Author Archives: sophieblovett

Why anyone has to be better than Gove

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When I heard the news on the radio this morning I felt my spirit lighten: after all of the heartbreak he has caused as he dismantled our education system brick by brick, Gove was being removed as education secretary. Finally it appeared that teachers, parents, children and educationalists up and down the country were being listened to: we had roared ‘Gove must go’ until we were hoarse, and now our pleas had been answered.

Of course I am not naive enough to think that placating the victims of Gove’s reforms was Cameron’s motivation. I cannot allow myself to hope that now that he has been replaced the misguided direction of the Tory education policy will change significantly. I’m trying to avoid finding out too much about his successor, Nicky Morgan: I’d rather spend just one day in blissful ignorance. From what has seeped into my twitter feed I gather that her politics are at least as unsavoury as Gove’s, but then given her political allegiance that’s not entirely surprising.

The thing is it was not just his politics that made me so angry whenever Gove opened his mouth to say something about education. In fact the political stance he was taking was generally the least of my worries – after all, there were so many other things to be angry about.

There was the way he completely disregarded the professional opinion of people who had devoted their lives to education, presuming that his own experience of school could over-ride decades of evidence-based research.

Worse, there was his coining of the term ‘the blob’ for those who disagreed with his reforms – the sneering condescension with which he dismissed their concerns about the impact those reforms might have on young people.

There was the exploitation of those young people for photo opportunities to try to disguise the archaic nature of his mission with a vulgar attempt to get down with the kids.

The total failure to acknowledge the impact his race to lead the world might have on the mental health of young people and their teachers – along with his buddy Wilshaw he seemed determined to wear down all of the stakeholders in the education system, deciding that misery was a mark of success.

Another thing that made me furious was the way new policies appeared to have been scribbled on the back of a cigar box after one too many glasses of claret at a dinner party. Dropped on to breakfast tables with the Sunday papers they often bore more than a whiff of the public school education of his peers, and very rarely stood up to tight scrutiny in the cold light of day.

There was also, of course, the way he held up the private sector as the pinnacle of education, blithely ignoring all of the other factors that influenced the success of its alumni to wrongly presume that these fee-paying schools were fundamentally doing everything better than their state-funded equivalents, that within their ivy-clad walls and manicured lawns was the cure for all the maladies of the education system.

At the core of all this was the way Gove completely ignored the truth wherever it got in the way of his vision. He took this to ridiculous lengths – if rumours are to be believed he rewrote syllabi for English and History GCSEs, an absurd arrogance and grossly overstepping his role as education secretary.

There is so much more I could add to this list, but I can feel my blood beginning to boil just remembering all of the injustices served to our nation’s young people by that man. I am however finding great solace in the repetition of the phrase ‘there was’. He is now in the past, at least as far as our education system is concerned, and hopefully schools and teachers and students and everyone with their best interests at heart can begin the slow process of recovery from the damage he has done to their sense of worth.

There is much for Nicky Morgan to consider as she steps into this role, but there is one key thing I would ask of her: to listen. To recognise how much people care, and how much they know. To rebuild the bridges between the policy makers and the professionals, so that together we can work to carve out a better future for our children.

 

Arthur’s first haircut

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Yesterday afternoon, after much umming and ahhing and wondering how much longer we could get away with not doing it, we sat Arthur down for his first proper haircut. We first tackled the fringe about six months ago – I held him down (well, on the boob) and my mum did the best she could to get the hair out of his eyes. He really didn’t like it very much – he let out Samson-esque wails of disapproval as if we were actually cutting away his strength with those lovely blond locks – and even then it made me feel sick to my stomach.

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Yesterday was even worse. Well, for me anyway – fortunately Arthur handled the whole thing much better!

