The Geekesse Diaries

Amazing kids

2012-01-19T20:58:00.012Z

So far I'm just on time keeping one of my resolutions: to write a post to this blog once every month. This means I have fewer events on which to draw, and less need to telescope time, allowing me the scope to reflect appreciatively on those things I encounter as I hurtle through life.

One such encounter was the shocking realisation that not only have all my children grown up, but that they have turned into the nicest adults one could wish to meet. I can't quite recall a single time when the tables turned, but this year, without question, it was them who did the work, and me who was looked after and entertained. Epiphany fell on a working day, so the plan was for all to gather while I was still sweating over a hot whiteboard. Five kids, a wife and a girlfriend were all in residence when I arrived home at 4 to find the roast in the oven, veg preparation in hand and under control in the kitchen, and chilled cava in a glass waiting for me.

I lifted not a finger, nor ruffled a single hair. The meal produced itself effortlessly under the expert skills and genial co-operation of various sons, and all was cleared and fed

into the dishwasher over the next couple of days by daughter - who also hoovered and wiped up the kitchen so that the house ended up cleaner and tidier after they had all left than it was when they arrived. We all had time for a leisurely drink in the Ellie before dinner, and it never got to my round.

Daughter-in-law and son's girlfriend have endless patience with the weird family rituals and remind me that a family is always a growing, changing entity. The meal was perfect, the family time together merry, and there wasn't a moment of stress in the entire event.

If having remarkable offspring is pleasing, watching one's pupils doing remarkable things is another kind of pleasure. In a moment of insanity earlier in the year, I decided that the third form could usefully dabble in my PhD field of theology and the internet. I slightly overestimated their familiarity with the technology, so it has been a steep learning curve, but here we are, three weeks into term, and each set has a page on their own website, a growing blog, and the faintest stirrings of a Twitter feed. There is so much hard work going into writing content and getting the hang of different kinds of online presence. What has surprised me most is the thoughtful creativity of students whose output is usually written answers to academic questions. Do have a look at the blogs of 3-1, 3-2, 3-3 and 3-4 to see what I mean.

By the time I get round to writing the next post, I expect there to be another amazing kid in the family: more about that after the event. Watch this space.

As time goes by...

2011-12-28T10:31:00.030Z

This year's Christmas tree is, I think, the biggest and bushiest I have ever had. Youngest son and I went to fetch it on a bright, clear morning a couple of weeks ago. By the time we got to the farm, heavy clouds were gathering with intent, and as we started the drive home, a few heavy drops plopped down. The sharp shower that followed should not have been a problem, but for the fact that the tree would only go into my car with the roof down. There's something very silly about driving an open-top sports car in the rain, and sillier still when there's a five-foot Christmas tree bobbing in the wind whistling above the windscreen. This event has already entered family legend as another example of their mother's advancing eccentricity.

I'm ashamed to discover that more than half a year has whistled by without a single blog post: mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Life has been busy and happy, but there's been little leisure to gather my thoughts and compose them into considered prose. However, I've promised my Dad that I will try to follow his example and update my musings more often and in this season of new resolutions, it's a good time to make a start.

Almost immediately after my last post, daughter-in-law was elected as a local councillor. After years of grassroots activism in local politics, and with eldest son as a willing and energetic campaigner and supporter, she polled an unexpectedly high majority on what ought to have been a marginal seat. I am turning into a Hyacinth Bouquet soundalike: "my daughter-in-law the councillor" trips off the tongue so nicely.

Summer started with the usual rush of exam marking. Tight deadlines and heavy workloads at all three levels mean that the end of term and the first few weeks of the holiday are businesslike and strictly timetabled. People ask why I mark public exams when I could be lounging on a beach somewhere. The second part of the question is easy to answer - I don't much like lounging on beaches. But there is more to it than that: it is, without question, the most rigorous form of professional development for a teacher, discovering how students all over the country tackle topics I deliver in the classroom week by week.

August was all about closing a chapter in my life. With youngest son off to university in September, the time had come to empty the old house and put it on the market. After ten years as a family home and a year as a young man's bachelor pad, there was a lot of clearing out to do. Lofts, cupboards and cavities under and behind furniture were all emptied into the light of day, sorted, and divided into unequally into two piles: to skip, and to keep. All of the children helped out a bit, but special mention goes to daughter who spent dusty hours clearing lofts and sorting and boxing books with a ruthlessness of purpose. "Do you actually *need* this? No? Skip, then." Second son arrived just in time to rescue the day when I tripped and sprained an ankle badly: he lugged boxes into and out of the hired white van as we moved the remnants of our life into a hired storage unit.

After nearly three weeks of hard work, two eight-ton skips and twelve boxes stowed, and enough dust to bury a small city, the almost-empty house echoed sadly as we set off for a celebratory trip to Bramall Lane to watch the Blades beat Walsall in a very satisfying game. I felt quite nostalgic for the years I've been a Blade by adoption as we spilled out with the cheerful crowd after the match.

The Michaelmas term started at a run and continued that way. My most daunting task each year is learning the names of new students, closely followed by re-orienting my picture of familiar faces into new year-groups. I love the buzz of energy at the start of the school year, and the settling back into the rhythm of a day punctuated by bells and familiar tasks. Who would have thought that the awkward, stroppy schoolgirl I once was would eventually find comfort in the repeated patterns of school routines!

There have been some delightful interludes with my lover when we have found space between his work and mine, including a city break early in summer, but his illness clouded the end of the long holiday which has put our collaborative project on ice. Instead we've spent time together clearing the backlog of his daily work to give him more time for rest and recuperation.

The Christmas holiday has been one of family logistics: daughter's car lives outside my house, so their stepmother's big birthday party saw children and partners converging here for lifts north, then returning here before dispersing to their holiday destinations. The day itself was spent with second and youngest sons and their bosses and families in their London gastropub: quite the most congenial way to spend Christmas day. A trip to introduce daughter-in-law to my Dad yesterday rounded off the Christmas travelling for the year, and I came home bearing quite the most glamorous Christmas present I have ever received: a Fortnum and Mason hamper full of seasonal gourmanderie.

I'm looking forward to 2012. The most significant date in the diary so far is the expected date of arrival of my first grandchild. Eldest son and daughter-in-law are stuffing their house with things that hadn't even been invented when he was born, but which are now de rigeur for a twenty-first century baby. I'm delighted that they still want to use the hand-knitted blanket I made for him thirty years ago: it gives me a real sense of continuity and helps to offset the terror I feel at this next step along the matriarchy timeline.

Spring Pleasures

2011-05-08T22:39:00.006Z

This has been the most beautiful spring I can remember. The harsh winter of 2010-11 seems a distant memory now that we have basked through the warmest April on record, and the longest Easter holiday anyone here can remember.

The Lent term was long and busy. The snow melted only just before the start of term, and the dark mornings and evenings made school life feel like a troglodyte existence. Up each morning before sunrise, and walking home long, long after nightfall, I found last term businesslike and fruitful. There was little time for leisure, and even my birthday passed with just a breakfast visitor to mark the event.

But there were a few opportunities for fun. One such was our family Epiphany gathering. All but foster daughter number two made it despite the snowy conditions, and penultimate son's girlfriend also came along, so seven of us sat down to venison and all the trimmings. Later, during half-term, I had trip to London to go to the theatre with daughter number

one for a rather odd but enjoyable show about shoes (and I missed the last train home because we were having such a pleasant time at the pub afterwards!) As the weather warmed up, it became possible to walk a friend's dogs by the canal and spend lengthening evenings in the garden writing lesson plans.

The holiday has brought many pleasures. The Society for the Study of Theology Annual Conference in York was both academically invaluable, but also socially pleasant. The chance to catch up with people I have worked with in the past, and to meet new people who are so interesting, made this feel far more like fun than a professional necessity. Here at home, I've read books for pleasure, done Guardian crosswords, cooked and played the piano (this last I do very badly). I've touched base with all the offspring, visited my Dad and enjoyed whole days when I haven't spoken to a soul. If that sounds odd, bear in mind that I am a classic introvert who needs time alone to recharge the batteries. I feel well and truly recharged.

My beautiful car has been a joy. The passenger door was dented by someone who lost control in the snow - and didn't have the decency to stop - but it was eventually repaired just as the weather improved, and I've had it out with the roof down at every opportunity. Over the Easter holiday, trips to York(twice), Leeds and Sheffield provided enough exposure to the sun for me to burn my nose and tan my arms. My favourite Sunday chore is to spend a couple of hours washing it and then waxing it to a piercing shine, before taking it out for a spin to dazzle those bumbling along Oxfordshire lanes in their dull Audis and BMWs.

Alas, lover has been as busy as I recently, and we have only managed the odd day here and there until this weekend. But things are settling down now, and there's the prospect of a city break on the horizon and a few days away together in the summer holiday. If that seems a long way yet, I remind myself that we're already a week into a term of just eight weeks, and between now and then I have plenty to occupy my mind and energy. With GCSE and A levels, school exams, and university entrance advice at work, and exam marking at home, I'll be lucky to have any time to myself.

Perhaps the best thing of all is that I still love everything about being where I am now. The work is both challenging and satisfying, and now that I have been here long enough to know what I'm doing, it's less stressful and more fun than I ever imagined it could be. I can see this being a very good summer indeed.

Rounding off the year

2010-12-31T12:36:00.015Z

Good heavens! If I ever needed proof that I am ageing, my perception of the passage of time provides it. Two gentle reminders that my blog needed updating prompted me to check the date of my last entry, and I find that what seems like a couple of weeks ago is actually five months.

Recapping that amount of activity now requires me to exercise another failing faculty, my memory for detail. The death of Bertie, my lovely old gentleman springer, at the end of July was a great sadness. He was staying with youngest two sons when he suffered an inoperable leg injury and had to be put to sleep. He was with me such a short time, but he ended his days as a much loved companion after a lot of struggles as an elderly and unwanted stray, and I consider it a privilege to have shared my home with him.

I recall August as a time of blissful idleness, but I know there was a period of mad activity when I realised that the new term was looming and needed proper preparation. (Such a period is now once again upon me, of course. I'm learning
the rhythms of the schoolteacher's year, which are quite different from the academic's.)

Tne highlight of the summer was a couple of visits to Smiths of Smithfield for breakfast. The first time, second son and I started the day thus before an exhibition of Picasso works at the Gagosian Gallery. Penultimate son, a Masterchef groupie of the most fanatical hue, was so envious that I promised him a visit when it could be arranged, and so a few weeks later, two sons, daughter and I converged on Smithfield for a return visit.

Oddly enough, one of the best things about September was the arrival of new colleagues so that I was no longer the new girl. It was good to be there for the start of the school year, to write my own plans for my department and to have my own timetable, rather than one inherited from a part-timer. Starting new after school activities was fun: my survival cooks spent the term learning to feed themselves well on a student budget, and after the first session when we were locked into the cookery room, we decided it was safer -
and more authentic to the student experience - to squash into my small kitchen for an hour each Monday. Meanwhile, my TV and Religion slot later on in the week has prompted some lively thinking about prejudice, social disadvantage and community life.

October provided an autumn of astonishing beauty this year. I gather from various online reports that this is the result of a sequence of traditional seasons. Whatever the reason, driving over the Cotswolds through trees in every shade from palest yellow to deepest brown to visit my Dad at half-term was a joy. The return to school in November coincided with a visit from the inspectors, who gave us a warm endorsement and the encouragement to keep going as temperatures dropped and fluey bugs raged through the school. When the first snow fell in early December, the cycle of the year moved towards completion. The village was under snow when I arrived, and as term drew to a close, another blanket of white covered everything to a depth of 18 inches.
The last of the snow is now melting after a beautiful white Christmas day. It was clear and bright enough to drive down the motorway with the soft-top on the MG down and my Santa hat blowing in the wind.

2010 has been a good year - a very good year. I have made new friends, found a new sense of purpose, and used time fruitfully in the new soil of this lovely place. I've had some good times with my lover and enough space to be myself. Part of the reason the detail escapes me is the intensity of life here. From early morning until well into the evening, and sometimes even late at night, every moment is filled with experience, hard work, and fun. And so, as the year ends in a grey mist which blurs the edges of perception after the snowy intensity of Christmas, I am gently reminded that my own blurred recollection is a consequence of the intensity of life lived in the last twelve months.

Lazy, Hazy, Crazy Days

2010-07-17T21:18:00.001Z

Oh bliss! The school summer holiday is upon me, and I am free to enjoy it all for the first time since I was 18. But gosh, I had to work to earn it. Term-time working hours are long and demanding, though I enjoy every minute. On a good day, I go in just before 8 and arrive home some twelve hours later. Once a week, duty in the boarding house keeps me busy till 10.30. The working week runs from Monday morning to Saturday lunchtime, and many weekends include functions and parents' meetings. Not all of those hours are compulsory, but I need every one of them to do justice to the job and my students.

This being the summer term, there were also exams to mark. The breaks in the timetable as students sat school and national examinations each threw up another batch of papers to mark. GCSE external marking arrived first, over half term. I was torn between the sheer pleasure of a week off and the painful urgency of GCSE marking. In a masochistic way, I enjoy the intensity of marking: each paper represents the culmination of secondary work for a child whose ability, teaching and aptitude for the subject has been tested at last by an hour and three quarters of application. Marking must always be accurate and consistent, because a trivial error on my part could affect the future career of a child. It can't be rushed, but the deadlines are tight in order to get the results out by mid-August.

Once that was underway, the school exam papers started flowing in, each set needing to be turned around within a week, ready to feed back to the students as lessons resumed. Common Entrance papers arrived for marking with a short deadline as well. By dint of some early mornings, later than usual nights and a few skipped lunches, I managed to get all of those clear before the A level papers arrived.

In between the exam frenzy, there were occasions both delightful and sad. Social activities, school plays and a staffroom sweepstake on the football world cup all provided a welcome complement to the busy-ness. The various ways the school and boarding houses said goodbye to those students and staff who were leaving reminded me of how close-knit a community we are. Although I've known my own students for such a short time, I'll miss this year's Upper Sixth.

The hot summer weather persisted through the term with

only odd breaks, with the result that my new car has had plenty of outings with the lid down, sun glinting off shiny paintwork and wind blowing through my hair. After years of vehicles that deserved nothing more than the odd trip through a car wash, I find myself looking forward to a sunny weekend morning when I can spend a couple of hours with a bucket and a chamois tarting up my car. The crowning glory was to fix on the personalised number plates that proclaim my ownership of it to all who pass.

Summer here has produced other pleasures, too. I had a bumper crop of strawberries from a patch in the back garden which would have been a slug fast-food joint in Sheffield, but which in the less clay-bound Oxfordshire soil produced pounds of strawberries a day at its peak. I plan to be

prepared next year with a jamming pan and preserving sugar at the ready: this year I merely gorged on the ripest fruit each time I went into the garden. The local farm shop sold asparagus so fresh and young it could be used raw in salads. Barbecues at school and chez friends are always made from locally produced specialist sausages, burgers, steak and chops. One memorable evening during exams, I took an hour away from marking to join friends in their garden, and all the local folk musicians turned up with instruments and fiddled, whistled and bongo-ed as the meat sizzled.

Now, term is over, the final batch of A level marking has gone back to the exam board and summer stretches away ahead of me. A week's city break with my lover marked the start of the holiday, and I plan a few days in France in the car, camping and visiting friends in Brittany, towards the end. Of course I have work-related things to do: planning for next term, reviewing the past six months, writing notes for my A level sets. But these are trivial tasks in comparison with the time available. Nothing can possibly spoil the sheer joy of school summer hols shimmering towards distant autumn.

As good as it gets

2010-04-13T19:23:00.004Z

Yes, my dear public, it has been a long absence. A new job is always demanding: new tasks, new practices and new colleagues always take some getting used to. Changing from higher education to secondary has its own set of challenges, and my silence owes everything to the need to pour all my effort into hitting the ground running (and in the right direction).

The Lent term started under several inches of snow. With my wrist still in plaster from a close encounter with an icy road, my high heels stayed warm and comfortable in the cupboard while I travelled the perilous 200 yards between home and school in walking boots or wellies. As it turned out, the surgeon wasn't happy with the repair to my wrist and re-set it with pins during the second weekend of term, so further damage was actually done not by accident in the wild, but in the controlled environment of an operating theatre. I didn't lose the plaster and pins until half term.

I have always enjoyed teaching, but nothing matches the fun, the challenge and the buzz of a secondary classroom. It took a while to get acclimatised to teaching in 35 minute periods instead of two-hour blocks, but once I got the hang of appropriate content it has all gone swimmingly. OK, I once lost a fourth form set, all twenty of them, but only once. Tutoring in a boys' boarding house is funny, infuriating and delightful - it's like our house used to be when all the kids were younger, but times ten.

My colleagues are without exception wonderful. I have been supported, gently guided, encouraged and affirmed at every step along the way. They must have wondered what kind of nutcase they had taken into their midst often enough, but by the end of term it felt as if I'd been here forever. We've made some changes in the department, tightened up a few things and made big plans, all in the space of ten crazy weeks.

In the middle of all that, a big birthday loomed, coinciding with the school's own anniversary celebration, so the eve of both was celebrated with a formal ball (acres of rustling blue taffeta) and the day itself with a memorial walk. It was especially good to reclaim the day for some personal merrymaking in the company of a dear friend who came round, helped me cook dinner, and then made me laugh and forget work for an evening.

