Verbal diarrhoea

I’m thinking about my last post and the fact that I am too verbose.

I have been told this. Repeatedly. So, don’t post. This is not news to me.

The surprising thing is, I’ve often thought of myself as being quite anti-social. I mean, I don’t crave company. I’m quite happy for weeks and months on end to not ‘go out gallivanting’.

So where, if at all, does any social interaction occur with me?



My immediate family. Lots of them.

My extended family, up to a point. They’re busy. I’m busy.

My work. Thirty odd children in a class manage to destroy all desire I may have had for communication and verbal interaction. In fact, I usually need an hour to myself with coffee and cigarettes to get to a place where noise of any kind is tolerated, let alone welcome.

I love my job. I love children. I want to strangle anyone that hurts a child. No matter what form that hurt takes. How dare you?!

That does not make me a pushover. Rather a very patient, considerate teacher with the best interests of my pupils at heart. Seriously.

The problem is, that by the time I’ve given my all to my class, there’s not a lot left. At least, until I refuel. God Bless coffee and tobacco.

This will not please one of the blogs I follow. A beautiful, young, enthusiastic, unjaded advocate of health and well-being.

Despite the title of this page, I have no aspirations to work my butt. My butt started heading south some years ago and had a compass pointing the way. At no point in my fairly-lengthy life has my butt ever professed aspirations to be pert and upright. In fact, I don’t even know why I am using the word butt (except, perhaps because Americans refer to that region as such).

My bum is nothing to be ashamed of after seven kids. But, (and I am pausing for laughter here) It has never tried to be anything other than what it is.

I rephrase. It has never tried to be anything other than what I have been prepared to make it.

And, well, you know, exercise… I’ve just never really been into it. I know in these health-raising awareness days I ought to at least try to like exercise but I just don’t. Can’t.

How do you go about changing the innate characteristics of a person?

If I always, and I do mean always, preferred reading to playing, is that my fault?

I gladly went on walks with my dad because they were fun.

But, if you take the overt fun out of the equation, I just don’t see the point.

So why am I following this fine young lady’s page.

I could just say, ‘Because’.

That’s what all maturity-stunted individuals say when faced with a question they can’t/don’t want to answer. (Note to self: Must stop saying, ’Because I said so,’ to my children.)

There is, actually, a reason.

Here we have a beautiful young woman aspiring to inspire in others a love for what she recognises as wholesome.

I’m a wee bitty past worrying about that. But, I do have children. And I am concerned that they eat correctly/exercise appropriately/view themselves wholesomely. I’ve always concerned myself with these things.

I’ve not always religiously followed them. Sweets as a treat. McDonalds now and then. Swimming whenever I can be arsed.

I do try.

Really, I do.

But, I don’t like mixing much..

I am INFJ. See

Now, I know this stuff. I’ve done more psychometric tests than,,,,Well, I don’t know who than. Someone who’s done a lot.

I don’t really give a shit whether I have company or not. I view solitary confinement as a spa weekend.


I was told recently, by more than one person, I might add, that I ought to do stand up.

Well, that’s just offensive.

That means that while I was raising my glass and wishing ‘salut’ to everyone, they were not taking my words seriously.


I am, and always have been, a very serious person. Ask anyone who knows me. Well, not anyone, obviously. Not the people at that party who thought I was being witty and gay (in the original sense of the word).

Don’t ask them.

They don’t know shit. Which points me to another splendid blog I have encountered. If you like shit. Don’t be obtuse. I don’t mean literally. But, if like me, there are some disgusting things that ….well….you just can’t help laughing at, view this.

I really love this. I’ve tried a couple of times to post a comment to the author to ask permission to email this to others because it is screaming to be out there.

But, every time I have tried to make a comment, my screen has gone do-lally. Not with every post I make. But, certainly every time I try to post here. I have taken this to mean that I am not meant to communicate with this person ; that destiny is keeping us apart. Or some shit like that.

