bitter lemmings

bright young things

Oliver James tells me what I have long suspected, that intelligence and academic performance have rather a lot to do with social background. So middle class aspirations and a bit of hot housing goes a long way....

"But having exceptional early gifts written into our family script is not all accolades and subsequent eminence. Childhood prodigy is not necessarily the precursor of adult genius - in the vast majority of cases it is not. Nor is being able to score high marks in intelligence tests a guarantee of lifetime achievement. A famous study of 400 American children with IQs above 140 (the average is 100) found that they achieved no more than would be expected from a person of their social class. None of them became geniuses. If anything, the capacity to pass exams or do well at IQ tests may be more a measure of our desire to please our parents and teachers than of originality."

You are not kidding, I am going to wave this book at all those pushy mothers at the nursery who are desperate to get their kids through every reading scheme book in the place before their fifth birthday, as if this is somehow a guarantee that they will one day turn into Einstein. The birthday party conversations are soo tedious these days. Naturally, I don't indulge this kind of competitive behaviour, I just tell them that my five-year-old has already finsihed War and Peace and is working his way through the whole Western Canon at an alarming rate.

And as for the older ones, well clearly my daughter's English teacher doesn't recognise real genius when it takes the guise of originality; she is so concerned with getting the date in exactly the right position on the page that there is no time in the English curriculum for minor concepts like originality and subverting a traditional style. Apparently, it's illogical to write a diary piece in the first person present tense, because you can't be writing and doing other things at the same time. Someone should have told the judges of the Whitbread Prize that before they gave it to Kate Atkinson for her book, Behind The Scenes at the Museum, which starts with the lines, "I exist! I am conceived to the chimes of midnight......" And you can't bring people back from the dead, someone should have told Alice Seabold and Toni Morrison.

There's a lot of teaching kids to pass exams here but not much time for original thought. I wonder how Shakespeare would score on my daughter's writing project, where you can only get an A grade for a 'perfect' piece of writing, whatever that is????

a new spate of violence

The violence is getting worse. You can't open a paper these days without seeing some story about a pupil suspended from school after throwing a desk at his teacher, who then gets his bully boy mates to come back and slash police tyres and vandalise school flower pots. Apparently, the boy had a history of disruptive behaviour. Maybe he had some learning difficulties that weren't being addressed? Difficult to spot, that one, I know without any training or structure in the system. I refuse to believe people from Anthoupolis have the same kind of social deprivation issues to deal with as people in Peckham but at this rate we'll have another Colombine on our hands.

oh! captain, my captain

There is a message in Peter Weir's film, Dead Poet's Society, about an unconventional English teacher, (Robin Williams), in a stuffy, traditional boys school who manages to open the boys' minds and awaken their creative impules. How? Well you could just say that for the first time they have a teacher, who firstly knows how to teach and secondly cares. He makes them tear pages out of boring old books, which tell them how to interpret poems and instead, makes them get in touch with their feelings. In short, pesonal response, not someone else's regurgitated opinion, is everything. A bit corny but the sort of thing newly-qualified teachers, with big ideals and not too much experience, watch and weep.

Well, I'm a bit more cynical now, as is particularly the case after a few days back home in Blighty. I feel the excess of cynicism creeping up on me on the way to the airport and as the day progresses it get worse, just like the best hangovers. So, while I waited for the Cyprus Airways plane to take off at Heathrow, only an hour late this time, having missed its take-off slot, as per usual, I perused my free copy of the Cyprus Mail and found ths article, on the front page.

The headline says it all: Violence Highlights Teachers' Plight. Apparently, while I was enjoying the comfort and excellent service of a Cyprus Airways economy seat, teachers were on strike protesting about violent incidents in schools. Shock, horror! I didn't think we lived in a violent society. Apparently we do when pupils in a state school tie up a teacher with a curtain and put a wastepaper basket over her head to make fun of her. Why? Because she had sprung a test on them and clearly they were feeling a bit disenchanted with the whole thing. Well, why was she springing tests on them? I thought education was about supporting kids to succeed, not setting them up to fail and making the classroom a safe learning environment. But then what do I know? Unlike most of the secondary school teachers here, I have the distinct disadvantage of having a teaching qualification. It seems that the teaching profession is not that highly thought of in Cyprus because, unlike any other profession, people have been allowed into a state classroom with zero teaching training. Imagine the state giving unqualified doctors jobs for life. I wonder if I can trade in my teaching qualification for a medical one as it pays better?

Still one more thing to add to the increasingly long list headed, Reasons Againt Living in Cyprus. Naturally it is beating the, Reasons For. hands down at the moment. We still can't find a decent school and we haven't even explored the state sector yet, although we have tried most of the others.................

three questions

Sunday is a day for soul searching, for want of anything better to do. Even so, three questions may be a trifle ambitious but here goes...

Question 1
Why are sundays so dull in the big lemon? Easy; there is nothing to do apart from eat. Eating out features large on the Nicosia social scene but that's what we did last night with friends and it worked. Is it an experience we want to repeat on Sunday with bickering kids and the inevitable hangover? Er, probably not. So the other options are, go to the beach. Too cold. Good because I hate the beach anyway and that leaves time for more soul searching.

Question 2
Why do I have a hangover again? Because I can never drink in moderation. Is this a genetic disorder or just the consequence of growing up in a drinking culture, low self-esteem or bad parenting, in which case I can presumably get the parents to foot the bill for therapy.
On the other hand, what self-respecting Brit could ever consider drinking in moderation when out with good friends? A recurring theme requiring analysis and justification on the inevitable and many mornings after.
The internal monologue goes something like this; imagine any normal couple in a decent restaurant with good friends. They've had a reasonable amount of food and wine and are enjoying the conversation and the atmosphere. It's getting late. What happens next? Inevitably, choices have to be made.
There is a distinct possibility that if they call it a day, there and then, they could be up bright and early the next morning, fresh enough to deal with the predictable onslought from the delightful offspring. Do they do the sensible thing and call it a night or do they order another bottle of wine or two? There's no way round it, there's only one real option because who wants to be written off as boring, Sundays, as we know, are dull as ditchwater in this part of the world anyway, so why not spend them in bed nursing a hangover and let the kids do their own thing and finally, and most importantly, it is much more fun. That's my justification, every time.

Question 3
Why is modern parenting so difficult? Well, it was never going to be easy if you want to turn out half decent, well adjusted, liberal individuals with a healthy interest in breaking the rules and banned substances, who are not constantly in trouble. The sensible kind of parents who go home after three bottles of wine probably don't talk to their kids about real life or let them experience it, let's face it. In this house we take a more liberal approach, or at least one of us does, which causes problems in itself.
Naturally, a topic for conversation over the fourth bottle of wine is, what do you do when your eleven year old asks you if you have ever had oral sex. Of course you answer, yes. This leads to, "what with daddy, are you serious?" "Oh, yes, with lots of people." Time for daddy to intervene, "Your mother is only joking."
"No, I'm not." Older sister chimes in, "Er hello! grow up, don't you know everyone does it?" I have just been reduced from madonna to whore in two minutes in middle child's eyes.
Should I just stop now and let the eldest daughter take over the parenting role for the youngest one. She has just informed me that it is her ambition to grow much larger breasts and join the 'Playboy Mansion'. "Good career move, darling but what about university?" She informs me that I should be pleased she will earn lots of money and facial piercings are now off the agenda because, playgirls don't do piercings. Things are looking up.