It’s hard to explain exactly why it was such a big deal. I suppose with any first haircut there’s a sense of a rite of passage, a transition from babyhood to boyhood that comes from altering the way nature intended him to look and complying to some extent with society’s expectations. For Arthur, his hair was a major part of his identity. He had a mass of dark hair when he was born, and rather than falling out as we were told to expect it just grew and grew, getting lighter and lighter with the passage of time and the bleaching rays of the sun. For a while now it’s been about 50-50 whether people who don’t know him will presume he’s a girl. That has mainly amused me rather than bothered me in any way, and it was almost becoming a reason not to cut his hair – especially when people told me I should. But then over this weekend, chilling with my parents and watching our little boy running around with those golden locks flowing behind him, Leigh and I decided it was time.

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I’m very grateful that after bringing up four kids my mum is fairly confident with a pair of scissors. I’m not sure I would have been able to let a stranger loose on my baby, and my hairdressing skills are as yet non-existent. We trawled the internet for inspiration – I wanted to keep something of the spirit of Arthur’s amazing hair, even if we were going to have to lose the length – then sat him in his highchair, took a collective deep breath, and began.

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He wasn’t totally convinced at first, though he soon settled into it.

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We kept him distracted with some music, and that worked pretty well – in between the headbanging anyway. Three boxes of raisins helped too…

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As did breaks for duddles on request.

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By the time his patience really began to wane mum had got most of the length off – it wasn’t perfect, but it was getting there.

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When he woke up this morning though there was an undeniable helmet-hair effect going on so we went in for another go. Mum was incredibly tolerant of my constant wincing and interference, and I think she did a pretty impressive job. I’m fairly sure we would have been thrown out of any hairdresser long before we got something I was happy with!

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It will no doubt take a bit of getting used to having a toddler with vaguely normal looking hair, but it had to happen sometime. I’m curious to see how it will grow out again, though I doubt we’ll let it get quite as long as before. After all it’s going to be so much easier to wash all the food out of it now it’s shorter…

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Word of the Week: Offline

Last weekend, my family held a party. Not just any little party: 400 people descended on my parents’ home in the South Hams, with about 200 of them camping. It was spectacularly fun, but as you can probably imagine it took just a little bit of organising. There were ten of us in the organising committee – my parents, me and Leigh, my three brothers and their partners. Emails have been flying between us for months to make sure everything was in place, but still as the weekend approached there was lots that had to be done on the ground.

We moved over there a few days before to help set up – in the house for a couple of days then migrating to our bell tent as other guests arrived. I had a few moments of rising panic as I realised I was never going to manage to keep up with the blog as well as everything else – internet access was sporadic, and there just wasn’t any spare time! And then I paused, took a breath, and reminded myself that this is my blog, and I’m writing on my terms. The world wouldn’t fall apart if I didn’t post for a while, and people wouldn’t hold it against me if I missed a few linkies.

So for a while I focused on just living life instead of documenting it (I only just managed to remember to take a few photos…) But now that things are getting back to normal I thought you might like to know what we’ve been up to!

We had a bit of a mission making sure the camping area was all set up and ready for people to arrive, and were glad for the sunshine as we traipsed up the hills and through the woodland, Arthur in the sling or running free.

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We set up our little camp down by the estuary, and Arthur got very excited about the new house we were building.

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He had so much fun playing in the open air – the weather was perfect, and a sense of magic began to pervade the air.

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We set up a kids activity tent (our priorities for camping parties are a little different than they used to be…) where everyone got throughly covered in glitter.

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By Saturday evening, we were well and truly ready to party. The tutus came out, the wings went on, and anticipation was building.

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Arthur seemed to love his costume, and was in his element with so many other people to play with!

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He was most excited when the music started though. In fact I think everyone was – my brother had managed to get the awesome Rubblebucket to come and party with us. Their set was amazing, and it was more than a little bit surreal watching the scene unfold in my parents’ courtyard.

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The festivities continued well into the night, and the next day we had Arthur’s naming ceremony, a delicious spread of Sri Lankan curry, and lots more chatting and playing and catching up.

Come Sunday evening, those of us who remained were exhausted but happy, and we had a lovely few hours chilling down by the tents.