Anywhoo. It’s too good a post to stay on WordPress. I mean really too good. It ought to be out there.. Making its way in the world. Receiving plaudits from people like me that think that shit is funny. Well, it is.

I might also direct you to one Mr. Billy Connolly, of Scottish extraction, who did a lovely piece years ago entitled, ‘The Jobbie Wheecha.’

I am not familiar enough with the vernacular of Americans (of which this site is full). But, just in case, you need elucidation – jobbie = shit. Wheecha? Well, that’s a bit more difficult to explain. Suffice to say, ‘What does happen to all that keech (shit) that airline passengers can no longer hold until landing?’

If my rather sedate mother, with her completely out-of-character crude sense of humour, can fall off  a chair laughing at this (literally) then I think it’s worth a listen.

I went to the bother of googling this link, so you owe it to me and, seriously, to yourself to give it an ear. (That’s if you can understand it. We Scots have a slight dialect problem. Not for us, just for everyone else.)

As the title of my post suggests – verbal diarrhoea.

If you want shit, I can talk it along with the best of them.

I can’t even remember why I started this post. Now, that’s  no shit. That’s three haufs and pepsi max later.                                                                                                        

I have lots of shit to do tomorrow. We’re all off for summer holidays tomorrow. Oh, joy!!!

P.S. I have no idea what kind of shit is going on with my laptop/programmes but I can’t seem to get it to behave. This is not Times Roman 18 or else the rest of it isn’t. I give up. I’m posting as it is because in the words of Rhett Butler,

‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a —-‘.

PPS This is just ridiculous. I can’t even read the post I’m trying to copy and post. If you know what I mean.

So, I’m sorry. I’m going to have to select some massive typescript here so that this post can be seen by anyone without the aid of a magnifying glass.

PPPS Please, god. Don’t let my computer start being an arse. I already have enough of those in my life. Return my font sizes to the way they should be. And, when I select 14. Let everything be 14.

Nope, you’re just not going to do it, are you?

PPPPS Dear God, I truly am sorry that I disturbed you with trivia about font sizing. But it really is irritating!x


I apologise for the length of this post in advance. But it is a subject that riles me so much that I find it difficult to be too precise.


I cannot agree that there is an instinctive sadistic urge in us all.

I do agree that there are many people who have a distorted perception of the world. Their inability to empathise or, at the very least, sympathise with differing human conditions still manages to shock me to the core.

I see bullying in my workplace. Children on children, adults on adults, adults on children.

Thankfully, among the adults it is more rare. You expect ‘grown-ups’ to know better. Although that is not always the case.

I always, without exception, act on bullying that I am made aware of. And try to put preventative measures in place even where no bullying,apparently,exists.

Teaching young people to ‘walk in another’s shoes’ is one of the most valuable lessons I can give the children in my care.

I have questioned the need that some people seem to have for bullying another and, over the years, I have come to one or two conclusions.

Firstly, let me say, it is never acceptable. Never.

However, understanding motives behind actions does help to go some way in being able to effectively redress those actions.

In many cases, those bullied have been victims themselves, not necessarily in the same environment in which they perpetrate their crime.

Disclosure of facts by children and other bodies leads me to believe that many children are bullied at home. Sometimes by other siblings, sometimes by parents. Strict authoritarian rule, without the ability to negotiate anything and absolute adherence to the rules regardless of how ill-conceived they may be, can lead to rebellion. If unable to express it at home, it can become manifest in other areas of life.

The desire to exert control or power over someone else, when you have none yourself, is strong.

Seeing one parent bullying another is also too often the scenario children bear witness to on a day to day basis.

I have first-hand dealings with children whose inability to control temper is beyond description here. In most cases, it has eventually been revealed that their own home life experiences are a replica. They know no better example.

There are then children who ‘rule the roost’ at home. In these cases it is too little parental authority that is the root of the problem. They are given license to be as obnoxious as they wish. It is not what they need. It is not even what they want. They need boundaries. These children want boundaries to show that someone cares enough to exert them. There is, sometimes, on the part of a parent, the desire to instil so much confidence in their children, that they forget a couple of other life lessons. Like how to treat other people.

