, which will last them until they are 16. Uniform manufacturers don’t realise that most small humans don’t have much in the way of hips and waists, so skirts and trousers are constantly slipping down and shirts and blouses are always untucked.

I remember one very small, very young boy appearing at school, an independent one, on his first day, in the entirety of his winter uniform. This comprised knee-length socks, long trousers, long-sleeved shirt, tie, jumper, blazer and duffel coat. I don’t think he was wearing his school scarf, but cannot be sure. He could hardly move and was extremely warm. Older, wiser children with greater experience, were wearing summer uniform. The duffel coat was cut in such a way and made of material so stiff that a child could move around inside it independently, like a hamster in its skin.

I don’t know which committee of people decides what a school uniform should be, but there is not much thought given to practicality. The youngest children in school are at different stages of development.  In the Reception class, to which children are admitted in the September following their 4^th birthday, there will be a range of ages, abilities and experience. The oldest child in the class may be 5 soon after the beginning of term in September, while the youngest may only just have had their 4^th birthday at the end of August or even the beginning of September. Some may even still be wanting an afternoon nap and will find a full school day very tiring, notwithstanding a new routine, new children, big adults with scary voices.  They are still very tender.

Changing for P.E. can take an entire lesson, even with a teaching assistant to help. Stiff button-holes defeat little fingers, some may be reluctant to remove their socks, others may get completely carried away and strip off as if ready for a bath. Getting changed back is challenging. Arms can’t find armholes, jumpers go on back to front, shoes, often someone else’s, are forced onto the wrong feet, and all this alongside sometimes uncertain bladder control or worse in the very youngest and least mature.

Somehow, the children survive unsettling activities – lining up for lunch is very different to sitting down quietly at home with mummy, the toilets are often less than appealing, choice of partner is limited and sometimes non-existent and the child may have to hold hands with another who made faces earlier. Going to the hall for assembly is worrying – it’s a large, echoing room with lots of big children! The playground is noisy and everyone has to go outside, even if they don’t want to, especially if they don’t want to.

Eventually, ‘home time’ arrives and the children rush to their relieved parents (relieved because the child survived the day without mishap) and who bombard them with questions. ‘What did you do today? Who did you play with? Did you eat all your lunch? What’s your teacher like? Did you have a nice day?’

A school day is a work day and, just like adults, children often do not wish to discuss their day. They have had no choice in their activities or their companions. They have had to sit when told, stand when told, go to the toilet, wash their hands, queue up for lunch, go out to play, line up to come in again, join one group for one activity, go to another for something different.

Children will speak about their day when they are ready, but it may not be anything to do with what they may or may not have learnt. It will be something random, like ‘I want to wear glasses’.

Talking to myself

Talking to myself

In a bid to exercise what’s left of my grey cells I am revising some old posts. Here is a reworked version of something I wrote 11 years ago, ‘Talking to myself’.

Until I retired, I spent a good deal of my life talking to myself. Occasionally I disguised it as teaching. Usually, I taught older children, who had already learnt to conform to the conventions of school life (translation: ‘do as they were told’) but sometimes I was called on to work with younger children.

The most testing times were when I was with the youngest children, then called ‘Nursery’, now known as ‘Pre-school’. It could seem that the little children sitting at my feet were drinking in every word when what they were really doing was wondering who made the cracks in the ceiling, or why my hair looked young when the lines on my face clearly indicated that I was extremely old, just like their mums or, worse yet, their grandmothers.  Sometimes a small child would touch the polished surface of my shoe to see if it really was shiny or just wet. Once in a while an infant would whisper shyly, ‘I like your blouse’ or even, touchingly, ‘I like you’.

Children can be devastatingly honest when young and unhampered by conformity. One day a little girl of about 4 put up her hand to indicate that she wished to speak and when acknowledged, said politely, ‘Excuse me, I don’t like you.’ I cannot remember my response - I may have said something like, ‘Oh, that’s a shame, because I like you.’ Cringe-worthy, I know.

Often actions spoke more piercingly than words. Couching instructions in the form of requests – ‘Would you like to . . . ?’ could be answered by the child looking straight through me or shaking his head vigorously or turning his back and walking away. If the instruction/request involved three-dimensional items to be sorted, built, placed, the answer could be an eloquent gesture sweeping the items to the floor, or, if already on the floor, far and wide across the room. Nothing could be plainer – the child did not want to cooperate. If the instruction/request was repeated a little more firmly there were several possible outcomes:-

1: the child acquiesced and did as he was told asked. Result!

2: the child burst into noisy sobs and demanded her mummy.

