More Golden Oldies…

Another batch of Golden Oldies. Well, more just oldies, really, but indulge me. This is a trio written between 21st and 25th of March 2011…

Birds, Bees & More Birds

I can’t remember what it was, but something on telly led to a discussion with Ben about S. E. X. Now not that I’m squeamish or embarrassed in any way, and I have always been open and truthful with him about anything he might ask, but now that he’s 13 and the questions are getting a bit more complicated and a bit more direct I did find myself wondering if I’m really the person best qualified for the job!

In the course of our discussion I did find one particular thing coming up (no pun intended) that had me squirming a bit, which was the nature of the ‘female orgasm’, because he couldn’t quite work out why or how if there were no obvious consequences in terms of reproduction. I explained some of the Darwinian theories about the ‘relaxation’ effect of orgasm in the conception process and bonding and stuff, and some of the newer theories covering cervical spasms and ‘clearing the custard’ etc, but while doing this admitted I’m no expert (on evolutionary theory, I mean, not on the female orgasm. Oh no, don’t go making those kinds of assumptions, I’ve had very few complaints, there, thank you very much!), and asked if this had never been discussed in Sex Ed at skool. I honestly laughed so hard that it hurt a little bit when he told me ‘Oh, that. It was completely useless, they never told us anything. And the girls were in there for about an hour and we only got five minutes max!’ 

Now it may be that the fact he goes to a specialist skool rather than mainstream makes a big difference, but I’ve never heard of this separate classes thing for Sex Ed (?) When I was at school it was a series of lessons and photo slide shows presented by the blushing R.E. Teacher, who was also rumoured (falsely, I’m sure) to have been the male model in the below-the-neck only slide show pics – including the ones covering STD’s – performing valiantly for the sake of our education with his devoted (and somewhat scrawny, if memory serves correctly) wife. Ahhh, if only it could have been Miss Stephens, our French teacher, or possibly Mrs Hunt, the supply teacher who took us for history for a couple of years. *swoon*

Anyhoo, getting back on top(ic)… I don’t know whether RE teachers have been let off thesex ed hook as far as Sex Ed goes in our schools, or whether different rules apply in specialist schools, but it looks like it’s going to be down to me to make sure that he gets the info he needs as and when he asks it, so I think I’m going to have to start boning up (see previous brackets about no pun intended) on some of the finer points adults don’t generally have to think about but which may be reassuring and/or of major interest to a curious teenager . I don’t think the copy of Robie Harris’s ‘Let’s Talk About Sex’ I got him from Amazon is going to completely cover it, which is probably bad news for him (Ben, not Robie Harris) and me…


Awwww, Bless

Today I was walking back from the library and I saw three little kiddywinkies trying to make a ‘leafcastle’ with a bucket and spade and pile of soggy leaves they had found at the bottom of a drainpipe. They were absolutely loving it, especially when one of them found a worm and they were all giggling and going to pick it up and then not picking it up and screwing up their noses and going ‘ewwwwwwwwwwwww’ and stuff…

I bloody love kids! They’re BRILLIANT!!

wormThese days, though, (and I’ll admit it’s probably a sign that I’m getting old) it’s always with a tinge of sadness that I watch them doing that kind of stuff, ‘cos the ‘optimum age’ at the top end seems to get lower and lower every year. Don’t you think the world would be a nicer place if the worm and leafcastle years lasted a bit longer, and the fags and cider years kicked in a bit later?

Ho hum. Sigh…


 All the Ducks are Swimming in the Water

Oh bumholes. Absolutely glorious day today (well, for March, and considering what we’ve been getting), so I ventured out into the big wide world for a luvverly walk around the park and to the shops and – guess what?  I think I’ve picked up a ‘bug’ somewhere. Headachy, chesty tickle (ooer missus) aching muscles, groaning cockles and swollen whelks. Hopefully it’s just an ‘overtired and run down’ thing (not been sleeping too well and lots of late nights and early starts to boot). Tootorial tomorrow too…

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned but we have a cat, and unfortunately I don’t like her very much. Nothing awful – I don’t hate her or anything like that – just a bit of a personality clash. Ben absolutely adores her (she sleeps on his bed every night), but even he admits she’s a pain in the arse. I won’t go into all the details, but suffice to say she is a nervy, ‘special needs’ cat who’s frightened of her own shadow, meows constantly, dribbles and pukes, has IBS, needs meds every day and is constantly hungry. Of all the many cats I’ve owned, she’s the only one I’ve ever wished I could turn the clock back on and walk straight past at the cat rescue centre…

Anyhoo. Having said all that, it was lovely to see her this morning actually out in the garden with no other cats around to scare her enjoying the sunshine and stalking through the overgrown grass around our rockery (well, the garden wall fell down but we call it a rockery) trying to catch mice and frogs. I watched her for about five minutes, and she was luvverly. See what a bit of sunshine can do? If we all lived in a goldilocks world where it was never too hot, never too cold but always ‘just right’ and we all had full bellies and time just to chill out watching cats every day this could be a fantastic planet… All you need is love, sang the Beatles. I’d qualify that to ‘Love, Sunshine and cats (even ones that are very hard to like) in the garden.

Walking back from the park I passed the village pond, and the mum on the corner has been busy with her ‘watch out for our ducks’ signs again. Now I’ll admit to being rather fond of the little duk-duks myself, and I hate the thought of one getting squished under the wheels of a Chelsea Tractor as it cuts through to avoid the town centre, but I kind of resent this woman claiming ownership of them and appointing herself Prime Protector of the Pond (presumably a stepping stone on the road to First Lady of the Lakedom?). I found last year’s rather angry sign ‘Don’t Murder Our Ducks, written in blood red paint on a four foot high banner after one did get unfortunately squished under the wheels of a Chelsea Tractor quite disturbing, if I’m perfectly honest.

Anyhoo. Though slightly peeved at her presumption, catching sight of the duck  lady’s new signs did trigger a brief daydream in which I envisioned myself and several cronies attired in deer-stalkers and green jackets with shotguns (think Elmer Fudd during hunting season) concealing ourselves around the lake under the cover of darkness. After rounding up all the real ducks and removing them to a place of safety we then floated several brace of decoy ducks full of feathers and blood capsules on the surface of the pond and awaited the mad duck lady’s morning inspection. As her door opened, we all popped up blowing madly on our duck-call whistly things and blasting indiscriminately, blowing the decoys to buggery while the duck lady ran screaming and foaming hither and yon in her nightie and dressing gown. At this point a Jeremy Beadle lookilikee with a microphone emerged from the undergrowth to explain that she’d ‘been framed’…

As daydreams go, quite a mean spirited one, I guess, but it did put a smile on my face for the rest of my walk, and I smiled even more broadly when my MP3 on random play came up with Lemon Jelly’s ‘Nice weather for Ducks’ as an accompanying soundtrack. Ah… spring…




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