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Arthur was truly in his element with so many people to talk to and play with, and it was truly lovely for us to have some quality time to hang out with friends we don’t get to see so often any more.

I think after six months of increasingly intense blogging with all its associated social media exploits I really needed a bit of a break where my only communication device was a walkie talkie. I have a feeling there might be a few more spells like that this summer too – after all, if real life wants to get in the way of the internet for a while I’d be churlish to stop it.

 

 The Reading Residence

Country Kids from Coombe Mill Family Farm Holidays Cornwall

I is for identity

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On Sunday morning, in the middle of a weekend-long party at my parents’ house, we held a little naming ceremony for Arthur. It wasn’t the focus of the weekend, but so many of our friends and family were there that it seemed like the perfect opportunity. This picture was taken at the end of the ceremony, just as people were beginning to dissipate. Arthur, who was brilliant throughout, had found a quiet spot to sit and strum his ukulele.

Everything was so hastily organised that it passed in a bit of a blur of adrenalin, but I was so glad we’d managed to pull it together. Both my and Leigh’s parents were there, all of our siblings, even my 96 year old Grampa. Lots of our extended family were there too, as well as friends from all stages of our lives. We made promises and read poems, joined by the words of the three people we have chosen as Oddparents to help us inspire our son and hold his hand on his journey. The ceremony closed with a group rendition of ‘All You Need is Love’ led by the awesome Rubblebucket. We sang it at our wedding, and it also happens to be one of Arthur’s favourite songs.

The whole occasion was a fantastic opportunity to reflect on the people and the values that are important to us, to celebrate all that Arthur is so far and to sow the seeds of his identity that will grow as he does and no doubt continue to surprise and amaze us every day.

We chose a humanist ceremony, conducted by a lovely local celebrant. Neither Leigh or I have ever been particularly religious, and humanism gives something positive to identify our values by rather than just a negation of the alternatives. We had a humanist wedding at my parents’ home too, and it seemed the perfect choice to formally welcome Arthur into the world.

That little courtyard was filled with so much love and laughter and inspiration that morning. All things that I hope will remain at the core of Arthur’s identity as he grows from a baby into a boy into a man.

 

Joining in with The Alphabet Photography Project over at PODcast.

H is for Hackney

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Whenever the sun peeps through the clouds overhead, people begin to spill out onto London Fields: with their bikes, their beer, their barbecues, heading for the lido or taking a moment to sit and rest after a night spent partying.

That was me once: staking out my tiny plot of grass, watching as the park filled with a teeming mass of life. I remember hula hooping in the sunset, leaning back on a lion to catch some rays; picking out a picnic in the Saturday market, laughing off a hangover with whoever happened to be passing by that day.

It’s hard to imagine any spot in Devon getting quite so crowded. When we first moved out of London I found its emptiness so exhilarating, and the thought of my friends jostling for their space in the sunshine made me feel slightly sad.

But there’s no doubting that Hackney is exhilarating too. I love the new world I’ve discovered out of London, but being back there reminds me of a whole other pace of life, one with a richness that it’s hard to capture out in the sticks.

H is for Hackney.

 

Joining in with The Alphabet Photography Project over at PODcast.

A boy in a tutu

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Next weekend, we’re going to a garden party with the theme of ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’. Now I need little excuse to dress up, especially if that dressing up can possibly involve tutus. But I’d been pondering a little what to do for Arthur… I was working generally around the idea of ‘woodland elf’, but was having trouble finding anything terribly inspiring. And then we went to my friend’s daughter’s first birthday party. And she was given a tutu. And it looked fabulous.

It got me thinking that maybe I was being a little narrow-minded in not including tutus as part of Arthur’s dressing up repertoire. I mean, tutus come in all sorts of styles and colours, and surely I could find one that would be fun for a little boy? Having trawled the internet though I could find nothing that wasn’t incredibly girly or incredibly expensive. But what I did find was a great little tutorial for no sew tutus – the perfect style for a woodland elf too rather than the more manicured ballerina-esque approach.