3: the child repeated ‘NO’ with increasing vehemence until my ear drums were ringing, he had turned purple with rage and ended up having a full-blown tantrum, maybe even succeeding in making himself sick.

3: the child threw the items at the nearest adult (me) and possibly aimed a kick at my shins.

4: the child wet herself, indicating at the same time, by the volume of the flow, that she had not emptied her bladder since the night before.

5: the child soiled himself, indicating at the same time that he had consumed far too much fruit the previous day.

Any of these outcomes could happen very quickly but fortunately not often, though sometimes coinciding with a prospective parent/visitor being shown round ‘our family-friendly school.’

None of them was quite what was intended at the beginning of the ‘lesson’. As every parent knows, young children can be exhausting. Twenty or thirty of the same age can be a small but intimidating army.

I believed then, and still maintain, that the hardworking teachers of very young children deserve more generous pay than their colleagues at the other end of the age range, when students attend lessons (now known as lectures) voluntarily, can concentrate for more than 5 minutes, (all right, that’s debateable) are usually articulate and toilet-trained, can dress themselves and use a handkerchief and know that writing on walls is unacceptable. Pause here, while I consider this last statement – okay, they know it’s unacceptable but do it anyway, arguing the right to free expression.   

Dancing

When I was filing my Monday blog post I came across one I published just over two years ago. So here it is again, slightly rejigged – an appropriate verb to use for a piece about dancing.

Dancing was part of the physical education programme at the all-girls’ grammar school I attended from the age of eleven. We learnt country dancing (Strip the Willow and Sir Roger de Coverley), Old-Tyme dancing (the Veleta and the Military Two-Step), and ballroom dancing (the Cha Cha Cha and the Foxtrot). We galloped sweatily round the gymnasium, enjoying the exercise and trying, not very hard, to remember the moves. Although it was enjoyable most of us would rather have been climbing ropes or vaulting.

One of our PE teachers was a talented ballroom dancer but we callow lasses didn’t appreciate that as we watched her spinning skilfully round the hall with her female partner. Our comments were uncharitable at best. We had little understanding of, or interest in, anything other than ourselves. All the staff members were women - the advent of two male teachers a few years later caused a great buzz of unnecessary enthusiasm.

On wet lunchtimes we couldn’t go outside and so dancing was organised in the assembly hall. The music was provided by records and we always wanted the polka. I remember still the heady excitement of swinging giddily round the room with my friend.

When we were about fourteen or fifteen the staff organised a ‘formal’ dance and we all dressed up in our finest. My mother made me a very pretty dark pink Empire line dress and one of the highlights of the evening was commenting on what everyone else was wearing. We were used to seeing each other only in our hideous green uniform in school. We danced together decorously, the bolder girls inviting teachers to partner them. I wonder what those women made of the event. Many of them, though they seemed ancient to us, were probably in their late thirties or early forties and had probably lost fiancés in the war. It must have been bittersweet for them as they twirled around the parquet flooring in the embrace of adolescents, some of whom, in the time-honoured manner of girls’ schools, had crushes on them. Looking back I applaud the magnanimity of those adults in volunteering to supervise us and even accept invitations to dance – or maybe they had been coerced into it by our less than amiable headmistress.

When I was eleven I was one of the smallest girls in the school. By the time I left I was among the tallest. This meant I had to take the man’s role in ballroom dancing. This played havoc when I went out into the wider world and actually had to dance the woman’s part but by the time I started going to village hops and town dances most of the dancing was solo; that is, a boy might ask a girl to dance but there was little physical contact –that is, physical contact wasn’t compulsory.  

I was always among the anxious wallflowers until the final, desperate, traditional ‘Last Waltz’ began when every lout youth in the room homed in on the unloved to claim a dance. Being clammily clasped by an inebriated boy who was keen to boast that he had a girl-friend, however tenuous the relationship might be, was not a dream ending to a night out. Nevertheless, it was better to dance the Last Waltz with anyone at all rather than remain on the touch line like an abandoned shipwreck. I liked dancing, though, particularly on my own. I loved the Charleston but there wasn’t much opportunity to dance that. I really enjoyed the Twist and hearing Chubby Checker’s ‘Let’s Twist Again’ always makes me want to dance. I had a ‘twist dress’ that I wore every Saturday night – it was brown and swirled most pleasingly as I twisted the night away. 

When we reached the dizzy heights of the fifth form and were almost adults – or so we thought ourselves – our school arranged a joint dance with the boys’ grammar school. Oh, the delirious excitement of it all! Some of my contemporaries already had boyfriends at the school so they were paired with them. The rest of us losers we young ladies were allocated partners, sight unseen.