It’s a tough job but parents have got to do it.

I have heard,  more times than I care to think about, vitriolic comments that do not come from the school environment. These children are being taught, systematically or accidentally, to hate and ridicule in the same ignorant fashion as their parents. Football teams, religion and colour are usually high on the agenda.

Yes, and maybe- just maybe- there are some who are plain bad. I, personally, do not accept this as a generality. Dig deep enough and you will find the reasons.

Unfortunately, this all seems like little help to anyone being bullied. What does understanding motive have to do with dealing with the problem? How can knowing the possible or probable whys help with the very pressing hows? How to stop it? How to prevent it?

I am no expert on this subject. And there are behavioural psychologists out there who will have better advice to give on the subject of the whys and the hows.


I deal with children every day. I have taught for over thirty years. I have seven children of my own. One or two of them have been bullied at some point. I have been bullied in my life.

My advice to stop someone bullying you?

First, accept that this is not your fault. That’s right.

You do not deserve this.

You have not done anything to warrant being bullied.

Not your ears, not your eyes, not your nose, not your glasses, not your skin colour, not your religion, not your sexuality, not your geekiness, not your introversion, not your weight, not your intelligence, not your clothes, not because you play chess.


You do not deserve to be bullied.

By anyone.

So get that in your head, first of all. Bullying is not on.

Secondly, recognise, and I mean really recognise, that the bully is the one with the true problem here. True, as in psychologically disturbed.

Perceiving the world as they do is not considered normal by many, many people.

Now, how do you get them to stop?

Well, once you’ve acknowledged the first two and accepted them as fact, do this.

Lift your head up. Square your shoulders. Look straight ahead. Practise this first in front of a mirror, by all means. Now say,

‘I am God’s creation. Creation is beautiful. God does not make rubbish. I am His beautiful creation.’

And do you know what? You are. Whether you believe this or not. You absolutely are. Say it enough times. And stop criticising your own nose/spots/glasses/hair/weight/height/colour/whatever.

I really mean that. Stop it! And stop it now.

Walking about dejectedly, feeling ugly, not loving yourself can make you a target. You’re vulnerable.

What do bullies do? They pick on the most vulnerable. Or, at least, who they perceive to be vulnerable. Don’t make yourself a bullseye.

Now this is not a criticism of people who are bullied. It is merely an acknowledgement that those most likely to be bullied are those who appear to be the most vulnerable. Easy pickings, they think. A lot of bullies are cowards. They don’t want the challenge.

Paedophiles, questioned on how they picked their victims, responded that they could spot a target in a crowded room. Body language speaks volumes.

Get your head back up. You are not that person.

You are God’s beautiful creation. What are you?

‘I am God’s beautiful creation.’

Now shout it out loudly, somewhere, anywhere.


Belt it out!

Now some practical tips.

If someone says something to you, turn it back on them as a question.

It doesn’t have to be smart or witty or even sensible. It helps. But it doesn’t have to be.


Bully: Does your mother let you walk about looking like that?

You: Do you want to ask her yourself?

Bully: Are you trying to be funny?

You: Is it working?

Bully: I’ll waste you.

You: Would you like me to give you something else to waste?

Now, as I said, it doesn’t have to be smart or witty or even sensible. Just answer back with a question.

A question turns the tables and often leaves the bully too perturbed to know what exactly to do next.

And sometimes, the bully may come at you, fists flying.

My advice? Go mental back at them. You might not win this time but they will think again before tackling you if you have given as good as you got.

As a rule, I do not, absolutely do not, advocate violence. But. And, it’s a big but, sometimes it is your only tool.

All of the above can work for adults as well as for children.

Think about it.

You are in your workplace and someone – boss/colleague/bully is about to give you a hard time. Ask a question.

Boss: Have you finished that report yet?

You: Was it urgent?