And then, after a busy, busy end of term, another unaccustomed pleasure - three glorious weeks of holiday. A city break with my chap, a few days parenting in Sheffield, and then back home (and it does feel like home, though I have only been here four months). Thanks to my Dad's outrageous generosity, the modest car with which I was going to replace my Ka in summer morphed into a six-month old MGTF 85th anniversary edition on Good Friday. So the beautiful weather of Easter week looked even more inviting than usual for driving, and I had a couple of good runs with the wind in my hair and the sun beating down. Life doesn't get much better.

Summer term started today, and, no longer a new girl, I'm happy to be back in the classroom with the whole term ahead. I wake up each morning, wriggle my toes, grin, and think "They are actually paying me to do this!"

Breaking with the past

2009-12-31T20:48:00.013Z

As the rest of the world is out partying, I'm sitting in my new home reflecting on the turn of the year. 2009 has been turbulent, with children flying the nest and my own life moving into a new stage. The last fortnight has been a succession of breaks with the past, each one tinged with a little sadness.

I said goodbye to my old colleagues, friends and students with a leaving party and a private showing of The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie. One of my students sang for the gathered throng, and raised a collective chuckle and groan when he looked meaningfully at me and sang "I get a kick out of you". I've always given tough tutorials...

Then five days of moving, tearing up and down motorways with cars full of pieces of my life in carrier bags and boxes.

The new suite is awesome, and my bed is humongous;

the piano was a close thing but the piano-movers did their magic and it now graces my sitting room.

Bertie and Mab are well settled and everything except my books is now put away.

The final break was a more physical one. My last moving-in chore was a trip to stock up with food and household stuff, and as I was unloading the car, Bertie managed to escape. I didn't notice his absence until later on, so set out in the snow as it was getting dark to look for him. This is a friendly village, and as I passed people I asked them to look out for a lost dog. Just as I was giving up for the night, my phone rang, and the chap on the phone told me he had found my dog, and would I like to join their Christmas party when I came to collect him? Their gracious hospitality was tested to the limit when I slipped on the ice just outside their house and broke my wrist.

People have been kind and generous: my next door neighbour walked Bertie until the ice melted, and one of the party-goers I met has called in to ask if I need any shopping. My hostess and friends dragged me off to the pub to try out the anaesthetic effects of Old Hooky, and my new colleague invited me round for Christmas lunch when he heard that I wasn't able to drive to spend the day with Second Son.

I'm excited as the first day of my new job approaches, and happy in my new home. And yet... New Year's Eve is a time when regret is allowed a little space. I miss the dear friends who made life so varied in my old home, and I would give much for someone to share a glass of champagne with as the bells ring out the old year. But perhaps this is the most potent way to break with the past - to keep the vigil, to let go of the past and to face the future alone. It's going to be good.

Nightmares, and a dream come true

2009-11-22T17:46:00.006Z

One month from today, I'll be in my new home. Somewhere between now and then, I have to get straight enough in the old one to leave it liveable for the remaining resident, and equip the new one from a distance ready for the big move weekend. The awkwardness of the entrance in both houses is causing headaches: I had to measure carefully to make sure that the new beds will fit through the narrow doorway and along the entrance hallway.

Sitting room furniture turned into a real nightmare. After hours of complicated trigonometry to work out the biggest dimensions in all directions that could be squeezed in, I was forced to conclude that nursery furniture and beanbags were the only things likely to fit. But then I discovered an outfit that makes sitting room furniture in modular, self assembly packages, with a money-back guarantee to fit. So I have ordered a whacking great settee/sofabed and a bum-and-a-half sized armchair, in the gleeful prospect of stretching out in comfort with a book when the hassle of the move is finally behind me.

The next cause for concern is the piano. I can't really play it beyond busking nursery rhymes, but I can't imagine living in a house without it. I'm in touch with some specialist piano movers, so if it can be done, they'll do it. I wonder if you can dismantle a piano, move it, and then reassemble it, like Ikea furniture? Probably not...

Having an industrial size family means that I have a workforce to call on for the actual move. I hope that sons and daughters can be distributed at each end of the journey, loading and unloading cargo (mostly books, of course) while I have only the chore of moving a hired van up and down the M1 a few times. Which reminds me - I need to book a van-hire.

If I intended a nice orderly run down of work here, it is

not turning out that way. I'm doing my best to make sure that colleagues can handle the things that need doing, and putting arrangements in place to cover all my students, but I worry that things will be left undone or unplanned for when I leave. I'm sure no-one is indispensable, and they will do very well without me. Almost weekly, I find myself doing something for the last time, and there are so many aspects of my work I'll miss. Watching my students graduate in York Minster a couple of weeks ago was one such occasion. (Please note that the chap on the pedestal watching us is Constantine, instigator of the Nicene Council: a most appropriate interloper for a meeting of theologians.)

At the same time, I'm slowly starting to pick up tasks associated with my new job. At present it's little more than doing lesson plans and thinking through some teaching strategies, but there are already a few departmental matters that I have considered, and in the next few weeks until the end of term, I hope to become gradually more engaged. It still feels a little like a dream come true, but as I do more, it is starting to feel real. I owe my predecessor in the post a good deal for his generous welcome and thoughtful inclusion into the department.

Between now and then, I am breaking the habit of a lifetime and throwing a party. A surprisingly large number of friends, colleagues and family are joining me for drinks, nibbles and a film at the local arthouse cinema to celebrate the end of the old and the start of the new, and with one of those scary birthdays coming up shortly as well, it seemed that if I was ever going to have a party, this was a good time to do it.

All this excitement means that other projects have been temporarily relegated in importance. I have a burning urge to do some writing towards a resource collection, but time in appropriate quantities for such an undertaking is hard to find just now. I'm horribly conscious that I have neglected the offspring and my lover, and I'm dying to see them all over the holiday to get a bit of serious mothering in. So much to do, so little time...

Liquid refreshments

2009-10-13T18:28:00.015Z

Life is very pleasing at present. Penultimate son and daughter have flown the nest to university and I follow their lives through their Facebook updates. This means I don't know about wild freshers' parties until after the event, and I no longer have a daily duty to nag over homework. Instead, they actually miss me, and the state of their rooms are their own problems. Youngest son and I, meanwhile, are free to indulge our shared taste in experimental soups without the refrain "But Mum, soup isn't a meal."

Nothing ever runs smoothly, of course. On the way back from a meeting, another driver ran into the back of my little Ford Ka, doing considerably more damage to the chassis then the dent in the bumper suggested. Three weeks later, and I finally have my own car back, having had the most unpleasant experience of trying to stay mobile in a hire car that drives like a tank and replaces basic comfort and functionality with gizmoid gimmickry.

Work was supposed to be easier this term - a measured disengagement, carefully transferring my duties and responsibilities to colleagues over several weeks. The sudden illness of my immediate boss, absent now until the end of term, scuppered that as a plan of work, and instead I am trying to uphold her role while disengaging from mine, a complicated dance that takes political wisdom, academic versatility and unfailing good humour, qualities I am working hard to cultivate. But if this unexpected workload is onerous, the prospect of new adventures next term is a powerful motivator.

This last weekend involved a trip down the M1 to spend two days dipping a toe into my new job. Meeting colleagues, learning the ropes and feeling my way into a new role has

been made so much easier by the generous patience of the chaplain and the warmth of the staff and students I have met. I am delighted that I'm to be tutor attached to a boys' boarding house in addition to my academic role, and a pretty little house in the middle of the village will give me a home close to the school and three pubs. Each morning I wake up and have to pinch myself: this is a dream come true in every way I can imagine. I veer between sheer delight and utter terror at the scope of the task I have taken on, but always there is a bubbling excitement and energetic optimism.

Working closely with my lover on our joint project has been fun and challenging, as we try to anticipate problems and deliver quality. Time together has been scant over the summer, but oddly enough, as autumn comes on our diaries mesh more often and we have time to work and relax together more frequently. As the days grow shorter, the leaves turn colour and fall, and a morning chill shivers the daily walk to work, life looks very, very good.

From this day forward

2009-09-16T18:09:00.012Z

I confess. I'm a proud Mum, and never more so than when my children do something remarkable. On Saturday 12th September, my firstborn married a lovely lady whom I am honoured to call my daughter in law. Each of the children excelled themself in special ways. Youngest son, looking terribly grown-up in his suit, was charming and gracious. Penultimate son curbed his natural tendency to smart-arsity and charmed birds off trees. Foster-daughter sang "Ave Maria" during the signing of the register in a voice that is naturally beautiful, and with a confidence she has grown into over the time she has been living with us. Daughter was the most gorgeous usher I have ever seen, and she fulfilled her role with poise and grace. Second son has all the social graces in abundance, and delighted family, friends, and total strangers. And eldest son gazed into his wife's eyes with love and made my heart leap with hope.

The run-up to the wedding was a nightmare. I only had the Friday off work, so it was a crazy day, buying shirts and cufflinks and wedding cards, and having my nails and hair done. By the time I got home my beloved uncle had arrived and the resident offspring were all at a pre-wedding reception in Leeds, so he and I walked down to a local Indian restaurant and enjoyed a lazy and gastronomically satisfying evening.

Saturday morning saw the arrival of another three bodies, so that by 9am I had 8 people in the house. Second son took charge of the iron and made sure all had shirts and frocks worthy of the occasion, while daughter supplied caffeine to all who needed it. Thanks to my colleague who volunteered to act as a driver, we were all on our way to Leeds by 11.30.

Arriving at the groom's house, scruffy youngsters were transformed into smart young men and women, and by 1pm I was at the church distributing buttonholes and tying ties (it is astonishing how many young men do not know how to knot a tie). Meanwhile daughter overcame her natural reticence to ush efficiently alongside the bride's brother with poise and charm.

The wedding was was perfect, the bride breathtakingly lovely, and the groom so happy I was close to tears of joy myself. Foster daughter's wedding present to her brother and sister-in-law was to stand in front of 90 strangers to sing Schubert's setting of "Ave Maria" - I was so proud of her as her rich, pure voice rang round the chapel. Check it out on YouTube here.

Interminable photographs - perhaps the least appealing aspect of a wedding - were followed by a magnificent reception in Leeds Met Hotel. Flawless service, excellent food and heartfelt speeches, and the delightful company of the bride's father and the best man made for a most pleasing wedding breakfast. Then there was an interlude to chat and catch up with old friends as the staff rearranged the room and the photographers whizzed through a gazillion photos to produce a slideshow of the wedding and reception. Then another wave of guests arrived and the evening party began. The tables had been pushed back, a dance floor laid, and a buffet of cheese, biscuits, fruits and wedding cake provided sustenance for those with more stamina than I for dancing into the night.

A family conspiracy provided the musical highlight of the evening as the bride and groom were coaxed onto the dance floor to a recording of "Sylvia's Mother" by Dr Hook, a favourite of both. What the groom did not know until the music started was that we had resurrected a recording of his eight-year-old self, with siblings, singing lustily, if out of tune, along to the recording.

By 11.15, exhaustion was setting in, my feet hurt, the bride and groom were bopping madly to "Things can only get better" and the kiddiwinkles were all enjoying the fun, so I left the happy gathering with a glow of maternal satisfaction. My abiding memory of the day is the utter joy in the faces of my son and daughter-in-law as they turned towards the congregation at the end of the ceremony. All of a sudden, 27 years' parenting seems worth all the effort...

The threshold of the future

2009-08-29T10:55:00.009Z

It's only ten days since results day, and already there's a sense of loosening in the family unit. I used to bemoan the fact that as the kiddiwinkles got older, they no longer came into the bedroom in the morning bouncing with excitement. On 20th August, I decided that perhaps this wasn't such a cause for regret after all, when two very excited 18 year olds woke me up at the crack of dawn to say that their university places had been confirmed on the UCAS website. Both penultimate son and foster daughter got the A levels they needed to take up their university places, she to do psychology a few miles up the M1, and he to do law on the south coast. Youngest son's AS results allow him to continue to A2, so there was plenty of cause to celebrate.

Since then it has been a flurry of form-filling, finance-juggling and removal-planning as the two of them prepare to leave home and start the next stage of their life journeys. Halls of residence are now expecting them, new bank accounts (with free railcards) are hungrily awaiting the arrival of student loans, and the logistics of moving two people in two different directions in the same week seem to have resolved themselves.

We are also into the final countdown for eldest son's wedding in two weeks: the hen and stag parties in early August were fun and congenial, and pretty well everything is now in place for a wonderful celebration. The table plan from daughter-in-law-to-be arrived with a delightful set of explanations about who everybody is, which I shall print out and file in my handbag for quick reference on the day. Foster daughter has been practising her song and I've been getting to grips with the reading: all that is outstanding is the purchase of suitable shirts for the resident boys and a frock for foster daughter. I'm looking forward to the once-in-a lifetime experience of seeing all my sons in suits at the same time. Of course the real joy is welcoming a whole new set of people into our clan, and sharing my first-born with his new extended family.

My own departure from Sheffield is only a little over the horizon, and as I write up the teaching plans for the coming term, I'm acutely aware that each task is being done for the last time. I alternate between delight and dread: delight at the prospect of a new challenge that is full of excitement and promise; dread at the enormity of the task before me. To thank Sheffield friends for thirty years of their presence in my life, I'm having a film-party - expect your invitations shortly.

This has been a busy summer, but there has been a little time for leisure. Opera in

the Park in Leeds with eldest son and d-i-l-t-b was enormous fun: a very extravagant picnic, the Halle orchestra and soloists, and the perfect weather for such an event. (The picture shows the "arm can-can" - a local tradition apparently. Odd.) There have been meals with friends, and the odd afternoon curled up with a book and a glass of wine. Now the holidays are almost over. (What holidays? I didn't even get away with my lover this summer because things have been so busy) We all stand on the threshold of a new academic year, new ways of living and working, and new futures. This is a good place to be.

All change please

2009-07-18T22:27:00.014Z

Once more, there has been too long a gap between posts. Two very busy months have passed, and the resident minors have taken their exams, so they now anxiously await results. Penultimate son and foster daughter have officially left school, and have instead spent much of the summer cluttering up the house with their friends, all polishing their skills at poker. There's mounting excitement at the prospect of leaving the nest for academic pastures new, as we book accommodation, complete student finance forms, and start to collect living essentials for their new lives. Subject to exam results, these two will be heading in opposite directions to study, leaving youngest son at home for his final A level year.

At present all the resident minors are non-resident for a couple of weeks, having headed off for a bit of Mediterranean sun and luxury with their Dad. The house is deliciously quiet and, for the first time in months, is almost tidy. It isn't just the tidiness I appreciate - it's the fact that it looks exactly the same when I get up as when I retire to bed, the same when I come in from work as it did when I left in the morning. I find such changlessness calming and peaceful.

Meanwhile, we are now in the countdown to eldest son's wedding in September: suits are being bought and hair

appointments booked, hen and stag parties are in the diary, and I even have my hat. I'm not sure how radical the change will be for the two of them, though. Whilst their ontological status will of course be transformed, they already have a happy and stable life together, and my biggest wish for them is more of the same.

Second son and daughter, who have been sharing a flat in Islington, are moving, too; he to a single flat and she back to Sheffield for a while. This delights me, since I see much less of my London children than I would like, though they have always been generous with their hospitality. I gather second son is planning to acquire a motorbike, a travel decision which makes sense for someone in his position, so I shall have to suspend my reservations. Daughter, with a much better sense of self-preservation, has instead arranged to borrow my car when she needs it, contributing the occasional tank of petrol and acting as chauffeur for me once in a while.

My own summer has been less exciting, mostly spent marking exam papers. In an attempt to get the maximum done in the minimum time, I have been starting work at 6.30am and finishing around 10.30pm, weekends included - a quite dreadful regime, but one that started to feel worth the

pain when I was asked to mark enough additional papers to buy a Radley handbag. The final batch are, as I write, packed up for collection on Monday, and for the first time for weeks, I shall be able to spend the rest of the weekend curled up on the settee with a book and a clear conscience. Even the limited time I managed to spend with my lover this summer was overshadowed by the need to continue marking, and we probably won't get a proper break together now till the autumn. We have much work yet to do on our joint project, and little time over the summer to tackle it.

But the minors are not the only ones with change on the horizon. I too have exciting new plans, having been appointed to a job to die for starting in January 2010. It is a new adventure for me, with younger students and a quite different kind of community, but one that allows me to fulfil long-standing ambitions in an institution that is the very best of its kind. I shall be sad to leave a place where I have been so very content, and learnt so much; but the time is right to move on, and I pinch myself daily to be certain that this isn't just a happy dream.

Flu, friends and fun in a church

2009-05-02T21:25:00.015Z

Easter has come and gone, and once more my favourite cherry tree is in extravagant blossom below my office window. a sure sign that summer is not far away. One of the resident minors passed into adulthood in April, and another celebrates her 18th birthday this coming week. Both have now chosen their universities, and by October, I shall only have one resident child. How quickly time seems to slip past when my mind is on other things!

As the rest of the country goes hysterical over the risk of Mexican swine flu, the family has all been afflicted with a much more British chesty cold. With four of us hacking away, the house sounds like a TB sanatorium. I comfort myself with the thought that once all are recovered, we have probably completed our annual quota of respiratory viruses, and the minors can look forward to a healthy summer and untroubled exam preparation.

The latter part of last term proved frustrating for me. Other training demands on my students' time left them struggling with their assessed work. Although some threw themselves into their final assignment, others were distracted and diffident, and it took all my energy to keep them going. This ebb and flow of concentration is a hazard of teaching adults, and I sometimes flirt with the idea of diverting into schoolteaching instead. But it would have to be a special kind of school, I think.