It was nerve-wracking waiting to discover one’s escort for the evening and, in the event, mutually disappointing, I’m sure. We gazed enviously at our superior and rather smug peers who had come with partners they’d chosen for themselves, tried to be polite and longed for the evening to end. I was relieved that my escort was taller than me for I was quite tall (did the teachers take height into account or were we put together alphabetically?) but the dancing was deplorable, on both our parts. He managed to keep his feet off mine, for which I was thankful, and while he wasn’t actually counting the beats out loud his movements were somewhat staccato. I don’t think the boys had received much dancing instruction but at least they knew they were supposed to be ‘leading’. I knew I was supposed to be following but I was so accustomed to taking the lead that I was fighting him for the privilege. 

At some point there were refreshments but time has mercifully over-ridden all other memories of that evening. Certainly, it was not the stepping-off point to a beautiful friendship. I wonder if he ever thinks of that night. I wonder, too, if the experiment – the enforced socialising - was ever repeated.

When the mood takes me these days I dance in the kitchen, on my own, or with a dog or rather surprised cat. Barry doesn’t dance if he can avoid it, making an exception only for jiving, which he really enjoys. One of these days he will spin me out and fail to catch me as I return and I’ll crash unceremoniously into the wall. No doubt he’ll have a camera automatically recording to film the incident.

Doggy memories

Watching the ‘Collie Walk’ video in my previous post brought to mind a couple of memories.

I first started work in a village where everyone knew everyone else. Most of the families had been living there for generations. The vicar, a charming ex-Naval padre, was closely associated with the school. He often talked to me, bringing me up to speed on the family circumstances of the pupils. His turn of phrase was frequently colourful, evidence of his service life.  He was proud of his son who had had much to do with designing hovercraft.

The headmistress, Joan, was a pleasant, amusing woman who had lived in the village for many years. She had been the inspiration for one of John Betjeman’s ‘young women’. Her husband lectured at the nearby college in Shrivenham where my soon-to-be husband was studying. They had a collie with a strong herding instinct and it was not unknown for the dog to herd the children along the road into school. This dog also attended church, remaining quiet throughout the service until the time came for the vicar’s sermon. The dog would then walk out of the church, no doubt watched ruefully by some of the congregation.

At that time, dogs at Shrivenham were commonly allowed to attend lectures with their masters (there were only male military students then) Our yellow Labrador, Whisky, lived with Barry and accompanied him everywhere. Consequently, she was a very well-educated dog in all aspects of life, appreciating beer and bar snacks, and swift and neat at helping herself to tempting morsels in people’s hands – or shopping baskets. She liked hedgerow fruits, too, sucking blackberries off the thorny brambles. During lectures, Whisky was quiet and unobtrusive most of the time but there were occasions when she sensed that the young officers around her, all fit and healthy and fidgeting to do something physical, were bored. She would then produce a loud drawn-out yawn and wander to the front of the room to sit next to the lecturer and look at him. This caused much mirth among the students and broke the tedium, at least momentarily.  

Whisky came to school with me on a few occasions when Barry was away and was a great favourite with the children. Though she was a large dog she nonetheless considered herself a lap dog and would clamber up so that when the children looked up from their work they would see her gravely observing them rather than me. She enjoyed joining in their games, too, and was instrumental in teaching at least one child to overcome a fear of dogs.

You can read more about Whisky here.

Every dog has an individual personality and a lifetime of living with dogs bequeaths a wealth of memories.

I'm linking to Camera Critters, Pet Pride and Shadow Shot Sunday.

Homecoming

It is sometimes said that the USA and the UK are two nations divided by a common language and I have been pondering this recently. I have heard and read a lot about homecoming parades. To me, this means a parade through the streets of troops returning from theatres of war. Homecoming may also describe family members or friends arriving home after a holiday or an extended period away and perhaps being given a welcoming party.  

I have been thinking what a homecoming parade for schools may mean. Is it simply a ceremony to mark the beginning of the new school year? Why would there be a homecoming queen? Is there a king? It all begins to sound like a summer fête or the build-up to a carnival. Perhaps it is designed to welcome back students from their summer camps or holidays, to emphasise the recommencement of the common purpose and experience of learning together under the same roof after weeks of individuality. Do all schools have homecoming parades or is it a practice restricted to institutions in smaller towns? Surely it doesn’t happen in New York? Or does it?

I could understand a parade at the end of the school year, though I suppose the Prom is a more fitting celebration. Our secondary schools have now adopted this tradition and our eldest granddaughter thoroughly enjoyed her Prom this year, which was held near the end of term. It’s her sister’s turn next year. Our local school held its Prom before the GCSEs (public examinations) had been taken – that must have cut into revision time! I can’t imagine the students felt very celebratory at that juncture.