Boss: Duhh, I needed it yesterday.

You: Would you like me to get on to it straight away or stay at this meeting?

Boss: Well, I need you here. So it will have to wait.

You: So, it’s not that urgent?

Have a retort ready. Anything.

When one of my children was being bullied I did not know. After I found out, I was devastated to think I had so badly misjudged his poor behaviour at home. I accused him of having no patience/control of his temper/consideration for others.

When I found out, through my daughter, that he was being bullied, my reaction was typical of most mothers.

I wanted to go up to that school and rip the neck off of the child/ren that was the source of my son’s unhappiness.

How dare they? How absolutely-fucking-dare they?

I’ll eat them alive.

You know? A measured approach.

I didn’t.

I would have lost my job/been arrested/restrained in a white jacket.

After all, I was the adult.

So, what did I do?

I listened.

I asked questions.

I got the whole story.

I thought.

I read up on bullying.

I studied it.

I swotted.

Obviously, this is the responsible human equivalent of ripping someone’s neck out.


Oh, then.

I put my son through a course on bullying.

We practised retorts and comebacks.

Sometimes, I was the bully and he had to give the retorts. Sometimes, he was the bully and I got to think up all the fabulous things I would say.

My daughter joined in.

She said she actually like when people came onto her because she never knew what she was going to say until she opened her mouth and was invariably delighted at her sarcastic wit. (She always has had a smart mouth on her.)

I am not trying to be flippant on a subject that is capable of making me imagine violence.

I have read posts on this site, too many posts, where young adults and older adults alike, suffer at the hands of people who amuse themselves with exerting power over others.

This subject gets to me in a way that a few others do. I imagine violence. Then I try to think smart.

Bullying is never, ever, ever acceptable.

Bullying is a way some people try to control their environment or people within it.

It affects children and adults.

We can choose how we react to their behaviour.

I choose never to accept it. I choose to always fight it with whatever means are at my disposal. I choose to bleed sometimes. I choose not to be a victim.

What do you choose?

And what are you going to do about it?

Scottish Summers

Last year , summer passed us by.

Some people argue that we did, in fact, have it.

We had two lovely weeks in May.

Then it poured.

Almost non-stop through until Autumn.

I remember this because I bought two sun loungers in May (for the bargain price of £25 each) and didn’t bring them back out of the garden hut until this year.

What a bargain they were, eh?

I remember this because my husband is a self-employed gardener and his frustration last year at the weather was palpable. From a man whose moods are not governed by the weather.

I try not to listen to forecasts because they depress the hell out of me.

Some of my not-so-favourite forecasts include phrases like:-

Risk of showers. (It’s going to pour.)

Some sunny spells. (In between pouring rain.)

Heavy rain and high winds. (Speaks for itself.)

What I really want to hear is:-

‘Scotland, this year, will bask in Mediterranean weather conditions.

Due to overwhelming pressure from the Scottish public and tourists alike, I, God, have decided you need to up your Vitamin D levels and I hereby declare a weather amnesty.

Everyone will have the opportunity to enjoy my lovely beaches without an umbrella. Those majestic mountains I created will be seen from top to bottom instead of being shrouded in a hazy rain mist.

You may expose your wan, white flesh to the orb for a period of three months after which you will have a new season.

I realise I have exhausted your sense of humour with what I laughingly called four seasons. It was just a little experiment.

And now it’s over.

You will, from now on, have four distinct seasons.’

Please God, don’t make this announcement on 1st April.

Pets and Promises

I managed to resist buying a dog for years.

I negotiated with my children each time it was mentioned and so we’ve had more hamsters than I care to think about, a few guinea pigs, a budgie, a couple of gerbils, goldfish and some woodlice that my kids thought would make good pets! My back garden is an animal graveyard. Natural expiration, I may add.

Last year, I gave in.

A three-month old Border Collie was bought.

There were promises made before the purchase.

We promise we will get up early and walk him before we go to school.

We will take turns at this task.

We will do it gladly even when it is raining.