One bright spot, though, was the weekly visit of a dear friend who came to sit in on one of my courses, and then joined us for a meal afterwards. The children competed to produce pleasing meals each week for him, and he rewarded them with generous appreciation and good company. To celebrate the end of term, his wife came instead and wowed the resident minors with her wry perspective on the idiocies of life. I have a small circle of friends, but those I have are all rather special.

Time for relaxation was harder to fit in. Both of us have jobs which make erratic demands on our time, but my lover and I managed to have a few days away at half term, which gave me my first real chance to escape from the treadmill of work and parenthood this year. Easter gave us another weekend to enjoy together before the onslaught of the summer term.

The lesiure activity this term has been some ad-hoc research on stained glass. Back in the days when I was a real student I did a course on medieval glass and iconography, and I never lost the sense of wonder that ancient glass provokes. So when I heard of a perfect early 15th century church with a contemporary East window that was largely undocumented, I got hold of some photos and started exploring. It is at such times that the internet provides a dilettante researcher with resources previously only available to the most assiduous scholar. Identifying the heraldry was as simple as describing the arms in the correct technical terms and running a Google search. Facsimiles of books online provided evidence, dates and names of those involved in restorations, and the most wonderful archive of stained glass photographs has given me hours of pleasure, searching for iconographic parallels and stylistic similarities.

So when the sun was shining last week, and I was

owed some time off, I borrowed a pair of binoculars

and set off to find this pretty little village with its fascinating church. The churchyard was snowy with cherry-blossom and the church deserted, so I spent two hours peering at the window light by light to refine and correct what I had discovered from studying photographs. In fact, although almost all of the East window is 15th century glass, not all of it was originally in the East window. The detective work involved in identifying which was which makes this an intellectual puzzle as well as an aesthetic treat, and I made discoveries and came to conclusions that left me with a deep sense of having done something satisfying with my time.

But satisfaction is a fleeting thing, and the approach of the minors' exams, uncertainties about the future and a yen for a new direction stir troublesome currents under the calm surface of my life. I wonder what the summer holds?

Penitence and hope

2009-03-08T18:51:00.008Z

Good heavens! Is it really that long? I assume that I no longer have an adoring public, after such wicked evidence of neglect. But in this lenten season, as an act of penitence, I write my blog to appease the ghosts of adorers past. Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

This has been a winter of - well, not discontent, but certainly of stress and irritation. Christmas came and went with the usual merriment. The day itself was was delightful, and not only because two of the three resident children were enjoying the sybaritic life in Alexandria. The remaining minor worked all day, so I had an interlude of calm once I'd delivered him to work, until second son arrived in the afternoon to do his filial duty. The evening was unexpectedly brightened by the arrival of friends who stayed late into the night, gave me good cause for a hangover, and ended the day with fun and with good companionship.

Epiphany brought the brood home for a day; and then term started in a blaze of irrational optimism under an insane workload. The first few days of January saw an additional flurry of work on a research project which may or may not come off, before the arrival of students and the grim reality of a heavy term and a lot of evening teaching. Bouts of illness, injury and scheduled surgery means that we have rarely had a full complement of staff, and the load has sometimes fallen heavily in my direction. Meanwhile, my A-level project proceeds only by fits and starts, and all hope of peace on the domestic front is lost as the minors hurtle towards A level exams.

This season's weather event was a spell of snow which turned the cemetery behind the house into a Christmas card scene and messed up all teaching for a week. Sub-zero temperatures for ten days ensured that the snow remained and kept students away, but the price had to be paid during half term week, when I had to run extra sessions to make up for the cancelled classes.

Meanwhile, working on exam resources has been a wonderful opportunity to indulge in artistic and literary approaches to theology, to read gorgeous books with glossy pictures of works of art, to wallow in front of films in the name of research, and to revisit some of my favourite classics. Middlemarch drew me in and made my heart ache, and oh, bliss, Brideshead Revisted... I have yet to see the latest film of the latter, but surely no-one could do justice to Waugh's masterpiece as wholly as the 1981 TV series? And yet, faithful as Mortimer's script was, beautiful as Anthony Andrews was, Waugh's language is a more whole (and holy) experience. The pleasure I have always taken in this book was heightened this time through by insights from other recent reading, especially the private letters of the Mitford sisters and Powell's Dance to the Music of Time. Self-indulgent bookishness is the tired woman's alternative to pleasures of the flesh.

I do have a personal life sometimes, even now. I've seen my lover more frequently than expected because our collaborative work schedule has required more or less regular meetings to progress the project, and we have managed to fit in one city break since Christmas. All the extra evening teaching means that these can be taken as time in lieu, and exploring together possible material for incorporation is a sweet reminder of our earliest days together when I was primarily the artist and he the theologian.

And now lent settles in, term moves purposefully towards its close and slowly, unobtusively, the changing season sneaks in, a few hours at a time, a day here and there, a morning of sunhine or an evening of gentle warmth. It has been a long winter, and I wait patiently for the kindness of spring.

Brain training

2008-12-06T12:43:00.012Z

Christmas is coming. Does that mean the goose is getting fat? No chance. The Advent fast is starting to bite: no meat, sweets, biscuits, desserts.... The children are revolting in more senses than one, and gorge on whatever animal flesh they can find if I'm out for a mealtime. But that first Quality Street after Midnight Mass will be sweet indeed.

Life in a household of older teenagers is somewhat surreal. They are all doing different A level subjects, and I'm the first port of call if they are struggling with their homework. So in a single evening, I can be trying to revive my rusty maths to help with differential equations when another one cames to ask the difference between the Augustinian and Irenaean theodicies, and then switch straight to evaluating models for social research. In between, I provide food, discipine, medical advice and interest-free loans. Who needs gadgetry for "brain training" to stay mentally flexible?

Meanwhile, term rolls gently towards a close, with students starting now to panic that the essay season is upon us concurrently with the Christmas one. There's a bit of general scratchiness in the air after a long term and some unusually heavy start-of-year stresses. Most of my teaching this term has been research supervision, so I've kept up more effectively than usual with administration. This last week, though, my colleague has been silenced by a nasty laryngitis bug, so I have been covering her teaching, which has been quite fun, for me if not for them:

Student: Thank goodness we will be judged by Jesus and not by you.

Me: Maybe, but Jesus won't be marking your essays, and I shall.

Autumn being busy for both if us, I've seen less than usual of my lover, and our joint project is now badly in need of the extra effort we're going to put in over the Christmas holiday. After that I have another new project in the pipeline which, if it won't make me rich and famous, at least associates my name with those who are really doing exciting stuff. Much as my heart is embedded in theology, it's very refreshing to do multidisciplinary work at this level.

One highlight of the term has been eldest son's MSc graduation from Sheffield Hallam. We went out with him and his in-laws-to-be the evening before to look at the church where they will be married, and then had a meal together where the main topic of conversation was wedding planning, and therefore very scary stuff. September next year seems a long time away yet, thank goodness.

Minor ups and downs

2008-11-04T09:04:00.009Z

Steady drizzle blurring the chilly air and semi-naked trees in the cemetery bear witness to the fullness of autumn, and with the turning of the season, the academic year is now back in full swing. Summer seems a distant memory, though part of the reason for that is the very poor weather we had through almost all of it. I was waiting for the forecast of a week's dry weather to repair a door, but it never came, and the door still awaits attention.

Good exam results for all the resident minors (I no longer dare call them "children") brightened the holidays.

Youngest son went off to Egypt to work as a site engineer for seven weeks after his exams finished, and penultimate son and foster daughter enjoyed a rather lazier couple of weeks at the height of the summer in Alexandria.

My camping trip never materialised - in fact, apart from a few days city break with my lover, summer was a period of relentless work. The amount and complexity of administration seems to increase from year to year, and as the staff at our partner institutions apparently migrate en masse to warmer climes in July and August, even the most trivial things take weeks to complete. I did fit in a couple of flying visits to London to see second son and daughter, who have both turned into astonishing lovely people while my back was turned.

The start of term coincided with a host of annoyances: minor illnesses (minors and pets), the threat of major disruption at work and the effects of too long without a break which left me irritable and stressed. One by one the afflicted recovered (though we have to live with the consequences of Bertie's new allergy to fleas), issues at work were resolved, and a break with my lover and visiting family dissipated the tension. Eldest son brightened my life further having gained his MSc, a new job (which pays more than mine) and a date for his wedding next year.

But as mists and mellow fruitfulness lead inexorably towards bonfire night and we hunker down for the dark winter, life looks brighter. There's an exciting new collaborative writing project in the pipeline which gives us the opportunity to break new ground in professional practice. I have dipped my toe into the murky waters of A level examining to add a string to my professional bow, and a stream of requests for journal articles means that I can keep my publications list up to date. The minors are all taking their A level courses seriously enough to convince me that they might actually get to university, and I think the worst of their temperamental teenage years are behind us, so the atmosphere at home is, if not calm, certainly noisily congenial.

This time next year, things will be very different, so I plan to enjoy the last year with a houseful of kids before the sands of time blow them away to their futures.

Summer Holiday - or not

2008-08-23T17:32:00.005Z

As my father reminded me yesterday, and one of my adoring public today, there's been a quite unreasonably long gap between posts. I'm always frustrated by the widely held fantasy that lecturers have long, lazy summer breaks. Not a bit of it! Instead, there's all the end-of-year administration to do for the last academic year, and all the start-of-year preparations for the coming one, which overlap throughout the summer holiday. Students writing assignments over the summer still need supervision, and assignments that come in need marking. As a result, summer is one of the busiest periods in my calendar, and I've struggled to keep going without benefit of any proper holiday.

Towards the end of last term, I started work on an exercise in contextual theology following a murder of a teenager locally. Comparisons between the young Augustine of Hippo and the typical experience of local youngsters took me deep into Augustinian theodicy, and an analysis of the theology expressed by the young people who responded to this horrid event. I presented it as work in progress at a conference at UTU in July, but I hope to revisit it to develop the thinking in the autumn.

The children who were working towards exams when I last wrote are now enjoying their long summer break, however. Youngest son spent seven weeks post GCSE working as a site engineer in Egypt and came home tanned and lean to an excellent crop of GCSE results. A levels at the local sixth form college will follow, and he plans to do a degree in civil engineering with a view to turning his holiday experience into a career.

Second youngest son and foster daughter were enjoying their holiday in Egypt when their AS results came through, and they too did themselves credit. This year starts with them making their university choices before the final push towards A2 exams, so independence and adulthood suddenly seem awfully close.Despite the lack of holiday proper, I've had a couple of short breaks with my lover, and a wonderful day in the one really hot week we had visiting country pubs in his open topped sports car. In between times, I've used my limited leisure time to start work on an exploration of theology expressed by combattants in the First World War, after a friend mentioned the work of a relatively obscure war poet whose writings astonished me. Following this thread led me to spend a wonderful day a couple of weeks ago in Scarthin Bookshop in Cromford, whence I came home with early editions of Blunden and Brooke. Instead of the Guardian crossword, I now retire to bed with dusty books and a pencil to read and take notes so that the theology can float gently into my consciousness as I sleep.

Hail, bounteous May...

2008-05-30T09:34:00.010Z

...that doth inspire
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire;

When Milton wrote his Song on a May Morning, GCSEs and A levels has not been invented - oh bliss! In my household, three people who could fairly be described as "youth" have spent much of May seeking inspiration in revision notes and late night swotting sessions as the exam season starts to bite. Youngest son is ploughing through GCSEs with (mostly) equanimity: this may be either appropriate confidence or rash bravado. We shall find out at the end of August. Meanwhile, penultimate son and foster daughter approach AS exams in quite different ways. He has prolonged bursts of intense activity punctuated by indolent lounging in front of the computer, while she runs an anxious treadmill of perpetual re-reading notes and self testing. My role in all this is to provide suitable light relief at intervals to punctuate the steady rise of stress levels. An excellently done am-dram farce in Hathersage and the latest Indiana Jones film both provided just the right level of escapism.

After an almost unbearably busy and stressful Spring term, things have become lighter at work. Although my colleague had two weeks off following surgery, her more regular presence has lifted much of the teaching load for this term. Once last term's marking was out of the way in mid-May, I have had something that almost looks like leisure time. Of course, on closer inspection, this is merely a redistribution of energy to other, less pressing matters, but it has given me time to fit in some work on other academic interests, including a presentation in London which gave me the rare opportunity to see second son. All this hardly constitutes "mirth", but it has led to a marked lightening of a mood which was becoming increasingly black and sour.

Warm desire is better represented. Spring throws up more flexibility in my lover's life so that we have been able to work and relax together more than usual. I am learning to enjoy fine dining and nice hotels without feeling guilty that I wake up relaxed, comfortable and warm, overcoming the self-righteous legacy of decades of rough camping. Not that camping is off the agenda: I have promised foster daughter a weekend under canvas so that she can learn to pitch a tent, fire up a primus, and enjoy the best bacon-and-egg experience of her life.

Towards a mid-life crisis

2008-04-20T19:36:00.005Z

I dream of an uncomplicated life. You know, the kind of life where you know what to expect from day to day; where sane people work an 8 hour day, and spend time with spouse and children in the evenings and at weekends. Superficially, our household is not so very far from that model. No spouse, I grant you, but I work a five day week not far from home, and with three teenagers, a dog and a cat, we're not so very far from the pattern.

But that's where it ends. Predictability largely fails when it comes to teenagers, school and casual work: it's a major success of domestic logistics if I know who is going to be in for dinner on any given day, and with the more eccentric school hours of sixth form study, I'm never quite sure whether or not I have to get them up in the morning.

Meanwhile the lighter load of this term at work is about to revert with the news that my newly returned colleague is having surgery at the end of the month, leaving me once again to fill the gaps. I'm running out of energy for this kind of workload. I'm still reaping the effects of her last absence, marking twice the usual complement of essays after covering her teaching last term.

You'd think that things outside home and work might be a little better. Not a bit of it! Penultimate son was due to go on a school trip to see Equus at the Lyceum, but on the day of the trip, his head teacher suddenly discovered that it included swearing and nudity, and in a paroxysm of philistinism, cancelled the trip. (How could anyone *not* know Equus contained nudity and swearing after Daniel Radcliffe made the headlines therein?)

"Fear not - you shall go to the ball!"" I thought, spending the whole month's child benefit plus a bit in one go to get tickets for the last night. The first half was mesmerisingly wonderful. The second half was cancelled when the winches to lift the safety curtain broke. Sometimes, you get the feeling that things just were not meant to be...

Behind all this, I'm trying to arrange a controlled mid-life crisis as I review where I am and where I want to go next. Somewhere in the mix, I am trying to reconcile the fact that I am fed up of being poor with a genuine belief that what I am doing here has value; that I want a sexy car and a bit of a life before I'm too old to have either; the sense that there must be more to life than this with the dreadful sense that this is probably all there is.

A short break with my lover shortly after Easter gave me a little relief from the chaos and angst, and apart form the deliciousness of time together, also gave us the chance to do some work on our collaborative project. Doing something so very different to my normal work is both a challenge and a joy, and helps to keep at bay the simmering eddies of discontent. I think this is the psychological equivalent of spring-cleaning: one has to deal with creepy crawlies and cobwebs to restore order. But order will, no doubt, be restored soon enough.

And another one

2008-03-08T19:40:00.018Z

I hope our house has elastic walls. Having made the fairly modest addition of a dog, we've now acquired an extra child, a schoolfriend of penultimate son who was left homeless after things failed at home. The spare room isn't ideal for a teenage girl, but it and the family can offer her some security and stability until the whole situation is sorted out, and that's unlikely to happen quickly. She's a joy to have around, sharing the chores and making her own mark on the way we work as a family. Parents' evening proved complicated, with two sets of teachers to see, but it was quite wonderful to be able to come home and tell two kids that I was proud of them.

Bertie has become very much part of

the family, showing enthusiastic affection and gentle obedience, and occasionally giving us cause for merriment. A few days ago, the boys were playing Monopoly, and Bertie decided to join in, but he hasn't yet got the hang of taking his place at the board properly.

Now that the worst of the wet winter is over, walking the dog is more a pleasure than a chore. Each lunchtime, I escape the office for an hour, the first three-quarters of which sees the two of us hurtling round the cemetery. I've lost weight and lowered my blood pressure, and Bertie has gained weight and bounce, and now runs most of the way round, streaking away and back to the path so that he must travel twice the distance I do.

Meanwhile at work, term drew to a welcome close with the usual flurry of student tutorials, intensified because I had my sick colleague's cohort as well as my own two. In addition there are vocational training matters to deal with, and the odd crisis to survive. On a good day, I remind myself that I'm honing my organisational skills and stamina, but by the end of term, I was mostly just exhausted.

But term is over, and a beautiful Maundy Thursday service at the Cathedral last night reminded me why I do this stuff.

Today we're all at home making hot cross buns with the prospect of an evening bowling and then going out for a meal. We have lots to celebrate: surviving a heavy term, the kind of parents' evening every Mum hopes for, youngest son's A* in maths GCSE (taken early), and happy additions to the family.

After a short break with my lover last month, we were able to fit in a city break recently, which after an arid winter, is positively an embarras de richesse. Fine food and champagne, shopping and art galleries, dinner with a friend and a luxury hotel - it's all a whole different world from the everyday grind, and I come back happy and refreshed. With so many positive things, I think Easter this year is going to be joyful indeed.

