Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made Of

Further developments at work on the leaky roof front. The Head, rather unwisely IMHO, decided to play "have a go" and slept over in the school building on Thursday night. Fortunately for him it paid off - the thieves returned and he managed to summon the police before they knew he was there. He then did a full days work on two hours' sleep, which certainly shows dedication.

Moves are afoot to replace the missing lead with an artificial substitute that's less appealing on the black market for building materials - problem is we are a listed building so, even though the portion of the roof in dispute is invisible from street level, we aren't supposed to do this. Hopefully something can be worked out.

I have agreement in principle for improved lighting. Nothing definite on paper yet, though.

Meanwhile, my dad-in-law has transferred to residential care and DH has been sorting though boxes of his stuff every night as we prepare his bungalow for sale. DH's parents never threw anything away so this has been something of a revelation to Becky (my 16 year old daughter), as for the first time she sees a purse containing pounds, shillings and pence (unused in the UK since 1971), petrol ration coupons from the 1940s, her gran's swimming medals from the 1930s and all the paperwork connected with my DH's transfer to secondary education in 1964. These last documents are a vivid reminder of the days before IT, when even secondary schools had four-figure telephone numbers and typewriters were manual, leaving Braille-like indentations in the back of the paper and words in wobbly lines. Some things change less than others though - the instruction that "diversions and social arrangements will not be tolerated as excuses for the neglect of homework," for example. The language may sound like something out of Jane Austen but the sentiments don't date. I wonder what they would have made of Facebook?

Also interesting to note - the instruction that to accept the place parents had to "sign under a sixpenny stamp", the information that a year's education at a grammar school would cost £115 a year (state funded in this case), milk was available daily on request, school dinners were a shilling a day and pupils were allowed to go home for lunch. A bill for school uniform came to just over £6.00 - that included blazer, shirt, tie and swimming trunks.

There's an element of emotional archaeology involved as well. My in-laws were not sentimental people so it came as a revelation to find a very tender love note from their early married life, when it was a delightful novelty to address J's mum as "Mrs W...." I think we all felt a little intrusive coming across that. We also found 'Mum's' wedding shoes from 1946 - wonder how many coupons they cost her? It does make you reflect on the objects that define a human lifetime. Philip Pullman fans will know what I mean when I say that the whole collection was filled with "Dust".

Finally, we came across a scribbled note stuck to DH's bedroom door one Christmas in the 1970s. "Please wake up late, had a very boozy night last night." Apparently he didn't appear until teatime on Christmas Day, and his mother was not impressed. As my North London husband put it, "She done her nut."

I think I'll send that little note off to my son. As I said before, some things change, others stay much the same.

At last the plaster's off and I can type again - slowly and awkwardly but it's a start. It's good to be back.

And a lot has happened. I'm about to start a course in Children's Literature at Roehampton University near London. This is to help me with the background I need to write my dissertation at Stratford. I'm going to be looking at biographical representations of Shakespeare in fiction for kids and young adults - yes, there's still a bit of the Tenth Doctor in there! But mostly we're talking books, and there are a lot of them, particularly Boys' Own Paper stuff about orphans who run away and join the Chamberlain's Men at the Globe. There's also the occasional girl in disguise, as you'd expect, but we're mostly talking boys here, and I expect to be saying plenty about gendered Shakespeare and intertextuality.

Having said that, in the numerous stories I've read over the summer there have been one or two gems. Susan Cooper's wonderful time travel story "King of Shadows", Celia Rees's take on Twelfth Night, "The Fool's Girl" and the wonderful Grace Tiffany, an American writer who has a terrific feel for the inner life of both Shakespeare himself and his daughter Judith. All deserve honourable mentions.

Roehampton have kindly agreed to let me sit in on their introduction module for their MA in Children's Lit, without credit, so all I have to do is get down to London once a week and turn up. That's actually quite a lot, on top of all the other stuff I do, but it's a fantastic opportunity. I hope to catch some theatre in the process, starting  with Jacobi in King Lear in a few months' time.

My son has had to settle for his second choice of university, Essex, a good course but rather an inconvenient location from where we live up in the north of England. However, he's happy to be heading off there. Tomorrow John and I are heading for the Alumni Weekend in Cambridge with DD and her friend, and on Saturday I get to eat in hall at St John's College. Definitely an occasion that calls for a serious outfit!

It's Hamlet time again - I've managed to get tickets for the John Simm outing in Sheffield. It's made me incredibly nostalgic for Tennant - I even feel like watching End of Time again. Never thought that would happen.

And that's about all I can manage for now - I'm still in a splint. Maybe I should have another go at the Voice Recognition software. There is a delightful fic to be written about Ten and McSpeech Dictate, but it's a long time since I was inspired to write anything about Doctor Who.

I have been in an odd frame of mind this past day or two. I think I've been working so hard lately, I've forgotten how to have fun. I keep looking around for tasks and there aren't that many. We aren't entertaining the hordes tomorrow, the food is all in the house, the presents wrapped and although I'm sure I could find plenty to do if I really tried (cleaning the kitchen windows, anyone?) my concentration span is all over the place.