We will groom him daily.

We will feed him.

We will wash him.

We will love him.


Peeta has adopted daddy as his running companion.

I feed him.

They love him.

And, when pressed, do all of the above.

But only when pressed.

He’s part of the family now.

So I have eight kids instead of seven!

Hating Inanimate Objects

I sort the washing into bundles.

I place the items in the washing machine.

I remove them once washed and put them in a basket.

I take the basket outside and peg everything out to dry.

Later, I collect it all in again and usually have to place it in the dryer to finish it off.

I remove it from the dryer and fold it into another basket.

I take the basket upstairs and sort items into bundles of whose clothes belong to whom.

I then carry the bundles to each of their rooms.

By the time I have done the washing, I have handled items many times.

It is no wonder that I find myself saying,

‘Not those bloody jeans again!’

And that’s another reason I don’t do ironing. Fondling all those items for minutes at a time while I manoeuvre them around an ironing board? No thanks.

It works with shopping too. Think about it!

Bargaining with Myself

Do you ever make bargains with yourself?

I do it with the children.

‘Tidy your room and then you can go out to play.’

‘Eat your dinner and then you can choose a sweet.’

‘Finish your homework and then you can watch some TV.’

But I do it with myself too.

I’m sitting at my laptop just now, saying to myself,

‘Go and put a washing on and tidy up and then you can come back to the blog.’

I’ve already spent more time than I probably should have on this site over the course of the weekend. And I’ve enjoyed it. But I do feel a bit guilty.

I find I feel guilty about stealing time for myself when I know there are so many other things needing done. Sometimes I don’t care and think, ‘I’m entitled. I work hard. This is ‘me’ time.’

But there are other times, like now, when I think. ‘You’ve had plenty ‘me’ time this weekend. Now go and do what you should be doing. And then you can come back to it.’

I’ve guilted myself into it. I’m going to be a responsible grown-up and do my chores.

What about you?

Do you make bargains with yourself?

Thanks Miss B.

So I went along to the open evening for my old school’s closure. It was a lovely night.

Best of all, my favourite teacher of all time was there. Miss B., the one who had taught me in Primary 7. She looked fabulous and she must be in her late seventies.

It’s a curious thing. A lot of the teachers I see look amazing after they’ve retired. I’ve got that to look forward to!

I finally got to say to her what I’ve always wanted to say.

‘Thanks. For being the best of my teachers through primary, secondary and college.’

And I got to hug her. She even remembered who I was without me having to tell her. I was delighted.

I wonder how many of my former pupils I will remember when I’m her age. Or how many will remember me.

It’s quite scary to encounter children you have taught with their own kids in tow. You just don’t realise how the years fly.

How Times Change

I just read a post about how dependent we now are on the internet and computer use in general.

It set me thinking.

My first introduction to computers was via a manila folder back in the seventies. The class I was a part of was given a couple of sheets of loose-leaf A4 and told to copy a diagram from the board. It went

‘Input – Computer (Process) – Output’.

That was it. Some vague explanation was given that we noted about how computers were being developed and how one day we would all use one. Scoff. Two sheets of A4 did not convince me that there was ever going to be much in it.

A few years later ‘language labs’ were introduced in school and that was truly hi-tech for me. Attempting to speak French into a microphone, having it recorded and the teacher commenting through my earphones on how I was doing, was a bit scary, at first. I thought I was talking to a machine and was giving it a heavy French accent. When the teacher first spoke to me through my headset I nearly peed my pants. My anonymous ramblings could be heard by him? I toned the accent down after that.

Roll on a few years and, by now, I was teaching. A computer – a single computer- was brought into the school and all teachers had to take an in-service course on how to use it. We were taught how to format a floppy disc. I still don’t get it. And I don’t have to now. The computer was wheeled from class to class and children would gather round to see this wonder in operation.