Old family and new addition

2008-02-16T22:00:00.009Z

I apologise profusely to my adoring public, whom I have kept waiting far too long for the next installment of this journal. Things were going so well, too. The run up to Christmas was a little busy, but no more so than usual. Christmas seemed to be slow coming, but was happy and peaceful, with all the canonical family rituals happening at the appropriate times. We had a friend of penultimate son staying with us over the holiday, so there was plenty of scope for additional teenage merriment. On boxing day, youngest son and I went to visit my ex-in-laws, a lovely, welcoming family gathering. I am constantly in awe of my ex-belle-mère's generosity of spirit towards us, and grateful that she is happy for us all to keep in touch. Epiphany saw the now traditional gathering of the clan for a meal, exchange of gifts and then the stripping of the decorations to mark the end of the Christmas season. With three sons now well over 6ft and a fourth heading that way fast, this is rather easier than putting up the trimmings, which usually involves me and a kick stool in some precarious acrobatics. This year we had eldest son's fiancée and penultimate son's girlfriend to swell the crowd and help us get through enough food to nourish a small village, and a modest mountain of chocolates and toffees.

Term started well, but rapidly became demanding as my closest colleague became too ill to work, leaving me to assume her teaching, marking and some of her admin duties into my own workload. It's essential she takes enough time off to recover fully, and colleagues and associates have given freely of their time and energies to help keep the wheels running smoothly. I've found it tiring, and the extra time I have to spend completing the work inevitably impacts also on the boys, who are getting used to my spending evenings with the laptop and a pile of marking as soon as dinner is over.

The big news since my last entry is an addition to the household. Shortly after Christmas, a routine visit to the GP uncovered a problem with my blood pressure that required addressing urgently. Additional exercise seemed to be a solution, but I'm not really a gym person, and I spend too much having my hair dyed to risk turning it green with regular visits to the swimming pool. The search for something more congenial led me to consider when I last took regular daily exercise, and this provided a most happy solution. When I last had a dog, two daily walks were part of normal life. So we decided to get a dog.

We were very lucky to find the perfect animal very quickly. A phone call to the local Springer Spaniel Rescue identified a few possibilities, and one drizzly, windy afternoon, daughter and I went and walked a few of them round a muddy field as a wonderful lady talked us through their history - where known - and individual foibles. I fell in love with Bertie at first sight. He's a seven-year old neutered liver and white male, and, paperwork completed, we went back at the weekend to fetch him. Introducing him to the cat was uncomplicated - the cat spat and hissed and Bertie ignored her, with the chivalry of a gentleman who politely overlooks a lady companion's inebriation. He settled in as if he'd been here all his life, and we were delighted to discover that he answers to commands, comes to call, and behaves impeccably indoors and out, on the lead and off. If I wanted any confirmation that he's given us his love, it came when I was away overnight last week, and he greeted me on my return with unrestrained adoration and frantic affection. My other source of such loving attention has been as busy as I over the last couple of months, and we've only managed one day together, but it was enormous fun and well worth waiting for. I was allowed to drive his classic car - one of the items on my "list of things to do before I die". Once the present rush is over, we hope to spend a little more time in one another's company. It's been a year now - and a good one too.

Life cycles

2007-12-13T21:46:00.000Z

In my life, as for others, there are cycles that come round regularly. One such is our student graduation ceremony in York Minster each November, when years of slogging and nagging and bullying all seem worth the effort. We dress up in our academic finery and process with York St John University staff to take our places and watch as our students collect their MA or Foundation Degrees. This year we were allocated a parking space, so we could travel up by car and arrived early enough to have a really good lunch beforehand at the Cafe Concerto within spitting distance of the Minster. The slightly fuzzy photo shows my colleague, the Director, and one of our students shortly after the ceremony: the fuzziness was caused by my shivering.

Shortly after that, a three-year cycle came round and Christine and I had to renew our Firs t Aid certificates. It's always a shock to have to do something educational that has almost no cognitive content, aimed at those with limited skills: delivery was painfully slow, and the teaching style was weak by any standards. But we were reminded how to handle an emergency, stop bleeding, initiate CPR and use the recovery position, so our students, tutors and visitors are safe for another three years.

The cycle which generates the most work is the termly assessment one. From about half-term onwards, students are working on their assignments, which have to be handed in early in the following term. In the summer term, working with them on planning and drafting is a comparatively leisurely process, with long weeks of summer holiday in which to complete the work. Christmas is quite another proposition. All my students are either clergy or otherwise active in their churches, so the Christmas holiday leaves them little time to research and write. This means that essay planning and drafting has to start earlier, and move at a brisker pace, so that the bulk of the work is complete before the Christmas rush. So apart from teaching, the first three weeks of December each year is mostly taken up with student tutorials.

The domestic front has been equally lively. Youngest son has been looking at sixth forms and colleges for his A level studies, so after he'd narrowed down his choices, I had the dubious pleasure of visiting one (quite terrible) school and one (very pleasant) sixth form college. It's a relief that youngest son and I concur that the college will suit his needs in every way. He's likely to be a high flyer, and I think he'll find his wings more easily in the more focused atmosphere of the college. This particular activity marks the end of a part of my life cycle: from September next year, I won't have a single child in compulsory education. Eldest son started school in 1986, so it's been a long haul.

Second youngest son, meanwhile, does his share to brighten my life by being good at theology (much to my surprise). His (quite delightful) girlfriend occupies our spare room often enough that she's been allocated a share in the household chores, which she does with good humour. The two of them have now managed to co-ordinate their part time jobs so that they are both working at the same time, and therefore have the same time free, at least some of which is supposed to be spent revising for the exams after Christmas. How can teenagers revise for two different subjects (him-theology, her-psychology) with one sat on the other's knee?

Alas, my lover's work has been as busy as mine recently, and we've not been able to co-ordinate diaries to spend time together, though there's the possibility of a short interlude during the Christmas holiday. We've been working together on a developing project which has given us more excuses than usual for long phone calls, though, and the internet makes collaborating over long distances possible and fruitful.

We're now well into Advent and though the cycle of the church year rolls inexorably towards Christmas, there is yet a sense of stillness and waiting as the term draws to a close. This week's frosty, misty mornings and sharp, starry nights give a sense that all creation is preparing for something very special.

Holiday Pleasures

2007-11-04T14:05:00.000Z

After an indifferent summer, autumn is proving to be a beautiful season of rich colour and gentle weather. Or perhaps it just looks better because I had a week away from work, my first full week's holiday since spring.

The beginning of term brought the usual mix of relief that the hectic preparations were completed in time, terror at the prospect of delivering a heavy MA course on Religion and Ethics to new students, and enjoyment as the influx of new and old students reawakened the pleasure of teaching after a summer of paperwork and administration. But it also renewed the exhaustion that had been barely kept at bay over the late summer, so between lectures and tutorials I spent the week before half-term clearing my desk and warning students and colleagues that I would be unavailable.

Given that I'm usually off over the weekend, my holiday started at 9am on the Monday morning of half term. At 9.30, the phone rang. It was a colleague from the office requiring computer support. I don't suppose people mean to spoil things... Once that was dealt with, I was free to take off for a few days with my lover - good food, lots of wine, and gentle and loving companionship, without my work or domestic drudgery to spoil the joy.

My final treat to myself was a day's walking in the Peak District. I'd originally planned a couple of nights B&B in the Lake District, but even late into autumn, last minute vacancies are hard to find. So I packed up a flask of home-made soup and a hunk of freshly-baked bread and took off moderately early with a book in my pocket to my favourite spot. The walk was undemanding, but energetic enough to feel refreshing. A steady, but not stiff, breeze, dappled sunshine between scuttling clouds, and enough warmth to shed my jumper as soon as I was moving made it a perfect day to blow away cobwebs. There were few walkers, and those there were passed with a brief "G'morning" as they strode purposefully past, leaving me peace to collect my thoughts and savour the pleasure of the previous few days.

The soup was still blistering hot and the bread cosily warm when I climbed off the path and down to the brook's edge for lunch, sitting in full sun hidden from the path, and reading George Elliot's Scenes from Clerical Life as the water gurgled over the rocks at my feet. After an hour or so, I decided that a good lunch deserved a good pint to follow, so I took a detour from the walk towards an indifferent but conveniently situated pub. Most of their clientele at this time of year are parvenu foodies from South Sheffield drinking pinot grigio spritzers with their pan-fried venison, so I took my pint outside and enjoyed the twittering of birds in preference to the twittering inside the bar.

One of the pleasures of autumn walking is that the length of the day determines the length of the walk. The sinking sun coincided nicely with that achy tiredness in the legs that signals time to head back home. Oh, for more weeks thus occupied...

But returning to work has its pleasures too. Students take wing with their assignment plans and astonish me with their insight and creativity. An old friend visits to teach a session and stays over, giving us each the chance to unburden our cares and joys in the company of someone who understands. The tentative relationships formed with new students become warm and productive friendships as we work together. A rare opportunity to engage with post-16 education adds a new dimension to the work. I remember that I really like my job.

And so the cycle of the year goes on. All Saints, Remembrance and then before we know it, Advent, the start of a new church year: the fast before the feast to come. I love autumn.

Work and play

2007-09-22T21:54:00.000Z

Everyone knows that outside term time, academics enjoy unhurried leisure. I'm trying to figure out where I'm going wrong. The end of August was hectic as I tried in vain to clear my desk before a week's enforced absence following surgery on 31st. Students in the final stages of essay writing needed comfort and encouragement, and the pre-term paperwork was starting to need some urgent attention. But then for a whole, glorious week, I slept 18 hours out of 24 and moped uselessly around the house in between as the stitches healed and the pain eased. I managed to complete a journal paper but gave up trying even to read much as I fell asleep over anything in print. A week of half-time work followed, which at least gave me the chance to start making inroads into the pile of paperwork on my desk, but the counterweight to that was the arrival of essays to mark and a continuing tendency to doze off after lunch for up to four hours without troubling my nighttime sleep at all.

Part of the problem was a long-planned change to our office email and web site. Re-arranging the email was easy, but setting it up and helping staff to get the hang of it was more stressful, and the detailed work on the web pages required more undisturbed concentration than I had available. I regret to say I became rather ill-tempered as the process wore on, but at least it is done now, and staff in general seem to prefer the web-based interface for email.

Staff absences since have padded out my job description to include temporarily premises management, office clerical work and general dogsbodying, all tasks which I shall be glad to relinquish when various members of staff trickle back in after the weekend. The prospect of the arrival of taught students for induction and a new batch of research students on Monday has already lifted my spirits if not my productivity.
Meanwhile at home, second-youngest son has found a job which pays well and fits around A level studies, and he has already proved himself to his employers as a reliable and serious worker. Both he and youngest son have tackled their schoolwork with more determination this term than previously as well, so we have a studious and productive household at present. In the same spirit of the learning, I'm exploring further possibilities for my own study as well, and am considering a part-time Master's degree in Canon Law from next September, if they'll have me.

However, play rather than work has caused a headache as well. Just as I was going out, I said the the boys "Please don't kick the ball towards the house. Sooner or later, someone is going to break a window." Minutes later, the prophecy was fulfilled, and we're still waiting for the new glass.

Following on from my last blog entry, we have just acquired a Sheffield Monopoly. The boys were delighted to discover that Bramall Lane is worth more than Hillsborough. Do I detect a little local point-scoring?

One of the real pleasures of my research field is the opportunities it offers to make work playful, and play academically, if not financially, profitable. Expanding my explorations in cyberspace to social networking has nudged me to join Facebook, where to my surprise I have discovered colleagues, friends, family and students all quite happy to exchange silliness as well as sense. My excuse is that I am working on some Key Stage 5 RE resources and need a more comprehensive overview of all things cyber - so it is work, honest! And it does my ego no harm at all to discover from a Facebook quiz that one reasonably good acquaintance thinks I'm SIX years younger than I am.

I was also lucky enough to steal a day with my lover. The Met Office promised bright periods and low temperatures, but it turned out to be warm and unflinchingly sunny, with just a whiff of autumn freshness. We walked along the towpaths and out into open fields, lunched by the locks and poked around village churches, ending up on the bank of the canal lazily watching boats chugging by as the evening chill descended - a warm, happy day of sheer joy and the most relaxing kind of play.

'Tis a Gift to be Simple

2007-08-28T19:47:00.000Z

Just when I was starting to think that information technology had finally taken over, I've been reminded this week that there's mileage in simple, old-fashioned entertainment. The first clue was the displacement of a stack of dusty board games in the hallway - fourth son and friends had been playing Monopoly and the Game of Life. I thought this might be a one-off, but the Monopoly was out again this evening and there were several long discussions about whose house rules applied.Meanwhile, last Monday, my beloved uncle drew my attention to an article in the Guardian on the subject: it seems that board games may be making a modest come-back. He has just taken up Mahjong, a game that is deliciously sensual with its heavy, decorated playing tiles that click as they move around on the table. I've always loved Scrabble, and not the online variety, but the get-the-dictionary-out, pour-the-wine, score-on-the-back-of-envelopes game that can turn lovers into enemies with a Q on the triple word score. Cribbage is a delicious combination of luck and skill and doesn't require a wide circle of friends, and the most miserable of wet afternoons can be riotous fun if you play Canasta for blood.

However, I still like being able to play games on my phone, and in preparation for a train journey downloaded the latest Harry Potter offering at enormous cost. Unfortunately, the text is so tiny, I can't read it. As son number four pointed out, holding a magnifying glass over the screen of my dead sexy mobile phone as I zap baddies "kinda spoils the cool look".

All of which suggests a leisurely August - something that I haven't really had. Staff summer holidays at our institution and our partner university have made getting collaborative things done close to impossible. I decided to go in person last week to see if physical presence might be more effective than unanswered emails and ringing out phone calls. Alas, no. Two of the people I'd hoped to see were in meetings all day; another called to say he wouldn't be coming in. And yet another gave brief answers to my questions but was "too busy with other things to deal with that now".

But I refused to consider the day wasted. I met a friend for a drink, mooched around the SPCK bookshop, read for hours, and then went to Evensong in the Minster. It's a service I used to go to frequently when I was younger, but rarely manage now. Sheffield Cathedral choir isn't really in the same league as the cathedral choirs I remember (or perhaps the building doesn't have the ringing acoustics), and fewer and fewer clergy know how to conduct evensong with impassive reverence. The boys and clerks were away for the summer, but a passable visiting choir made a fair stab at a traditional setting. Visiting choirs rarely sing with the resonances of the building, in my experience: they sing too tightly and don't allow the music to ring. It was a large congregation, for a midweek evensong, made up mostly of tourists, but the service was dignified and gentle. To my great delight, the organist ended with a piece that means a great deal to me, Lang's Tuba Tune, played with energy and precision. I almost danced back to the station with delight.

Youngest son has now arrived back from his visit to his Dad's (up at 6.45 on a Bank Holiday Saturday to go and fetch him!). When I come home from work each evening there's a different configuration of sons and friends, and some evenings they both sleep over elsewhere. This makes planning and preparing meals a bit of a lottery: one never knows how many people - if any - will sit down to eat until perhaps half an hour beforehand. And some of my best recipes take an hour to cook...

If work has been busy, personal affairs have been less to the fore. A delicious walk in the park, hand in hand, with my lover, a convivial meal with friends, and a meal to celebrate some pretty good GCSE successes: these have been the sum of my social activities in August. Instead, I come in from work more tired each day than the day before, and drift through domestic chores and paperwork until bedtime. It's becoming clear that a summer without a proper break from work is unhealthy. I shall treat myself to a week off at half-term and go away somewhere, perhaps with the tent. There's nothing like bacon and eggs cooked on a primus for restoring one's appreciation for life. And for entertainment, there's always the Guardian crossword.

Flanders and Swann were right...

2007-08-05T12:26:00.000Z

July: end of term, summer holidays, sunshine and leisure... er, no. The beginning of July was busier even than the end of term normally is, as we tried to make up the teaching sessions we missed when Sheffield was flooded. With half the staff away at Methodist Conference, this required more than the usual amount of juggling, but with the generous co-operation of students and a bit of creative time management, everyone had all the teaching time they were supposed to have and we're now into a rash of tutorials as students prepare their module essays.

I did manage to steal a little time off for a short city break with my lover, and the restorative effect of good food, museums and libraries, and gentle, attentive company made me feel human again. The effect was marginally compromised by the almighty hangover I came home with, but even that was a reminder of a lovely time away.

The Urban and Contextual Theology Summer School started the day I returned, and it was the best I remember. Practitioners and academics spent two days sharing papers describing and exploring experience and theology. I've been working on the concept of sacrament in cyberspace, so I floated some early thinking and was rewarded with some useful new directions to investigate. These summer schools are also very congenial affairs, and two of the delegates and I went out on the Thursday evening. We were an odd assortment - a Roman Catholic priest in mufti, a black Anglican vicar in full clericals and I, strolling through the cemetery on a summer's evening, being hailed by a young black man who waved at us and called "Jesus saves, brother" as we passed by on the way to the pub and the Indian restaurant across the road.

With both boys now off school, their social lives have become more noticeable, and I often come home to assorted teenagers draped over the furniture or clustered round the computers. It's pleasure to see how the odd bunch of kids they all were is turning into such a nice group of young men, keeping their friendships intact through changes of schools and circumstances.

But sunshine? Not a chance! Flanders and Swann's description seems about right:

"In July the sun is hot
Is it shining? No, it's not"

July has been the wettest on record, I believe. The slightly overgrown garden of June turned into a tropical jungle in weather that varied only between heavy rain and drizzle. Bindweed took over one corner of the garden and crept along the back of the house, and knee-high grass had to be trampled down when the boys wanted to play swingball. The usual summer visitors, birds, butterflies and ladybirds, were replaced by slugs, snails and earthworms, so that the garden started to feel like some kind of dank, moisture-ridden underworld.