I don’t think our young people generally anticipate the beginning of another academic year with much delight so maybe a homecoming parade engenders enthusiasm together with a sense of community and a positive attitude to school. So, if I’ve guessed correctly at the reasons behind the homecoming parade, I think it’s another American custom we could assume quite happily.

By the way, is a BFF a Best Forever Friend (or Best Friend Forever) and if it is, what’s a BBFF?

ABC Wednesday Round 7 A is for amoeba

Appreciative thanks to Denise Nesbitt and her Able Assistants who organise and host this weekly meme. To see more As please click here.

One of the first lessons I remember as an eleven-year-old at my grammar school was biology when we learnt about the Amoeba. I  found it quite fascinating and drew a neat (for me) little illustration in my brand new biology book. It looked a little like the diagram below.

Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

We didn't have live Amoebae to study or films or even slides but the teacher taught clearly and well. Would I have remembered as much or more if video clips had been available? Who can tell!
                     

Video clip courtesy of YouTube

ABC Wednesday Round 5 U is for Uniforms

U is for Uniforms . . . School uniforms

Army uniforms
Uniforms for gymnasticsUniforms at Royal Military Academy Sandhurst

More school uniforms
Uniforms for judo
Royal Navy uniform

Do you wear a uniform? Do you like uniforms?

Thank you to Denise Nesbitt for hosting this meme.

What can U see elsewhere? Click here to find out.

An educated newt and an ambitious Mallard

Smooth or Common Newt (Lissotriton vulgaris) image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

The independent school in which I was teaching was housed in a Victorian building that had once been a small hotel. It was warm and welcoming but not appropriate for the twentieth (soon to be twenty-first) century. The rooms were very small and the facilities minimal and it was becoming difficult to entice fee-paying parents to entrust their cif hildren to us. Eventually it relocated to a purpose-built building designed to foster every imaginable talent, though it too soon proved inadequate, requiring a separate annexe for art and science. The land on which it was erected was low-lying and close to water and nearby was a sinkhole which would take flood water in times of excessive rainfall - every fifty years or so, apparently.

The corridors were wide and spacious and carpeted in hard-wearing broad-rib cord. One day I was returning to my classroom when I noticed a little creature moving quite fast across the ridged carpet. On closer inspection I saw it was a smooth newt for which the carpet must have been like a ploughed field. I found a container and put the newt into it - my class found this very entertaining and kept asking to take off the perforated lid to see it more closely. At the end of the school day I was pleased to see that the newt was still alert and transported it carefully to my garden pond, several miles from its home territory. I felt rather guilty about this for I didn't know if I was sentencing it to a solitary life without friends and relations but over the course of the next few years I found several of these amphibians in varying stages of development.

In conversation with my next-door neighbour I told him about the newt and he said, 'I've got a newt and I call it Tiny.' I asked why and he replied, 'Because it's my newt.' (Ba-boom tish!)

(To be strictly truthful I didn't ask why until he prompted me because I was intrigued by the thought of him naming a newt - sometimes I take life too seriously!)

The school had a very successful Nursery class (kindergarten) with a small enclosed garden and playground. Children played happily and noisily there and one day the staff noticed that a Mallard duck had laid her eggs in a sheltered spot. They did a wonderful job of protecting her from the trampling feet and inquisitive fingers of three-year-olds and she hatched twelve eggs, giving cause for even more interest. Eventually the day came when she felt she must lead her brood to water. To reach this she had to leave the sanctuary of the Nursery garden, cross the large playground and negotiate her way out of it. The playground was uneven and punctuated at intervals by deep drains over which were heavy metal grids with large holes - potential death traps for tiny ducklings. I organised my class to marshal Mrs Duck and her babies safely round these hazards and although she was a little disturbed by so many humans around her she proceeded determinedly, her brood peeping as they skittered after her. I don't think she ever returned to her busy nesting spot.

I wonder how many of the youngsters survived to live their lives like the drake and duck above

The Mallard (Anas platyrhynchos) is a dabbling duck common throughout North America, Europe, Asia, Africa and Australia. In New Zealand it is presently the most common duck species and is considered a pest because it is hybridising local related duck species. It is the ancestor of all domestic ducks apart from a few derived from the unrelated Muscovy Duck (Cairinia moschata)

Mallards are found in most wetlands including parks, ponds and rivers. A flock of Mallards is called a sord. Oftentimes two or more drakes will court a duck but there is also a high incidence - as much as 19% - of homosexual pairings.