In some respects I don't feel at all Christmassy, though I'm happy enough. In fact, several times recently I've been suddenly bowled over by a feeling of thankfulness, that I've a home and a family to enjoy the holiday with. But I've just kind of let the seasonal stuff wash over me and probably been a bit anti-social - certainly I haven't rushed out to find folks to celebrate with.

It's my first Christmas as a student since 1980! As recently as Tuesday I was in the Shakespeare Birthplace RSC Archive for the day trying to come up with a coherent argument about feminism in productions of Shakespeare's Coriolanus. Coriolanus would have made a good Time Lord. He's probably the Bard's most arrogant character, with an absolute contempt for the lower classes - he only really feels comfortable in a war zone beating the shit out of somebody. It's the way his mother's brought him up. She's a dreadful old bag called Volumnia who gives his wife pep-talks along the lines of, "I would rather have twelve sons sacrificed in battle than one surfeit on excess." She sent her darling boy off to his first war at the age of 16 and when he comes back a hero in the play all she's bothered about is (a) how many wounds he's got and (b) how to manipulate the Senate into making him Consul. Rather like those mothers who greet news of you getting 99% on a term paper with the question, "What happened to the other 1%?"

So here we have this interesting relationship that Freud would have had a field day with, and I have to figure out which productions focus on the politics, which on the psychology and which on the screamingly clear homoerotic subtext (there is what amounts to a love scene when Coriolanus, banished from Rome, offers himself to his sworn enemy). I've watched the Greg Hicks Samurai version, the Toby Wilson French Revolution version, the 1985 Brechtian National Theatre version...and I'm no clearer a clear throughline for the essay I have to hand in on Jan 14th. I think I probably need to take a few days off.

So anyway, we're planning to have some family fun with Beatles Rock Band on the Wii and a few books that aren't about Shakespeare, for a change. I'm trying not to think too hard about what I want from Doctor Who. I'm all to aware that the kids are having all their friends round for a New Year's Eve party less than an hour after the finale ends, and I'll probably be in no fit state to face anyone. But then, they'll want me to hide upstairs anyway.

Happy Christmas, everyone! May Santa bring you all you desire (I hope you're listening, RTD!). See you all the other side of the Gate.

Just been looking over a few old posts and I realised that about a year ago we were going through a very bad time with our son. It's probably time for an update, because I got a lot of support from flist people at the time.

We persevered with getting appropriate medical help and eventually he was diagnosed with a rare condition called Delayed Sleep Phase syndrome. Not only was the condition itself rare, but he had an obscure form of it, non-24 hour sleep-wake syndrome.

Briefly, it's a disorder of the circadian rhythms, so it manifests as non-resolving jet-lag. Tom's sleep phase was somewhere between 25 and 26 hours, so every night he went to sleep later and woke later, and found it quite impossible to turn himself around. The therapist we saw worked on his sleep hygiene (no more laptops in bed) and prescribed melatonin. Although you can get melatonin easily enough off prescription, the correct dosage is critical and tricky to self-medicate.

The effect on Tom was nothing short of magical. Within a week he was back in school. He still struggles with his eczema and other health issues, and if he gets a bug it really knocks him out, but he is back in school on a regular basis. He got a mixed bag of AS results - it was particularly unfortunate that there was a serious marking issue with one of his Philosophy papers, since this is the subject he wants to take at university. The school is pursuing the matter legally, but it meant that almost everyone in the class got a Grade E. I have to say Tom accepted this blow very - erm - philosophically. He's resitting that paper and one of his biology practicals, but he's on course for reasonable A level results.

As a result of his health issues, and a certain lack of confidence and motivation, he has abandoned plans to apply to Cambridge, but he already has three achievable offers from Essex, York and Manchester to read Philosophy next year. His first choice, Sheffield, has yet to respond, but then the "insurance" offers tend to come in first. They are all A's and B's. York would just be weird, since I went there myself. Manchester is basically there as a fallback so he can live at home if his health deteriorates further. Essex is the front runner so far - good course, but a long way away. It's going to cost the two of us £500 to travel down for interview by train!

Equally important is the fact that, despite being a year out of phase with his contemporaries (after repeating his Lower Sixth year), his social life has never been better. He's playing bass in a band with his sister (she plays drums) and a friend and is busy with various political and philosophical interests. Every Saturday our home is full of teens watching movies and playing board games - they are a very nice lot.

I'm no longer worrying about whether philosophy graduates in poor health are employable or not. I'm just glad he's back on track and he seems happy. And thank you to everyone who commented and cared. Sorry it's taken so long to report back to you.

I am trying very hard to come up with a good displacement activity, because the alternative is reading "Cymbeline", which I find the most daunting of Shakespeare's plays despite the fact that my first date with the man who is now my husband was a performance of it. Our second was the movie 1984. It's remarkable we're still an item, really.