But at last it feels as if summer is in the air. We've had several days together that have been sunny and warm. Fourth son and I have spent two days hacking away the misbegotten greenery, cutting grass and turning the jungle into a garden again. Five sacks of garden waste and two rubble bags of rotten wood have gone from the garden to the council recycling site, and the butterflies are flitting around the windflowers. This evening, we're having a barbecue to celebrate.

The forecast for tomorrow is rain. Fleeting joys...

[Art gallery photograph from:
http://x642.freefoto.com/images/37/08/37_08_89---Manchester-Art-Gallery--Mosley-Street--Manchester_web.jpg?&k=Manchester+Art+Gallery%2C+Mosley+Street%2C+Manchester]

No man is an island...

2007-06-28T20:05:00.000Z

...but parts of Sheffield were this week! To understand what happened, you need to go back 10 days to Thursday 14th and Friday 15th June June. Steady rain overnight raised water levels and by morning there were areas of localised flooding. I was on my way back from the other side of the Pennines, and the journey that normally takes around an hour and a half took over four hours, of which the last 90 minutes were spent trying to find a route from the M1 to home. The obvious route - via Chapeltown - looked OK, and there were cars coming in the opposite direction, which seemed like a good sign. But when I reached the dip in the road, I too had to turn back and retrace the route I had just travelled. Ecclesfield proved equally impassible, so eventually, I pulled over and plotted out a route that I knew would keep me on hillsides.

Now fast forward to the afternoon of Monday 25th June. We'd had warnings of severe weather from the Met Office, so the persistent, torrential rain was hardly unexpected. It was a little crazy at work. Despite being close to the top of a hill, we have an intermittent spring in the cellar library which produced around two inches of water. Meanwhile, the builders were halfway through re-roofing, and the beautiful new roof had neither ridge tiles nor flashing, so water was pouring through into the upper rooms and down the chimney breasts. Genesis 7 was working in reverse - the waters below the firmament were rising up, and the waters above the firmament were pouring down, and the firmament between was shrinking rapidly. Then the lights went out... but it was only a brief power cut, not the end of Creation as we know it.

Being so far up the hill, we didn't realise till quite late that the city was coming to a standstill. By evening, Sheffield's seven hills had become seven islands as the five rivers, already swollen from the previous rain, all burst their banks. The sudden rise in water levels was catastrophic, and low-lying parts of the city were under five to eight feet of water. The one student who hadn't managed to get away, and one of the tutors, had to resign themselves to staying with staff members, and the secretary finally gave up after travelling about 750 yards in two hours, and spent the night at the director's house. Actually, I quite enjoyed the company of the unexpected guest, and youngest son wasn't at all sorry to have an unplanned day off school. We learnt the next day that that one of the chaplains had to spend the night in a flood shelter in town.

Sitting here in the highest house in this part of the city, we were quite untouched by it at home. The children were already in when the rivers burst their banks, and it wasn't until I turned on the TV the next morning that I appreciated how lucky we were. Two people were killed locally when they were washed away, including a 14 year old child, and people were trapped on the upper floors of buildings or had to abandon their homes. We have even been spared the cycling power cuts as the electricity suppliers try to patch in areas affected by flooded sub-stations. I have followed events on Sheffield Forum and the BBC, feeling oddly detached. Sheffield Forum has come into its own, keeping people informed about emergency services, road closures, power supplies and school closures, and in addition acting as a hub for neighbourly help as those unaffected offer goods, services and a helping hand to the victims. It has also been a good source of amusement:Sheffield Wednesday's ground at Hillsborough turned into a swimming pool.

Today, Thursday, the roads are mostly open again and superficially there is an air of normality. But it will be a very long time before the damage is put right.

Between the two storms, I had surprise visitors when my cousin called to ask if we could put him, his wife and stepdaughter up for the night after his brakes failed on the A57. It was one of those quite unexpected delights that occasionally happen to break through the stress of day-to-day tedium. We walked down to the pub for some locally brewed real ale, and then had a really good meal in a local Indian restaurant, returning for another couple of drinks before heading home. It's a few years since we've really spent any time together, and I've not had the chance to get to know his wife before: we discovered much in common, and I hope we'll manage to keep in touch properly now.

Two days later, I delivered two lectures to the Cliff College Postgraduate Alumni Association. The other speaker was my undergraduate dissertation supervisor, whom I haven't seen since 1998, so it was a privilege to share the platform with him, though also quite terrifying. We discovered that our areas of interest overlap considerably, and there's probably scope for some joint work which would be good both for us as academics, and for our respective institutions between whom there has historically been some rivalry.

Tomorrow is St Peter's Day, and I'm looking forward to the arrival of another very welcome guest. June has brought water and guests in abundance - I wonder what July holds in store?

[The Wicker photo: http://newsimg.bbc.co.uk/media/images/42424000/jpg/_42424522_wicker_sheff_getty_220.jpg]

Sporting ups and downs

2007-06-03T22:58:00.002Z

An email from my public reminds me that it's well over a month since I last wrote, and I've been consulting my diary to see what excitements have pushed the passing of time so far from my mind. It's a little disappointing to discover that little more than normal domesticity and work have been the main occupations, and the most pressing and time-consuming task has been marking module essays and dissertations, and completing the mountain of paperwork to go with them. Actually, it was a good crop of results - five of my six MA students got a merit, and one of my dissertation students crowned her studies with a distinction.

Then on 14th May we had a lunch gathering at UTU to say goodbye to Janet, who has been Support Services Manager for 7 years. This photo shows the UTU holy trinity of Janet, Judith (the secretary) and Christine (the director). The blonde lady hiding in the background is Janet's replacement, Kate.The following day I managed to escape to spend a night away in a cute village B&B and a day with my lover sharing a date that for various reasons matters to us both. Getting back to teach for 6.30 should have been an easy trip, but a massive accident on the M1 added an hour and a half to the journey. Advance planning meant that I'd left the teaching materials ready, and the last half hour was punctuated by phone calls (bluetooth, of course) to the resident student giving instructions in case I was unable to be there on time. However, my guardian angel pulled out the stops, and I walked into UTU with two minutes to spare.

One highlight of the last few weeks was a Keith James concert at the Boardwalk with a dear friend and his colleague. I was introduced to the music of Nick Drake some years ago, and Keith does a marvellous job of making Drake's music his own without ever dishonouring it. I've seen two of his Nick Drake tribute concerts before, and this one was a very welcome break from a very stressed week.

The corresponding low came the following weekend, when youngest son and eldest son, both Sheffield United fans by birth and breeding, went to the last match of the season together. The fate of the club was in the balance: they needed at least a draw to be certain of avoiding relegation. If they lost, it would then depend on the result of the match between West Ham and Manchester United. In the event, Sheffield United lost and West Ham won. There was a palpable air of mourning as the two lads and Dan's girlfriend arrived back, and no amount of sympathy could lift their mood. I discovered then that "it's only a game" is not a helpful comment for a mother to make under such circumstances.

After an overnight in a hotel with my lover (champagne and strawberries - who says romance is dead?), my own interest in sport was better served by a day out at the National Schools Regatta just outside Nottingham, where a team from my old school were rowing. It was the best kind of outdoor fun - lots to watch, good sportsmanship and passion on the water and on the banks. I met up with an old friend who was coaching one of his school's teams, and both his team and the girls from my old school won first their heats, then their semis, then their finals. In between, we swigged champagne in his school's hospitality tent, and had some time together for a walk and chat.

Second youngest son has already finished his GCSEs in Egypt, and returns to the maternal hearth on Wednesday. Although it's only just past half term, it's already feeling as if we're winding down towards summer. On warm days I can teach in the UTU garden in the evenings, and there's already an end-of-year feeling in the air. Summer promises to be rather good this year, I think.

This Joyful Eastertide...

2007-04-22T18:51:00.000Z

My study, where I'm sitting now, overlooks a Victorian cemetery. The rest of the area is everything one would expect of a blighted northern industrial city, with more than its share of poverty and marginalisation. Regeneration has helped a little, and the glorious mix of people who live here bring a richness that few outside commentators recognise, but there is little of beauty. Even the park is shabby and poorly maintained except for the annual burst of excitement provided by the multicultural festival.

But right in the middle of the area is a 37-acre Victorian cemetery. It was laid out before the dense housing sprang up around it to accommodate steel workers from the Don Valley below, preserving a little bit of countryside for the comfort of the dead and incidentally providing pleasure to the living. A mixed canopy of mature trees throws dappled shade on to the network of paths in the lower parts, where dog walkers and joggers pass each morning, and lovers stroll hand in hand in the evenings. Higher on the hillside, panoramic views of the changing city open up. Wild animals and birds have never left: at 4am on a summer morning, the dawn chorus might wake the dead, and after dark, nightingales and nightjars compete with owls to make sure that if the dead rest in peace, the living must learn to live with the sounds of nature.

Immediately below my window is a flowering cherry. Most of the year, it is an unassuming little thing, but as the weather starts to warm up, the dusting of new greenery gives way to a brooding dark red. And then one morning this modest, moody little tree explodes into a pink, extravagant candy floss of blossom, and for perhaps a week it outshines every other tree, before shaking off its spring fever and reverting to genteel quietness for another year. It's a wasteful, unnecessary adventure: it doesn't even produce cherries. But its sheer profligacy of flower just for show, just for the joy of being lovely, just for a few days every year, makes it my favourite tree in the whole cemetery.

Already the buzz of a new term is brightened by the prospect of teaching my two favourite courses. It's been a cheerful Easter in all sorts of ways. After years of refereeing open warfare between the two youngest sons, I was astonished and delighted to watch them discovering the good in one another and becoming friends. One day I came home from work and caught sight of the two of them through the window, heads together over a computer game, and my rarely exercised maternal pride did a happy somersault.

By Easter weekend, maternal joy notwithstanding, the stress of a long term was starting to take its toll, so on the Thursday of Easter week, I took a day out and went off into Derbyshire. There's a large flat rock where my lover and I laid a very old sorrow to rest, and it is, for me, a place of peace. After walking long enough to build up an appetite, I sat on the rock, took out a book, and enjoyed a sandwich, an apple and a can of beer as I read for hours in the warm sun. It was the kind of day where the quiet and the stillness exert a power to recharge and refresh even the most ragged soul, and I came home peaceful and relaxed.

And as if that wasn't all joy enough for the season, I had a delicious 24 hours with my lover as well... I am a happy woman.

Rarefied air, real ale and a romantic afternoon

2007-03-30T13:16:00.000Z

Another term over, and lots of time to relax...? Not a bit of it! The last students had barely left the building when I set off for the Society for the Study of Theology annual conference at Girton. The rarefied air of academic theology always makes me feel rather suffocated, though I'm always glad I've been.

There seem to be two kinds of conferences. There are those which are a long-awaited and much desired opportunity for people to share their ideas with one another through papers, workshops and conversation. They are usually businesslike, hardworking, and a thorough joy to be part of because they develop a sense of teamwork among participants right from the start.

Then there are the conferences which showcase the brilliance of the brightest stars in the firmament, leaving the majority of attenders in semi-darkness. Attending them is about trying to learn to appreciate the "splendour of light" without being dazzled. I have been astonished at the erudition, scholarship and sometimes genius of the plenary speakers, but deeply depressed that so little of it bears on the messy business of living. The gap between ivory-towers academic theology and applied and practical theology in community is nowhere more obviously a chasm than in such a forum, and I feel helpless with frustration that it falls to people like me to try and capture and distill the genius of the academy to resource my students and my own theology.

But parts of it were so satisfying, and so encouraging, that I continue to believe it's a positive experience. Short papers presented by people who are still doing, or have recently completed, doctoral research showcase the most diverse overview of the best of the theological landscape, and the shorter conversations around those are inspiring and provoke engagement.

There were other compensations. I took one evening off to spend with my much beloved Uncle rediscovering my all-time favourite beer (Woodforde's Wherry) over a meal and live music at the Bluebell Inn, with the unexpected bonus that my cousin, whom I haven't seen for years, and his wife joined us. So we went back to their house (quite stunning) for coffee before I went back to Girton just after midnight. It was a merry evening of family pleasure.

The last full day of the conference had an afternoon free for sightseeing, so my lover and I returned to the village of his childhood to lunch, walk and talk by the water. The warm spring sunshine, gentle romance, and conversation that swung from silly to serious from moment to moment all combined to make it a magical afternoon, and it was with reluctance that we parted and I dragged myself away to tackle another plenary session at 5pm.

Before leaving Cambridge, I called in to see my ex sister-in-law and then had lunch with my ex mother-in-law. It's a testimony to their generousity that we remain friends after the marriage that brought us into the same family is long over.

Tomorrow second-youngest son arrives home for Easter so I'm up at sparrrowsfart to be at the airport for 8.30am. Then we're into Holy Week, of course, and the existential journey towards death and resurrection begins once again. The cycling seasons of the liturgical year, the changing colours and moods and music, all seem this year to be in their proper place in the cosmos. It's been a long time since it's felt that way...

Jollifications

2007-03-18T22:02:00.000Z

One advantage of being too busy is that time whizzes past. It's been a time of exhausting work interspersed with episodes of real fun.

First there was the installation of Dr John Sentamu, Archbishop of York as the chancellor of the new University. Despite a ridiculously early start (on the road by 7) we had great fun dressing up in full academicals and parading through the streets of York from the guildhall to the Minster. Note to self - the Guildhall does not have enough women's toilets for that kind of gathering! It was a pleasant service, including a less than full-power rendition of Parry's "I was Glad", and then we had lunch at the NT tea room before repairing to the University for champagne and a lavish afternoon tea. This mean that I had to go for a brisk walk round York to work off the champagne before picking up my car from the park-and-ride.

Then there was a real-life meet of the uk.religion.christian newsgroup in which I did my PhD research. It was one of those delightfully civilised days when we had the perfect balance between congenial sociability and some vigorous theological debate. One poster from Greece managed to be there - I suspect that is probably the furthest anyone has come for a meet. Mark (the new moderator) and his wife Emma and baby Ellie were there, so I was able to hand over the moderator's hat to him.

And then this weekend I set off at sparrowsfart yesterday (this involved hiring a car when I discovered that mine had *two* flat tyres - grrr) to stay with the love of my life before racing back this morning to be at home for callers. My dearest uncle and his partner arrived in time for lunch, and eldest son and girlfriend arrived mid-afternoon. In between, phone calls from the other three non-resident offspring suitably reassured me that however little I care for Mother's Day, they still respect he social niceties.

Part of the reason it's been even busier than usual at work is the imminent departure of the person who holds the whole thing together as administrator. Finding a replacement has consumed a lot of corporate time and energy, though thankfully, not too much of mine. The highlight of the process so far has been the inadvertent feeding of an applicant's cv through the shredder, and the subsequent process of reassembling it.
It's now nearly the end of term, and I can tackle the mountain of paperwork over Easter. I may also treat myself to couple of days off to catch up on sleep and to enjoy the pleasure of being really, really happy.

Penitence and prevariction

2007-02-23T22:16:00.000Z

Ash Wednesday is, oddly, one of my favourite days in the Christian calendar. As a way of setting regrets aside in a formal liturgical setting, it takes some beating. I don't need a season to do penitence - introverts are quite good at that - but to make Lent a season of preparation for Easter requires one to examine one's regrets and then leave them behind. As usual, the choice of music was at best mixed, but one can forgive much when Hyfrydol is the offertory hymn. However, one cannot forgive "Forty Days and Forty Nights" to the tune of "Scarlet Ribbons".

I *should* be writing. Well, I am, of course, but what I should be writing is a sample chapter of my book for which a very nice editor is waiting. Once again, I have a whole list of good excuses, but the fact is that about 6 hours' writing is required, so some time over the weekend, I need to get my nose to the grindstone.

I do have some good reasons why it isn't already finished. I had planned to spend last weekend on it, but then was distracted by third son, he of the late lamented golden curls. He'd had an accident trampolining, and it looked as if his ankle was broken. Eventually, his Dad took him for an x-ray, and it was one of those good-news-bad-news scripts: the good news is that the ankle is only sprained. The bad news is that we've found what looks like a tumour on the x-ray. Emails and MSN messages flew back and forth between here and Egypt, and he had an MRI scan a couple of days later, which suggest that it's merely a slightly abnormal, and rather harmless, growth of bone, though it still needs checking out.

The fun event of the month was only daughter's 21st, which very conveniently fell during her reading week, so she came up to Sheffield, and we all went out for a meal. After much food, wine and merriment, I took youngest son home, leaving the older siblings and friends to paint the town red. Finding an appropriate gift had me stumped for a while, but as she asked for something to keep, I had a ring inherited from her great great grandmother, who had the same name, resized to fit, and bought a pair of earrings to match.

Work, of course, always provides a good reason for not doing other things. This week I was examining some undergrads on liturgy, which proved to be enormous fun for them and for me, including as it did glove puppets, generous quantities of food and some rather surreal game playing. Some urgent additions to the webpage took a whole afternoon writing html in Notepad: I shall be very glad when that chore is parcelled out to someone else, though it does make for better written html than proprietory packages.

This week also saw the return home of limping third son. The stress of worrying about his leg and 9 hours on the road fetching him from Heathrow made work impossible that day, so today I took a break from the stress and the guilt and dragged a friend out to Burbage for a long walk in the wind and drizzle to blow the cobwebs away. It was a good day, and I'll sleep well, waking fresh tomorrow to write that chapter...