Unfortunately, it had the lowest memory possible 56mb, 128mb? I can’t remember. I do know it crashed and froze a lot. The standard procedure for correcting this was ‘switch it off at the mains and switch it on again’. I don’t think that was technical advice but it usually worked. For a while. Until you had to do it again.

Gradually, more computers were brought in and, with more capacity, they could do wonderful things that impressed me no end. ( I still had to switch it off at the mains sometimes.)

My sister gave me her old Mac when she upgraded. It had no modem but I loved it. What was the internet anyway?

A few more years down the line and I invested in a new computer with in-built modem and whistles and bells.

The beginning of a love affair. As Curious Bloke rightly pointed out,we use it for everything. I don’t know what I would do without my laptop. I’m sure I would survive but I love it. I even manage my own technical issues now and have a vendetta going if the laptop isn’t working up to par. I’ll scour the internet and stay up for hours till I get the answers. OK sometimes, I still switch it off at the mains but that’s usually an act of desperation.

One site I love is Major Geeks. It has lots of neat little programmes to boost this that and the other. I realise now that, if current computers had been available when I was a teen, I would have been one of the major geeks. How times change.

End of an Era

My old primary school is being demolished this summer. A new, purpose-built, hi-tech, all-singing, all-dancing structure will take its place. It will have all the mod cons – interactive white boards, projectors, dedicated IT suite, an elevator, disabled facilities. You name it, it will have it.

I don’t know that it will last as long as the current, yet-to-be-demolished version. This particular edifice has been standing for around a hundred years. My dad went to it, my brothers and sisters and I went to it, my children have all gone to it. Two of them are currently there today. My youngest still has five years to go there.

It’s quite an ugly building. It was built over three levels and constructed of blonde sandstone. It looks like a giant cuboid standing on one of its smaller sides. It has mesh on most of the windows to prevent break-ins and vandalism. It looks like a prison. And I am sure there have been plenty of children who have gone through its doors and felt that it was exactly that.

But I have some fabulous memories of my time there. I met my favourite teacher of all time there. I had the pleasure of being in the Primary seven class of this young (then) woman who just ‘got’ kids. You knew that she understood every one of us. She was patient and kind and had a fabulous way of putting her lessons across. She made everything worthwhile learning. It was in her class that I fell in love with Greece and its myths and legends. It was in her class that I realised that, even although I was quiet, I was noticed. She inspired me to give of my best. I worked my tail off for her approval. And I loved it. I blossomed.

I later did a teaching practice in the school myself as a student and she was still there. I was still in awe of her. I even posted a little note through her door at the end of teaching practice to tell her what an inspiration and fabulous teacher she had been. I was still too shy to say it face to face.

She retired some years ago and I still think of her. She never married. Teaching had been her life.

Thank you, Miss B.

It was in this school that I first did any acting. Well, if you can call it that. One of the teachers was particularly talented at art and music. He put on some mean performances. He wrote lyrics to classical pieces and had us all singing our hearts out on stage and feeling that the Oscars were just around the corner. He should probably have taught music in the secondary school. So, Mr. W, thanks for the memories.

One other teacher in my third or fourth year there was so old-fashioned. She used to wear an orange checked overall to protect her clothes from chalk dust. She had the girls curtseying and the boys saluting during a particular topic. I think it must have been ‘The Victorians’. We loved it.

‘Good Morning, Miss B.’ Curtsey. Salute. Such fun.

My first year in the school I was in a class that had an open coal fire. And a rocking horse. I so wanted a shot on that horse but pushier children always got there first. Sods! We practised our letters on small chalk boards and worked out number bonds with Cuisenaire rods. God, I sound like 120.

Parts of the school have terracotta coloured ceramic tiles covering the walls. These are to be removed and used to make a mosaic. Primary seven children will do this. So one of my daughters will be doing this as a last act before leaving for secondary.

Tonight there’s to be an open evening and a Mass to celebrate the end of an era.

My sister’s hosting a little after party too so there will most likely be a few sherbets and some tears.

Two days until the end of term and this school closes forever. To be flattened to the ground. But the memories will live on.