My daughter turned 15 this week. The house was full of teenage girls sleeping on the floor, eating burgers and popcorn and watching "Bones". She is very into "Bones." I certainly don't have a problem with that. As she pointed out when I mentioned homework, she knows what a clavicle is now. It's more than Martha Jones ever taught her.

I used to dread the kids' birthday parties but now they more or less organise their own - I just come in useful when bills need to be paid. They all went off on the train to a place called Formby on Merseyside, the nearest one to us that could reasonably be called seaside. There they played frisbee, struggled over the sand dunes in flipflops and ate an awful lot of cake. I thought it was so sweet that out of the eight she invited, two of her friends turned up with home made birthday cake. You don't get that with boys.

Spent Easter in the Lake District with DH. I am terribly unfit - partly because I have recently had a bug, partly because I am just unfit. Nevertheless we managed to walk over from Langdale into Eskdale on Easter Sunday - 14 miles and a lot of climbing. My knee became very painful on descent and if we hadn't met some kind people who helped strap it up, I'm not sure how I'd have managed. By the time we reached our hotel, I literally had to heave myself upstairs, I was so stiff and exhausted.

So, I need to get the the gym a LOT more than I have been doing if I'm going to enjoy the summer.

On the plus side, I have been gardening this weekend. That always makes me feel better. Today I planted out my salad bed with fennel, dill, parsley, lettuce and coriander. Okay, my salad/herb bed. And I bought my son a new iPod. My DH will not approve - he thinks he should pay for these things himself.

Apple prices really are a law unto themselves. Not only the goods themselves, but also the accessories. Today I payed £19.00 for an iPod mains adapter that cost £68.00 a year ago.

I have no desire to upgrade my own iPod, or my phone. I've reached the age now where the thought of mastering the instruction manual puts me off. I suppose, if I really had to find something to spend money on, it would be nice to have room for all my songs (I only have a 2GB now), instead of having to choose which playlists to put on, but since I only use it in the gym, and I haven't been going lately, it's really not a purchase I could easily justify. Although the new colours are certainly pretty.
( Yes, I did watch POTD )

Oh Lord. I just never seem to get off the phone these days.

We're in the process of getting the outside of our house repainted. Problem - there's a conservatory stuck on the back and it's impossible to reach the walls above without extensive scaffolding. So far, I've been quoted up to £1300 to put the stuff up. We've hired a painter to start next week and he wants less than half of that to paint the whole damn house. I'm seriously contemplating getting a builder to put a proper roof on the conservatory as an alternative. And my dreams of having all this sorted out by the time my four Americans come to stay (mid to late July) are receding fast.

We ordered garden furniture; the website chewed my husband's credit card details and froze halfway through the transaction. Went back on line yesterday morning and found it was asking for the security code on his card - had to text him to get hold of it. He was in five telecons back-to-back and flying overnight to Nashville for two days. TWO DAYS - it's crazy for a 24 year old, let alone a 54 year old like him!

Meanwhile, he's left the car for service. If it isn't back on the drive when he gets home tomorrow mid-morning his schedule collapses like a pack of cards. The garage just called to say that the GE (it's a company car leased from them) are over their credit limit so can he pick it up tomorrow instead? It'll take weeks to find another window when John can do without the car.

At work, I've been running a Scholastic Book Club catalogue and a book fair by another company simultaneously, both on top of my official job to raise money for more library books. I put up thirty book orders last week barricaded in a corner of the library to hide from seven year olds pestering me "Has my book come yet?" So perhaps it's not surprising that the fairly hardline Christian family who ordered an Anthony Horowitz Diamond Adventures pack wound up with Anthony Horovitz's Horror Pack instead. They really are not very happy - they have five and seven year olds in the house.

And now I'd better get to work, because I have to cash up from the Book Fair and order my stuff on commission before their rep arrives to take it all away at eleven o'clock, followed by another batch of orders eagerly awaited by impatient seven-year-olds. And then there's the lady who complained that her Scholastic order didn't arrive last week. She's ordered twice and expected us to pay for £35.00 worth of books on credit when it says clearly that the terms are cash up front.

But at least everybody got their 99p Doctor Who stickers. And someone's just called to say they could take a panel out of the conservatory roof for a couple of hundred quid. And I have fresh strawberries growing outside. Reasons to be cheerful...

So far, this hasn't been a very good week.

DH has a perforated eardrum, so no swimming for a while. To get much-needed exercise, he went orienteering yesterday and returned with a badly sprained ankle. He's hardly left his bed since.

Meanwhile, my son woke up with nasty conjunctivitis, and he's having an ingrowing toenail removed, which is I believe one of the most painful things ever.

And my daughter has come home full of a cold and almost certainly has tonsilitis.

I'm not going to moan about having to take care of everybody. I'm just really glad that, so far, I'm well.

Oh, and a friend just called to apologise for her silence since Christmas. She fell downstairs on Christmas Eve and dislocated her knee. Ouch!

There seems to be a lot of it about.