Sons and Lovers (not DHL, though)

2007-01-28T23:19:00.000Z

Christmas is now history, and Epiphany with the family celebration, is also behind us for another year. Mr Scrabble briefly reappeared between the two bearing his scrabble set and broken heart. His married lady friend didn't tell her husband - but he found out anyway. It was all going so well. She was really, really going to leave as soon as Christmas was over. Until Boxing day, that is, when she told him it was over (again). I feel very sorry for him - he was so very unhappy - but I don't suppose for a moment it's really the end of the saga. Perhaps he'll now find someone who can brighten his life again, but it won't be me, and at last I'm now able to look back on the whole affair with a sense of proportion.

A bout of illness in early January left me rather debilitated for a couple of weeks, and all of a sudden, we're well into term and time is once more whistling past. I'm spending every spare moment marking essays from last term. A pattern of normality, busy but routine, has replaced the welcome disruption of the holiday season. Last week was a bit busier even than usual, with a satisfying conference in Cambridge providing additional excitement at the expense of a very early morning and seven hours on trains.

Youngest son has just gone off to Leeds to do his work experience for a fortnight with a major engineering company. It's quite a shock to think of him wearing a shirt and tie every day, going to work and finding his feet in a new environment, but even the baby of the family has finally grown up and I find myself looking on him with a pride I rarely experience when I'm trying to get him to wash up or feed the snake. Of course, by mid-February, he'll be back leaving socks in the sitting room and collecting all the mugs in his room, but I'm holding on to this feeling while it lasts.

One outworking of the relationship I have with technology is that I do a lot of parenting that way. Second youngest son lives at present with his father in Egypt, and we usually communicate using MSN. It's not very different from the way we communicate when he's home if I'm honest:
Me: Hi there.
Him: Hey
Me: Good day at school?
Him: OK
Me: Any homework?
Him: Maths and Geog.
Me: Well, you'd better get on then. Need any help?
Him: No, I'm fine.

So when I received a phone call via Skype, it meant there was something unusual. When he asked for advice, I had to sit down to recover from the shock. It turns out that the school took exception to the fact that he'd bleached his hair over the Christmas holiday, and had excluded him until he cut the offending yellow curls off. His father had no objection to his new look. Son was incensed at the injustice: nothing in the school rules forbids dyeing hair, and in fact one of the girls had her hair dyed black over the holiday and it passed without comment. The problem was that if he stood his ground, the school had said it would not allow him to complete his GCSE course if he were absent from school for more than two weeks.

After pointing out that he knew the school was, to put it mildly, rabidly conservative, so he shouldn't have been surprised, I offered two alternatives. I'd back him absolutely if he felt that he needed to stand by his principles. But anything worth fighting for has a cost, and the cost to him would be high. He would have to return to the UK and start the GCSE course again in year 10 in September, putting him back two full school years. If he chose to do that, I would support, indeed applaud, his decision. Alternatively, he could consider the fact that the school has all the power, and that even the moral victory of standing by his principles would make no difference to the school or anyone else. A tactical withdrawal in the face of overwhelming force is not a failure, but a sign of strength if combined with strategic planning to ensure a positive outcome. The deicision, of course, was his to make. As his Mum, I would honour whichever choice he made.

So he had his hair cut off. Of course, in a conservative school in England, a child with a very short crewcut might well be excluded for looking like a skinhead, but different cultural values operate!

What really concerns me is the example the school sets to its students by doing things this way. It sends out all the wrong messages: what you look like is more important than who you are; boys and girls are subject to different rules and values; maintaining an arbitrary rule is more important than educational achievement; might is right. I've worked so hard to encourage values of justice, equality and character into all my children, and a school which accepts £15,000 per year should provide the education it is paid to provide.

Meanwhile, an email arrived out of the blue from an Oxford schoolmaster whom I knew many, many years ago when we were both at school and then university: he'd come across my website while looking for theology resources, and I have apparently provided him with an element of street cred with his students who find it hard to imagine someone over forty being geeky enough to explore theology in cyberspace, and even harder to imagine that their chaplain is acquainted with such a person. My kids are used to me knowing more about computers than they do, so I forget that most of my generation are more comfortable with meatspace, hard copy and paper resources. I suspect that at least part of the curiosity value for his students is that "Sir", who is, of course, my age and married with grown-up children, could possibly have an ex-girlfriend in his distant past. I'm just delighted to renew what was always a good friendship, and to find him so much the same - he always was going to be Powlett-Jones from Delderfield's "To Serve Them All My Days"! I think he'd find me more changed - I am reminded of a song from the film "One for the Heart", in which Crystal Gayle sings "Old boyfriends...he fell in love, you see, with someone that I used to be."

eChristmas?

2006-12-28T11:04:00.000Z

I'm going to start with a tale of Christmas past, which at least partly explains why Christmas present is the way it is. Think w-a-y back to Christmas 1989. At the time, my first ex-husband and I were living in Egypt with the (then) three children, and we decided that it was the chance of a lifetime to spend Christmas in Jerusalem. However, travelling with three children and rucksacs meant that there was little space for bulky or fragile gifts, so we decided to save the gift-giving till after we returned at Epiphany. It was easy to persuade three children under 8 that since Jesus waited till Epiphany for his presents, they could do the same.

Christmas Midnight Mass in Bethlehem, seeing the New Year in listening to the bells clanging from churches of every denomination imaginable in the Old City of Jerusalem: these memories remain vivid. And in early January we headed back to Cairo and our decorated house and presents under the tree, to discover that our Coptic brothers and sisters in faith celebrate their Christmas on 7th January, so we were more in tune with our neighbours than we'd expected.

We've always kept an Advent fast and not started Christmas celebrating until after dark on Christmas Eve. For the rest of our stay in Egypt, we continued to have modest stockings for the children on Christmas morning, but the rest of the gifts remain under the tree until Epiphany. As part of this, we also dropped the b-i-g meal on Christmas day and moved it to 6th January, leaving the first day of Christmas free for people to eat just what they fancied. We've had some odd things over the years: one year the children were delighted to be allowed to have tinned spaghetti hoops. There was the roast honey and charcoal duck one year, and such humble dishes as egg and chips, welsh rarebit and bacon butties have at some seasonal moment tickled someone's fancy. Last year, second youngest son just had to have a M&S Hoisin Duck Wrap from the sandwich counter, which is actually rather hard to get hold of on Christmas Eve.

When we returned to the UK the children opted to continue our rather odd family Christmas instead of reverting to the usual UK pattern, and over the years it has proved to have all sorts of advantages. Their father, working in a Muslim country, rarely came home for Christmas, but could usually take a week off over the New Year so that our family feast could take place at Epiphany. When I was nursing for a while, it was no hardship to volunteer to work Christmas day, freeing staff with families to spend time cooking, a chore I didn't have to do. As they grew older, the children were always happy to work on Christmas day (for a vastly inflated hourly rate) which helped to keep them solvent. Gift buying could be done in the sales. They could spend Christmas day with boyfriends/girlfriends and their families. And after my ex-husband and I separated, they were able to spend Christmas day with him and his new wife celebrating a conventional Christmas without missing out on our big day. The lazy, piggy anything-goes Christmas day that became our pattern is stress free and easy, and over the years I have come to appreciate how rare a stress-free Christmas is among my acquaintances.

This year, youngest son flew off to Egypt early to spend Christmas with his Dad and step-Mum, and second youngest, who would normally have been home, was instead skiing in Sweden. All three of the older children have flown the nest, so I was planning to have a very low-key time, without the usual tree and decorations. However, youngest son was adamant that the house, the cat and I needed to do it properly to keep the cosmos in balance, so on Christmas Eve I baked mince pies, put up decorations and the tree, and trotted off to Midnight Mass as usual before coming back and opening the tin of Quality Street for my first chocolate since before Advent.

I had Christmas day planned: a long lie in, smoked salmon for breakfast, and then an orgy of West Wing, having treated myself to the boxed set of all seven series on dvd, with plenty of good white wine. It went wrong shortly after the lie-in ended. As I waited for the kettle to boil, I had a few chocolates. And a mince pie. Then a couple more chocolates. By the time the coffee was ready, I didn't much feel like smoked salmon. Second son rang to ask how to cook duck and lamb, and the kids and I sent text messages to one another to say "Merry Christmas".

I turned on the TV, loaded a dvd and settled in to watch West Wing. I'd only watched about 20 minutes when I remembered that second youngest son was going to be out on a ski slope directly in front of a webcam, so I turned on the laptop and squinted at the blurred figures hoping to catch a glimpse of him. In fact I got several good shots which I saved. I'm still amazed that I could watch my son skiing on Christmas Day, and then was able to chat to him on MSN the following day and show him the pictures.

While I was doing that, eldest son arrived and we decided to do gin rather than wine. But then we moved on to coffee and tea - well, if one really can have anything, then that includes choosing the ordinary. Later on, an ex-boyfriend arrived, and then in the evening, son number two and daughter also called in, and we revisited the gin as they chatted to their father and I had a long natter with youngest son, both in Egypt, thanks to Skype. By the time everyone left, I'd watched exactly half of one episode of West Wing, eaten no smoked salmon, and drunk no wine. In order to rescue the plan, I went to get the smoked salmon out for supper, but some thick slices of ham caught my eye, so the salmon was relegated to Boxing Day as I tucked into ham and chips on a tray in front of a couple of episodes.

Eldest son, meanwhile, set off to drop his brother and sister off at their respective friends' houses and then headed off up the motorway to Leeds. The traffic came to a standstill at Junction 37 (it later transpired that a fatal car accident had blocked the road). He doesn't have Satnav, but he has the next best thing: a mobile phone with handsfree, and a Mum with a computer. As we chatted, I took a quick look at Multimap and suggested an alternative route and he headed off home.

And so to bed, and one last thing to do. I picked up the Queen's Christmas message podcast, and fell asleep listening. Something about children, I think...

And of course, this blog is technology-driven - and this photo was taken with my phone. What with SMS, dvds, a webcam, Skype, all-singing all-dancing mobile phones, Multimap, podcasting and Blogger, it's been a technology enabled Christmas. iGod bless us every one!

(Photos: Jerusalem - http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/thumb/7/7c/West_wing_cast.jpg/200px-West_wing_cast.jpg
and West Wing - http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/5b/Israel-Jerusalem_Old_City.jpg)

To everything there is a season.

2006-12-04T22:25:00.000Z

Ecclesiastes 3: 1-8
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; a time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; a time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; a time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.

I've always thought this the perfect Bible reading for Advent Sunday, though I have never yet heard it used that way. The end of the old church year and the start of the new one has marked two major "times" in my life, the one by choice and the other by coincidence.

Way back in 1998 I started to research the activities of the Usenet group uk.religion.christian, and shortly after I started, the then moderator asked if I'd like to take over the post. Once I had addressed the methodological issues this introduced into my research, I agreed to become moderator in 1999.
I didn't actually meet the outgoing mod until later that year when we staged an impromptu "handover ceremony" at one of the occasional real-life meetings of some group members. A year to the day after the handover, he and I were married.

Seven and a half years later, my research having finished, the PhD secured and with the pressures of full time work and new research pressing on me, I started talking about finding a successor way back in Spring, and after much careful consideration, a suitable candidate proved both willing and available, though not till Autumn because of other commitments. So we fixed Advent Sunday as a good date for the start of a new chapter in the life of the group.

Meanwhile, the machinations of the legal system mean that by coincidence I received through the post my divorce decree absolute just two days before I handed over to the next mod: my marriage lasted two days fewer than my term as moderator. There is a wretched sense of failure that comes with the end of a marriage, so that I could take little pleasure in contemplating my period as moderator as a job well done, though it was that, I believe.

The traumas of the weekend were numbed by illness as a vicious fluey cold made my joints hurt, my head ache with fever and confused my brain so that I remember little of Friday afternoon or evening at all. Perhaps physical collapse, and the disengagement from reality that conferred, was the merciful anaesthetic I needed to survive the weekend. I spent much of Saturday asleep or fitfully dozing, so that by Sunday I was recovered enough to tackle the Advent Sunday rituals of cardmaking, mince-pie production and setting up Advent candles. I also went to church for the first time in months, though I'm not sure I'm ready for regular attendance again yet, if ever.

Work, meanwhile, has produced highs and lows. Donning my red togs and processing around York Minster as three of our students graduated with MAs (two merits and a distinction with the University Postgraduate Prize) basking the in the reflected glory of their achievement was a delightful outcome of the learning partnership with three lovely people. My current cohort of undergraduates are blossoming as novice ethicists, and I'm hugely enjoying supervising research degree students (including our recent distinction MA graduate) in addition to some fun work with MA students working on research modules, dissertations and Liberation Theologies.

On the down side, the realities of the approaching term are starting to haunt my sleep. The colleague who works most closely with me on undergrad and postgrad taught degrees is taking a term's study leave to complete her doctorate, so that with only a little additional tutoring assistance, I have to manage, deliver, tutor and mark all the postgrad and undergrad taught, practical and research modules between January and Easter. None of the content is new, though I always do a complete revision whenever I dust off an old module, but the sheer volume of teaching means I shall be somewhat busier even than usual, and I'm rarely under-occupied now. The most recent blow has been a suggestion from the University that we might reconsider the module to be delivered at Level 1, occasioning a rapid review of the programme and the possibility that I may have to write 10 two-hour lectures on the Old Testament between now and January. It's going to be a term that will demand huge amounts of planning and self discipline if I'm to keep all the balls in the air.

So as a new church year starts, it's especially appropriate for lots of reasons to be keeping a disciplinary and penitential fast. I like keeping Advent this way: it makes it a thoughtful and frugal time of preparation in the midst of all the excess of secular Christmastide, keeping me surrounded by a pool of quiet, unadorned calmness with space in my life and my head to consider what is to come.

(Tree image from http://static.flickr.com/51/112367618_552587d7ea.jpg?v=0)

Isn't it nice when...

2006-11-04T21:47:00.000Z

...one's labours bear fruit?

The Vancouver conference was one such. Amidst the chaos of a messy summer, I slogged away at my paper which was itself a fruit from a seed planted many years ago by the late David Lochhead's writings. I was still polishing it the day before I left, and by the time I got to the David Lochhead Memorial Symposium, I had it at my fingertips. I was surrounded by people whose names I know, and whose work I admire, people who had known and worked with Lochhead and in whose company I was overawed. It was especially wonderful to meet David's wife, herself a fine theologian and philosopher, and a formidably intelligent and delightful woman.

The conference was very much a working meeting, and the second day included seven substantial papers, or which mine was the last. People were tired and had worked very hard all day, and I was certain that the bad luck of having the last slot would make it impossible to get across the excitement of my findings. Leaving my pages on the desk, I delivered the paper substantially without the notes, engaging with the audience and using the slides to deliver the factual content as well as illustrations. It worked, and how! They laughed, engaged, sat up in their chairs and joined in, and it was all over in a blur of merriment. Delegate after delegate mentioned how much they enjoyed it, and as a direct result of the performance (for such is any conference presentation), there may be the possibility of future collaboration with some of the people there. If you want to see for yourself how it went, the conference archive is at http://www.virtualtheology.info , where you'll find the text of several of the papers and podcasts of all of them as well as a slide show of the event. Dr Gary Kush put a huge amount of effort into recording the conference and making it available online, and his own paper on accounting and QA in developing online courses has already provided some invaluable insights for work I'm doing here in the UK.

Meanwhile, over the summer and at the start of term, I put into place a more rigorous academic tracking system at work. Our modular courses have given us a few headaches because we don't always have records of students' modules, results or plans. This term, after producing some appropriate paperwork, I interviewed every student before the start of term and made sure that all our records were up to date. I'm accustomed to being on the receiving end of some tart comments from the administrator at the university, so when she rang to discuss students' records, I waited for it to start. She asked me if I knew what students had done, and what they were planning for the next year... and I was able to answer confidently for every student. For once, I knew more than she did. I corrected a number of errors on the university's records and gave a full account for every student registered with us. For the first time since I started, I had all the information I needed at my fingertips. That particular fruit was sweet indeed.

Finally, back to my research. Seven years of postgrad research and 18 months of undergrad project work before that has given me some accumulated expertise in my field. As a result of my discussions in Canada, I decided to set up some work with my students that used the insights gained to develop new ways of delivering courses.

I have a trial running now using a combination of web-based virtual learning environment (VLE), MSN and web resources, and on Friday my boss asked if I'd like to explore the possibility of developing this in a more focused way to draw in some church funding. Whilst this kind of diversified approach to delivery is qute widespread in the US and Canada, it is less so here in the UK, and my experience and expertise have now become valauable assets to develop and exploit. It's all good for my ego and career, and it's something I love doing: combining my role as educator with innovation in pedagogy and technology. It feels as if all that work is finally paying off, not only financially, but because I'm doing what I enjoy most as part of my job.

Tomorrow is bonfire night, and I stop being an educator and tutor for 24 hours to be Mum. We have sausages and buns in abundance, parkin for afterwards, and an awesome load of fireworks including some pretty big rockets. We've always had our own fireworks in the garden, and traditionally the catherine wheels always either fail or set fire to something. For the last three years, it's also been tinged with sadness for me: the baby I lost to miscarriage was due on 5th November that year, and I now always light a sparkler to remember the child who would have been celebrating her third birthday this year.

(photos linked from:
Vancouver School of Theology - http://www.vst.edu/about/images/IonaAbout.jpg
Sparkler - http://www.chemistryland.com/CHM107Lab/SafetyTutorial1/sparkler.jpg)

Visiting roots

2006-10-13T05:02:00.000Z

Yesterday after 20 hours travelling, youngest son and I arrived in Vancouver. I am here for the David Lochhead Memorial Symposium, to present a paper, but much more importantly to pay homage to the roots of my academic interest in cybertheology. In 1995, I was just starting to explore the possibilities of a theological approach indigenous to cyberspace community when I discovered the writings of Professor David Lochhead online. It was these papers which gave me the inspiration to explore the possibilities, and 11 years later, I have at last got empirical evidence which addresses some of the quastions he was asking as early as the mid 1980s.

Professor Lochhead died in 1999, so I never had the opportunity to meet him in virtual or other reality. The invitation to contribute to this symposium has brought me to Vancouver School of Theology to meet those who were fortunate enough to work with him as students and colleagues: people whose names I know from Ecunet and academic papers. It's a privilege to put faces to names and a source of astonishment that many of them are genuinely pleased to meet me. So this is very much a visit to the place where the roots of my academic career are planted.

But we found another sort of roots today as well. The symposium didn't start till this evening, and I was excused the business meetings of the conference today, so on the advce of Cathy Bone of VST and Gordon Laird of Ecunet (who, wth his wife Marilyn met us off the plane last night), youngest son and I explored the University of British Columbia campus this morning, and the Museum of Anthropology this afternoon. The First Nations of this area are honoured in memory and art in a strikingly beautiful way through the artefacts and displays which tell their story.

UBC is a very large institution - 40,000 students - and the campus is new, extensive and developing at an amazing rate thanks to endowments. The commitment of the people and government of BC to education is evident everwhere one looks,and there is a fascinating collection of buildings that are beautiful, functional and exquisitely apt for their purposes, from the Chan auditorium, designed to look like the inside of a cello, to the library which is shaped like a book opened and then laid flat with the spine upwards and the science building shaped like a cell.

Tomorrow the real work of the conference starts, and I'm delighted to be part of David Lochead's legacy.

Kitchen, sink, drama (three words, not one phrase)

2006-10-08T10:55:00.000Z

KITCHEN

I'm thick with cold, and exhausted from a busy week, but at last there's some really positive news. I think the pictures tell it all, really. Here's what my kitchen looked like in mid-September:

Here's what was originally planned:

And this was a picture I took last night:

Not bad, eh? Second son did a magnificent job, and although there's a small amount still to do by way of snagging, I have a fully functional dream kitchen. All I need now is someone to appreciate my cooking in it.

SINK

And yes, the sink *is*, truly, to die for. Black astrocast, 1.5 sinks with a steel inset in the .5 bit, which also houses the waste disposal unit, and a sexy mixer tap that really mixes. I still can't wash up, though - it ruins my hands, dah-lings.

DRAMA

Just as I was taking the picture above, Mr Scrabble-Player-ex turned up to drop off a cd. So for all you soap fans out there who wondered what happened next, here it is: his married lady love is really, really, really going to tell her husband, just as soon as their current project is over. Really. And then she'll leave him and she and Mr S-P-e will live happily ever after...

Autumn Rhythm PS

2006-09-20T16:53:00.000Z

Today I received an email telling me that "kind-customer-support-man whoever you are" is called Nick. Google and whois offer more detail, but a simple name is quite enough for a blog. How many blog readers count as a public, I wonder...?

Autumn Rhythm

2006-09-18T19:56:00.000Z

Another blog-reader emerged from the woodwork today - I find I do have a public after all! A chap whose name I quite forgot to ask mentioned that he'd had a peek when I rang to ask about a missing domain name. This was all I needed to remind me to update again - my ego requires very little persuasion. So thank you, kind customer-support-man, whoever you are, for your kind words.

The long summer is over, and I'm not sorry to see it go. It hasn't been a great one - messy, bitty and overshadowed by heartache. Autumn, mists and mellow fruitfulness notwithstanding, is dominated by the start of a new academic year. Today the new research students arrived; tomorrow the taught students descend en masse for the induction event. All of a sudden the rising stress of the last couple of weeks, last-minute admin tasks and a full timetable of meetings, are eclipsed by the buzz of returning and new students keen to get underway. Mountains of handbooks and forms will be handed out with the usual dire warnings about deadlines and plagiarism, and then everything settles down to the comfortable hum of industry.

There's actually a two week gap until the teaching starts, but that time will whistle past in an unbroken succession of interviews, tutorials and supervisions, the handing out of booklists and assignment marks, and liberal quantities of encouragement and coffee. (In case any students are reading this, mine's black, strong - two teaspoons of coffee - with one sugar. To go with it, I like, in order of preference, doughnuts, cream cakes, double choc-chip muffins and Hob-Nobs)

Normally, this period also marks the return to an autumnal pattern of domestic life: flaking out on the settee when I get in from work, stews and curries replacing the salads of summer, and weekends with friends. Alas, this cosy domesticity has been stymied temporarily by the ongoing work in the kitchen. After a rather complicated and stressful period acquiring the stuff to go into it, I then had to watch as Son number two ripped out everything that made an empty room into a functioning heart-of-the-home and set about knocking holes in the wall (to increase the number of electric sockets from two to twelve). So far we've had takeaways of several varieties and eaten out twice, but I'm starting to ache for fresh veg and real coffee. On the plus side, having Son number two doing this instead of a random workman is paying off in the quality of workmanship. If I can stay sane for a few more days, I'll remember why it was a good idea to have the work done...

Son number one has been in residence for a while now, and is on the point of returning to his own house in the wake of departing ex-partner. (Daughter and boyfriend have just split up as well. I wonder if it's infectious?) It's been nice having his company, but he's found commuting to Leeds daily a tiring chore. His period of residence has left me with a nicely decorated spare room and a renewed respect for his good nature as well as an empty fridge and an exhausted washing machine. Last night Sons numbers one and two and I went out for a drink and a pub quiz, and it was good to be reminded what pleasant company they are.

Meanwhile, what one correspondent referred to as my "perfidious lover" has made occasional contact, assuring me with confidence that his ex will tell her husband just as soon as she can find the appropriate circumstances to do so. My broken heart is nicely on the mend after a night under canvas alone with my demons when he and I should have been enjoying a romantic weekend in Paris. There's nothing like a tiny tent, a sleeping roll and waking with aching joints to a view of the sun rising over Mam Tor for rekindling the senses of proportion and humour. Well, proportion anyway - I laugh less than I used to, I think. On the plus side, I have crosswords and books strewn across the bedroom again and I've migrated back to the middle of the double bed.

A new academic year, new possibilties, a new kitchen: life's not so very bad.

pictures linked from:
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/7/79/Mam_Tor_from_the_south.jpg (Mam Tor) and http://www.focusdiy.co.uk/content/ebiz/focus/invt/28620/28620.jpg (Socket)

"Exes ought to be ex": ups, downs and how to enjoy a bank holiday weekend

2006-08-26T21:54:00.000Z

Obviously my darling public is away on holiday, since I have had no sharp reminder to update. But update I must, because much has changed in the month that has passed since last I wrote. Let's start with the positives, shall we?

My boss is back at work, albeit on "light duties". This actually means that we throw her out if she looks unwell. This is a good arrangement, and there's an element of reciprocity in that she threw me out - well, told me to go home - when I was unwell a couple of weeks ago. I finally finished my somewhat overdue piece of contract work by the Wednesday of my week off work, and was therefore free to go away for two night B&B with second youngest son for a day's walking in the North Yorks Moors. My new kitchen units and stuff are being delivered next week, and second son is installing the whole lot the following week for me. So life isn't all bad.

But some bits are less wonderful than they could be. Eldest son and his partner have separated, and until they sort out their affairs (fortunately this is a largely civilised separation) he is living here. Quite how he gets his 6' 2" frame into my boxroom is a mystery. It's always sad to see one's kids troubled, and the fact that he's 24 and earns more than me doesn't stop me fretting over him.

My car finally went in for its first service in three years after I found steel wire poking out of one of the front tyres. I gather they aren't meant to do that. However, once the mechanic started to check out the suspension, the dodgy boot lock and the dripping oil, I faced a bill of £600 to make it fully healthy again - and then I discovered that getting an additional key (I only got one when I bought the car) will cost me £100. I console myself by saying that £600 on repairs averages out at £200 a year, which isn't too bad for a W reg car, really.

But the real bummer is the end of my affair with my scrabble playing friend, who found himself unable to continue our friendship while hoping for a reopening of his affair with a married woman. The quotation above is from her as she commented sourly on his continuing friendship with his ex-wife. Clearly she wasn't able to live up to her own dictum, since she punctuated our time together with angst-ridden phone calls. I gather than she is now (for the umpteenth time) about to leave her husband to make my ex-lover the happiest of men. I wish him well and hope that she does...

Work is a happy antidote to trauma to the heart, and longer usual working days mean that I have managed to catch up on most of my paperwork, update the college website and make significant inroads into my teaching programme. Students are starting to drift in and out again after their summer breaks, though term doesn't start till mid September, and it's nice to have them around once in a while. I suppose I ought to be worried that I went into the kitchen last week and heard three of them discussing me as "the college rottweiler"? However, I had a more encouraging encounter with someone with whom I had a pretty strong run-in at one of our summer conferences. He came in to talk about the possibility of postgrad research, and I spent about an hour chatting with him about it. When he left, he said he'd found my direct and challenging approach very stimulating, and please could he come back another time to carry on the conversation.

So this bank holiday weekend, I'm not thrashing around under a pile of unfinished work, and I have no romantic interest to occupy my time. What is a girl to do? Open a bottle of the best chilled Chardonnay, tuck into caviar and sour cream blinis, and watch West Wing episodes back to back snuggled up in the warm embrace of an elderly teddy bear.

More graduation pictures...

2006-07-25T10:34:00.000Z

...are now online at http://pics.geekesse.co.uk/c1031936.html

Certified, doctored and half-baked

2006-07-21T14:22:00.000Z

Actually, that order is wrong. I was half baked before I received my certficate and doctorate.

After two weeks of close to insane activity, temperatures creeping up as summer hits Sheffield with a vengeance, and rising stress levels as the day approached, yesterday was the Big Day. This involved dragging myself away early from a two-day staff meeting in order to throw some smarter clothes on and hurtle around Sheffield gathering children in time to go to a lunchtime reception at the University. It was a sweltering afternoon in the rising heat wearing full academicals as we drank pimms and cocktails in the Union garden before finally finding a measure of cool and quiet in the Octagon for my graduation. Youngest Son, Only Daughter and Lover all came along to watch and the rest of the brood and Best Friend followed proceedings on a big screen in the Union. After a couple of pictures for posterity, we all came back to my office for a reception in the garden with other friends and colleagues.

There was a certain amount of perplexity as people took on board the fact that among the guests were my first ex-husband's wife, my second ex-husband, my ex-boyfriend and my "friend" (he prefers this title), all being perfectly civil to one another and all treating me with affection. The kids were all fantastic, at their most sociable and poised, and my most respected colleagues were all there as well.

After the reception proper was over, several of us wandered back up to my house, where the merrymaking continued into the evening. It was a relaxed, funny, friendly kind of affair, and a memorable end to that chapter of my life.

Now I have some holiday booked and I plan to catch up on sleep, get the backlog of private contract work completed and do some housework and some serious mothering. I may even have a little time away, as well.

Now, where do we go from here, I wonder?

Happy returns and roses

2006-07-05T12:57:00.000Z

A shorter gap than usual between posts prompted by a note inisisting that I "update [my] Bluestocking Ramblings to reflect the current state of a) play; and b) [my] heart."

No, it's nobody's birthday. The happy returns are two. Let's start with youth: Penultimate Son has returned for the summer after a term living with his father overseas. Another inch taller, an extra dollop of maturity and the outrageous confidence of a smartarse 15-year-old don't really affect that fact that I still see him, as all the others, as a small child who needs his Mum around, and it never feels quite right when he's away. That is not to underplay the huge part the youngest plays in my life: he is so much like me that it's like having my own shadow there, and when he's away, it feels as if part of myself is missing.

And the other happy return is my scrabble playing lover, whose crisis of confidence worked itself through while I waited and watched. I still love playing scrabble. I also love planning our trip to Paris, listening to soppy CDs and falling asleep over French films, watching our kids make friends while we cook, holding hands and talking, and doing chores together.

Work has settled down too - we've survived to the end of term with the boss still off without cancelling any courses and managed to keep the whole institution running effectively. I've booked a fortnight's holiday in July so I can have a complete break. And it's becoming clear that the college is finding me an increasingly important member of staff as a representative of the institution as well as being a useful tutor, lecturer and general good egg.

All these positives feed on one another, of course, so that my much improved state of mind generally makes me more positive about work, and my sense of being valued at work makes me feel better about life generally. Because I'm happier, youngest son and I are much more contented in one another's company, and that means that he is happier too. It all seems to have been at best grey and dismal for so very, very long, and now it's as if the sun is coming out.

Youngest Son went to stay with Eldest Son for the weekend, and ES rang to tell me YS was on the train - and to ask if YS could come over a lot more often because he and his partner really liked having him around. And to add to the general air of optimistic smugness, Only Daughter passed her first year exams with an average 2:1, and Second Son passed his retakes, so he's going back to Uni next year, and Eldest Son is starting an MA at a local university in Sept.

"Everything's coming up roses..."

Highs and lows

2006-06-22T19:57:00.000Z

I wonder what happened to equanimity? I've learnt the hard way that it is imperative to maintain calmness whatever is going on, and a professional air of sang-froid is a very useful defence against the world. I'm really very good at that. But it's been sorely tested of late.

My boss is still signed off work with a long term back injury. The additional work that this involves isn't just about time, though extra students to tutor and additional lectures do eat into that commodity. It's also about making decisions and trying to take into account what I think she'd want to do, knowing that she and I have different views on almost everything, but work in a complementary way. Only a couple of weeks ago, another colleague and I had to negotiate a major restructuring of some of our courses, and I felt all the time as if I were arguing two opposing positions, my boss' and mine.

Around the same time, I met a new man and all that seemed to be going rather swimmingly, but alas, he backed off suddenly at the weekend. Two weeks of romance and French cinema and Scrabble disintegrated overnight into - well, just Scrabble. Now don't get me wrong, I like Scrabble. But I like all the rest of the stuff as well.

Which reminds me of today's silly story...

As part of a rather boozy Scrabble game, I removed my glasses so I could read the dictionary, and put them on the floor behind me. (No comments about "why don't you get telescopic arms?" please.) I suppose it was inevitable that I'd sit on them. I did, and the lenses popped out. So this morning I went off to visit the nearest decent optician. The lenses are three years old, and the edges are badly chipped, so this seemed like a very good time to replace them. I explained that I'd had my eyes tested last time at a chain store in a local mall, and the receptionist rang through to ask for my prescription. Then they took the prescription and my specs (temporarily mended) into the workshop.

Several minutes later the girl re-emerged looking perplexed. "These are your specs, Madam?" I said they were. She turned to the receptionist: "Are you certain you took down the prescription correctly?" Then "These specs are not made up to this prescription." I explained that they were three years old, so there may have been a little deterioration, but it was clear that she meant that the discrepancy wasn't to be so easily explained away. In the end, an eye test established that the prescription was close to accurate, but that I have been wearing specs with the wrong lenses for three years. Perhaps that explains my jaundiced view of the world?

The ups and downs of my life were illustrated in an even more vivid way at lunchtime today. Several months ago I was invited to a symposium in Canada that is of crucial relevance to my research, and I applied for a British Academy travel grant. I had a strong application and good references, so I was very distressed to received the letter this morning telling me that I had not been awarded the grant.

I'd convinced myself that I would be able to go, and this new disappointment was rather hard to bear in my present general state of feeling sorry for myself. Without funding, that kind of travel was impossible. My son's Dad had agreed to pay half of his fare so he could go with me, but the cost of my fare, accommodation and food, without any grant funding, would be more than I could afford.

I spent the rest of a busy morning of tutorials and phone calls feeling rather horrid after that, and every time I started an email to the organisers to try and explain that I couldn't come, the phone rang again. I was trying to work out if I could do a paper and send it to the Symposium for someone else to read, and other equally desperate measures. But I didn't manage to send an email, and decided to compose something suitable after lunch.

Eventually at lunchtime one of my best friends and I went out for a sandwich and to bewail my bad fortune. It's a grey, miserable, slightly drizzly day here, so we sat in a cafe in the park, and as geeky people always do, we started comparing our new mobile phones. Mine has full internet access, so I was demonstrating how I could check my email when I saw one from the Symposium organisers. And this was when I read:

"Debbie, we want to make sure you and your son arrive in ___ for the Symposium. We would be delighted if the grant you have applied for comes through, but if not, we want you to be at the Conference. We want to be able to count on you for some aspects of your work, either in a workshop or in your own presentation, or both, depending upon which other papers come in."

...followed by an offer to accommodate and feed me and my son, and to pay my air fare as well. This isn't a funded conference, either: the organising committee have come up with the offer out of generosity and respect for my work. I was so touched - I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

And finally, another high:

Today my mortgage was completed I've bought my ex out, raised a mortgage in my own name and signed on the dotted line to give them a chunk of my earnings until I'm in my dotage. In return, for the first time in my whole life, I own my house - not as someone's partner or spouse but in my own right. It feels so awfully grown up! I can now order that kitchen (Maple, I decided. And the sink is still to die for, darlings.)

Sex, foul language and living with consequences...

2006-05-25T20:18:00.001Z

Heh! That got your attention!

I've spent a week doing some teaching at another college to help out an old friend. So far - and it's only Thursday yet - I've had to explain to them that if you don't do the work, you don't get marks (living with the consequences), been aggressively reprimanded by a student for using "foul, and offensive language, too disgusting to repeat" (what I actually said was "bugger that for a lark!"), and been harangued by an arrogant young man who tried to hijack today's session to expound in detail his view that "the Word of God" says that "man is the head of woman" and that women should therefore submit to men (I invited him to leave the room, since women are not to teach men, apparently, but he didn't take the bait).

I feel so very sorry for some of them. The need to lay hold of an immutable Truth and take refuge in pious certainties overlies a terrible fear of contingency, human messiness and failure. I can't seem to penetrate the shell of anger and defensivness. But there's no light in there. I saw a poster a few days ago which seems apt: Blessed are the cracked, for they let in the light.

So where does sex come in? Ah, yes. I showed excerpts from three films, two of which are rated 15, and only one of which is rated 18, of men in gay relationships. I bet you can guess how that went down?

After a full day's teaching there each day, I'm belting back across the city to do another couple of hours in my own college because my boss is signed off sick for 9 weeks. And then each evening, I'm coming home to do some work on a module revision for yet a third college. Will somebody please remind me why I wanted to be an academic?

Ah, I remember. Monday evening! Back in my own institution for a few hours teaching some urban contextual theology, I was able to deliver a seminar session on the CULF report, released from embargo only 6 hours earlier. A colleague had been one of the select few to have a pre-embargo copy, and she handed it to me just as 12 noon struck, giving me time enough to read it and prepare some teaching notes before my students arrived at 6. We like to be up to the minute.

On the plus side, my remortgage is nearly completed. This means I will own the house myself (with a little help from the building society) and can get on with some home improvements. I'm getting quite lightheaded (unless it's the tiredness, of course) over whether to have beech or maple cupboard doors, and the black sink I've chosen is to die for, dah-lings.

A few more relics left the house yesterday evening, though I have yet to evict the various derelict computers and several years' worth of old magazines from the loft. They will, I am assured, be going shortly. If not, I can assure anyone who is interested, they will be broken up for parts where useful, and taken to the tip if not. I am open to offers for parts of PCs of various eras of contemporary antiquity.

Come to that, I'm open to suggestions, too. What do normal people do? I badly need to get a life. 15+ hour working days including weekends isn't a satisfactory long-term lifestyle. I take an evening off once every month or so to go to the theatre, to see experimental drama, mostly. I'd like to go to the pictures, but I hate going on my own, and going out for a meal without a companion is just too Anita Brookner to contemplate. I'm way too old to do idiotic things like salsa dancing (I was always too old for that kind of exhibitionism), too earnest for mindless chatter, too easily bored to watch soaps on TV, and too poor to do a lot of theatre and art. There's no shortage of things to do: write my book (more work), follow up my research (ditto), write some journal articles (ditto). But I do remember, once, a long time ago, that I used to spend some time both awake and not-working. Hey ho. I'll try and keep the gaps shorter next time: darling public, do remind me...

Holidays, champagne breakfasts and technology

2006-04-26T11:20:00.000Z

After a whole month of silence, I feel a bit sheepish about another entry. I like holidays: time with family and friends, the fast and then the feast at church, and plenty of time to have fun. Did I manage any of those things?

There was more time with the family, but surprisingly little as I struggled to juggle the SST conference, planning for the coming term and the movements of said family between countries and houses. The lenten fast was somewhat compromised by the fact that I never impose my personal discipline on other people, so every time I went out for an evening or a meal, all the limitations were suspended - and I had a very social Lent! But it wasn't such a bad thing, really. I was feeling fragile enough that a strict fast this year would have been too harsh for my equanimity. Sometimes what one needs is a gentle Lent.

Holy Week was quite horrible, really. The most recent gentleman caller called it a day (not unexpectedly) just before Palm Sunday, and Maundy Thurs would have been my silver wedding had that marriage had more mileage. I don't regret the ending of the marriage - it's long in the past now - but I carried a sense of sin and failure through the whole week, and by Good Friday wasn't up to handling the raw pain of the liturgy. So I made hot cross buns and shared them with friends instead.

The bright spot was the Maundy Thursday service at York Minster. It was a three part affair: chrism mass, renewal of ordination vows and foot-washing. All the diocese clergy were there, and all processed in and out, which was pretty impressive - a fabulous sense of being part of the whole church.

I always like the blessing of the oils - again, it reminds me of being part of the fabric of the church somehow. The renewal of vows was impressive for being such a mass event. And I finally fell in love with the new Archbishop when he did the foot-washing - none of this two drips and a dab with the towel, and a host of minions. He hooked up his robes, got right down on his hands and knees and did a thorough job on both feet of each person, and lugged the bowl and jug around himself. After the first couple, he stopped and moved his stole from hanging round his neck to across one shoulder and tied at the side, like a deacon, to stop it dipping in the water. And then he left it in the deacon position for the rest of the service - a neat way of symbolising the servanthood thing. I was mightily impressed and I don't impress easily.

For various reasons we went to the dawn service this year on Easter Day, a mistake I shall not be making again. Meeting on the green, in the dark, at 5.30am was not pleasant, and there were so many pointless elements designed to make sentimental twenty somethings feel they were part of something meaningful that I wanted to scream. Why would anybody want to cense a green space full of daffodils, for goodness' sake? Much as I like Christina Rosetti, she didn't really write liturgical material, so why did we have to listen to an emotional rendition of one of her ditties as we stood ankle deep in damp grass getting cold? The bonfire (remind me - what is the liturgical significance of barbecue fuel?), casting palm crosses thereon, a procession to the church behind a torch that looked too much like a Ku Klux Klan flaming cross for good taste, candles and holy water and procession to odd places and a completely botched stab at Hail Thee Festival Day that reduced the whole congregation of 30 or so to giggles... and then a Eucharist without the Gloria. Grrrr.

However, the post-service breakfast with champagne, croissants, rolls, eggs, bacon, toast, coffee, tea, fruit juice, fresh fruit and easter cakes wasn't bad. I came away feeling very well fed but spiritually empty - not a good Easter, really.

I think the domestic highlight was the installation of wireless broadband, the first fruit of my payrise. In an almost trouble free couple of hours, I installed and set up a router that serves four computers and connected them all so that the rest of the week saw a surge in MSN activity by a few thousand percent. It's the first time the boys have been connected directly to the internet since the elder cooked his modem looking at porn.

This set me to wondering. When I was the age of the youngest, we had one fixed telephone in the house, and I had to ask permission to use it - and give a jolly good reason. We have four internet conected computers, two phone lines, and three mobiles. I can't now, imagine life without all this connectedness. When I was at school, I waited two weeks for a reply from my parents to the weekly letter home. Now, fourth child and I chat almost daily when he comes in from school, despite the 1500 miles and 2 hrs time zone shift that separates us. I love being so connected!

End of term and end of an era

2006-03-25T19:59:00.000Z

This week saw the last lectures in term 2: Virtual Theology (Level 3), Themes in Christian Theology (Level M) and Christian Faith in History (Level 1) have each in their own way challenged me, and I'm happy to look back on a busy term well completed. So I spent the rest oif this week at work compiling the paperwork for next term's modules: Elements of Christian Worship (Level 1) and Theology & Local Communities (Level M). There's always a rather breathless fear attached to a new module, which spurs me to enormous efforts to get it up and running smoothly. I always so very badly want students to be as excited about a new topic as I am.

This week also saw what will probably be the last reunion of the class of 98. The year I started my PhD study, there was only one other student. He is now coming to the end of his writing up, and it was rather pleasing to discover that our year group is the only one that will have had a 100% completion rate, with no drop-outs. This is partly, of course, because we've both worked jolly hard, but I like to think it's also because we've supported one another through the difficult processes of research and writing up.

I'm also getting to grips with the module I'm teaching at another institution in May, and I'm re-writing a distance learning undergrad module for yet another, so I'm in a very creative period right now. What doesn't make it into a new course ends up in the bin, though not one as aptly labelled as this I found behind Broomhill Methodist Church in Sheffield a couple of years ago.

At the back of my mind, I have a research project cooking, which involves applying some of my PhD findings in a different environment and trying to insert some Christology into the Trinitarian stuff I was doing then. But first I have some serious work to do networking, because I could use some funding for this. There is the possibility of some funded work on e-learning in the air, and if that materialises, I may have to put all else on hold for a while.

I received the notification that I have completed all the formal stages to graduate in Summer now, so it looks as if I shall be getting doctored in mid-July alongside a popular and very gorgeous local actor who is being awarded an honorary DLitt at the same ceremony. I'm not sure if the kids' enthusiasm for my ceremony is about me or about him - I fear the latter.

It's been a good week in terms of play as well as work. I've had company for a couple of evenings in, which is an unusual treat. I lost custody of a painting recently, and I had a day out and discovered a fabulous Tapas restaurant in Manchester while buying a picture to replace it.

Faith as Social Capital and other social things

2006-03-19T09:05:00.001Z

I was planning to write more last week, but life gets in the way of art. Is this art, I wonder? No matter.

This past week was dominated by a trip to London to the launch of the Rowntree Foundation Report Faith as Social Capital on Wednesday. I documented my personal response in an email to another delegate at the launch:

"...it's inevitable that as an academic and primarily as an educator, I welcome this kind of research for all sorts of mixed reasons. It's really pleasing to see this kind of cross-disciplinary social research into practical matters of faith, and as with all Rowntree projects, it's an exemplary piece of research in terms of methodology and presentation. For that alone, it feeds into my teaching, quite apart from its acute relevance to modules we teach on urban and community theology.

But I'm always slightly frustrated that there's no clear focus on the *reception* of the report: who is going to take in on board, how, for what purposes, and how successful will they be? It would be good to have a chronicle of the immediate, medium term and long term impact of this sort of project, and I'd like a piece of research to start now, seeking to identify some of those things. I suspect that it *does* have an impact, in some fields and areas, and at some levels. But I don't think we really know how far LSPs and the like actually *use* this kind of research. [...]

I'd also like to see series of formal responses from interested organisations etc, detailing what parts, if any, are useful, and what parts are up for discussion/ challenge. It's good that we can discuss it: how much more useful it would be if this topic were up for discussion in much more public, institutional ways. I'd like to see the Urban Bishops' Panel produce a written, published response: ditto other representative faith organisations, local, regional and central government and people like yourselves, Regional Commissions, regeneration bodies and so on.

There is also the question of how this relates to the CULF report, with which it is closely associated, not least because Rob Furbey was involved with both. I'll be keeping in touch with Rob in any case, and he may be able to respond to some of these concerns."

There were some quite lovely aspects of the day. The launch itself was very well done, with reponses from several people, most notably Lord Parekh who did a masterly critique of the agenda and the intellectual and social context of the report. Robert was there, and it turned out he knew well someone I know only from Christians on the Internet (COIN). There were at least two other internet acquaintances present, and a UTU MPhil student, and of course, Rob Furbey, the author of the report.

After the launch, Robert and I met Maddi for coffee. It's rare that my daughter allows me to treat her, so it was an unusual pleasure for me. Robert then went off carrying my packs from the launch (How nice it is to go to a good "do" and still go off to do things empty handed!) and Maddi and I decided to forego the delights of high culture (Tate Modern) for consumer lust (Hamleys, the Mac shop and Selfridges), before drinking immoderate amounts of chianti on the terrace of Carluccios in the sun (but with the benefit of a heater) until the end of the rush hour.

The evening with William and Laura (wine bar) was entirely pleasant too, and the next morning William and I breakfasted in a little Italian deli/cafe in Crouch End. As Uncle Martin commented when I told him all about it, "how very nice to be in the company of those who will lead you out to make an occasion of a simple meal."

Visitors in Church

2006-03-05T23:27:00.000Z

Another week over - or should that be, another week about to start? Well, it was a good one, as they go. On Monday I was offered a full time post with enough additional incentives to convince me that moving to another institution would be a silly idea. There are all sorts of reasons why I turned down the chance of a *very* well paid position that would have been less demanding in favour of this one. The main reason, though, is that I like the buzz of working at the cutting edge of academic theology in a maverick kind of way, and I could never have done that in the other college.

One Thursday I drove down to Oxford for the NoATE consultation the following day, and to have a meeting with colleagues there about some contract work. I had a delightful evening chez Alison, with takeaway pizza and wine in front of a roaring fire. The consultation was very good indeed - my paper was pitched just about right and fitted in with the day well, though much of that is down to excellent planning by the organisers. I learnt a huge amount, and made some useful contacts in the field of e-learning. Home via a monstrous traffic jam on the A43 at Towcester and patchy snow, so didn't get in till rather later than planned.

Meanwhile, it's taken me all week to shake off the worst of the cold, and I still have a nagging cough which will be a nuisance when I'm lecturing tomorrow and Tuesday. I think the strain of the last month or so is beginning to take its toll, and I may well take a week off after the end of term to catch up with myself. The next couple of weeks are busy, with meetings in York and London as well as the weekly round of lectures and tutorials, but then it settles down a bit. I could use a bit of time to deal with a tendency to self-pity that has crept up of late!

Oh, yes, the visitors. Silas had broken the eyepiece of his radio-controlled dalek, and Robert very kindly repaired it and brought it to church with him this morning. His son insisted on bringing theirs, so we had two daleks wandering up the aisle before the service. We did wonder what kind of response they'd get, but we need not have worried: they evinced a smile or a chuckle from everbody, from the very small children to the elderly. Robert's comment is notable: "...did you notice how everyone of whatever age hailed the Daleks' presence in Church this morning? Doctor Who is as trans-generational as the Church itself, and there aren't many other things you can say that about". He's right, too.

The common cold and the Da Vinci Code

2006-02-26T22:11:00.000Z

Sunday evening, and I feel as if my brain is made of fudge: thick and sticky. Although I have nothing more than a head cold, illness is always a source of immense frustration for me because it compromises efficiency. I started the weekend with a couple of lectures to write, one undergrad, one postgrad, and also my NoATE paper and a presentation for a job interview. The postgrad lecture was a doddle, and I've pretty well finished the undergrad one, but although the paper is in my head, I can't seem to make the words make sense on paper. And the job interview presentation will just have to wait until I can think more clearly. And so I get frustrated and miserable and sulk quietly, until a dear friend pops in for coffee bearing chocolate and sympathy and cheers up my evening.

Someone once send me a "Prayer for the Common Cold": it bears repeating here. Oddly enough, when I checked out my email archive, I find that the person who sent it to me is the same friend who called round this evening.

From 'The Prayer Tree' by Michael Leunig

God bless those who suffer from the common cold.
Nature has entered into them;
Has led them aside and gently lain them low
To contemplate life from the wayside;
To consider human frailty;
To receive the deep and dreamy messages of fever.
We give thanks for the insights of this humble perspective.
We give thanks for blessing in disguise.
Amen

Part of the reason I feel so terrible is that I haven't been sleeping very well, and last night decided to use the wakeful time in the wee small hours to finish a chore. I have been reading "The Da Vinci Code", only because I am so often asked my opinion thereof, and so I read for several hours to find out whether the book has any redeeming features. There are a lot of reasons that I was disinclined to like it, and to be fair, it wasn't all that bad as an adventure mystery for the lumpen masses.

But it is not a book for the literati: The characterisation is almost non-existent, and the prose is typical of the genre, devoid of elegance or charm. I found the puzzles very simple, and the solutions over-explained, but I suppose the target audience isn't really Guardian crossword afficionados. Grail mysteries of one kind or another are almost a genre in themselves, and if that were all there were to it, I would pass the book over as trivial but entertaining. What gets my goat is the gross misrepresentation of the development of Christology up to and during Nicea, presenting as fact things that have no basis in truth, and against which there is overwhelming evidence. To suggest that Christology was invented from nowhere by Constantine in 325 ignores 250 years of theology and doctrinal development, and disregards the witness of Paul, the author of Hebrews, Clement of Rome, Igatius, Justin Martyr, Irenaeus, Tatian, Tertullian, Origen, Arius and Athanasius, to name but few.

Life is fun

2006-02-22T10:05:00.000Z

I've had the kind of week that reminds me why I love my job: students of one sort or another coming out of the woodwork, from visiting American urban ministry people to PhD candidates, Methodist vocational students and new undergrads. I ended up writing my ecclesiology lecture (L1) late the night before, and the session buzzed so I left work yesterday evening late but on quite a high.

I've booked my ticket to London for a report launch: £8 return on a coach. Compared to £60+ on the train, it's a steal. And I booked in for the SST conference yesterday as well, the first time I've done a conference sponsored by my employer. I've yet to write my NoATE paper, but it will be done by the end of the week - I know exactly what I'm going to say, it's just a case of putting it on paper and assembling the Powerpoint slides.

But I do need to do some serious writing. If I can finish off this term's lectures now, I could start putting together a proposal for publishing my thesis - or at least a *very* revised version thereof. My emails to the editor who asked about it before are bouncing, so I don't set too much store by her, but I do have contacts through a colleague with other editors who may be very interested.

Fresh Start and optimism...

2006-02-15T21:42:00.000Z

This seems like as good a time as any to delete all my old posts and start again. I've finally finished my PhD, stopped feeling sorry for myself, and given up expecting a knight on a white charger any moment.

Actually, it does feel like a time of change. I've been a student of one kind or another for almost exactly 13 years, and in that time I managed an Oxford first in Theology and a PhD. I'm about to draw finally an amicable but definite line under my marriage after two years separation. When I started studying, I was a single parent of 5 children: now I have just one teenager at home. I'm about to start a new stage in my career as a full time academic after years of part time, juggling and contract work.

I'm looking forward to it all with some fear: can I really pull this off? But I'm also excited and hopeful and more contented than I have been for a very long time. I want to document this period in my life as it happens, because I know for certain it will look different with hindsight. I was looking at my teenage diaries yesterday, and as I read them, I knew what it felt like to be 14 again. Bearing witness is so much more important than remembering. Women of my age don't usually explore this kind of stuff in public.