Using the tutorial as a guide I rustled up a tutu in no time at all. I’m fairly free-form in my approach to making things, but I’ve tried to break down how I did it here in case you feel the need for a tutu in your life!

Super easy tutus (for girls OR boys)

You will need:

Net in your choice of colour(s) – how much will depend on the size of the tutu, for Arthur’s I used about 4m off the roll

A length of elastic to fit round the waist

Basic sewing kit

Step One:

Cut the netting into strips – about 10 cm wide and twice the length you want the finished tutu to be. I used equal amounts of three colours (light green, dark green and brown) which I think looked pretty cool.

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Step Two: 

Cut a length of elastic to fit around the waist. You want it to be stretched quite tight as the process of making the tutu loosens it a bit. I sewed the ends of the elastic together, but you could knot it if you prefer.

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Step Three:

Find something to use as a frame for making the tutu: you want the elastic to be tight enough not to fall down but not stretched too much. I started off with the piano stool but that was actually a bit too big. The handle of Arthur’s walker was a much better size!

Taking each strip in turn, fold it in half, put the loop at the top over the elastic and then draw the two ends through and pull tight. I didn’t manage to get a very good photo of this process but hopefully you get the idea…

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Keep going all the way around the piece of elastic. The tighter the knots the more strips of net you’ll need but the fuller the tutu will be.

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Step Four:

Try the tutu on for size!

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Arthur was a little bit sceptical at first but as you can see from the picture at the top of the post it wasn’t long before he was loving it!

I made one for myself too, following exactly the same process but just sizing everything up. The upturned piano stool was perfect this time.

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So there you have it: two gorgeous tutus ready to party.

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Leigh was feeling left out by the time I was done so I’ll be making him one too this week. Watch this space to see how his turns out, and also for all of our finished costumes! Just a few more bits to do…

 


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Out on a limb

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I’ve never been one for doing the obvious. If there’s been something out there that tests my boundaries, that alters peoples’ preconceptions of me, then that’s the route I’ve always taken.

Tell me I’m shy? I’ll throw myself into acting. Tell me I’m not sporty? Well then I’ll take up trampolining. Tell me I’m sheltered? I’ll forge a career as a teacher in challenging comprehensive schools.

I haven’t done any of these things by halves either. Winning a place at drama school, competing in trampoline competitions at a national level, heading up an English department: all things that involved taking risks, going out on a limb, and pushing myself way outside my comfort zone.

When I was at university I came across a quote:

“Do one thing every day that scares you.”

It’s not a new idea, or a particularly original one, but it really resonated with me and how I wanted to live my life. I didn’t want to take the easy route, to do what was expected of me. I wanted to feel that frisson of excitement as I met new experiences head on: I wanted them to make me feel alive.

Looking back on it all now though I wonder if there wasn’t something else I was even more afraid of, something that held me back from doing what I might be truly good at, what I knew in my heart would make me happy.

Don’t get me wrong: I love all the different directions my life has taken me in so far. I honestly feel like I’ve stretched myself, achieved things I never would have thought possible. But I wonder whether doing the unexpected was a way of sidestepping an underlying fear of failing in the one thing I wanted to do but never did.

For as long as I can remember I have wanted to write. I lived and breathed stories as a child, would read beneath the covers until the early hours and tell my own tales to anyone who would listen. In my little village school in Llancarfan I spent a whole week working on my sequel to Ted Hughes’ ‘The Iron Man’. I was asked to write a story as part of my entrance exam for the school I moved to in Birmingham and wouldn’t stop – I spent the whole afternoon in thrall to the characters I had created.

But then not long after that the whisper of self-doubt began. I started to take risks, but wouldn’t go back to the thing that had always made me feel safe. I always said I would – I talked about wanting to be a writer, but was seemingly incapable of actually doing the one thing that could have made that wish come true.

In my twenties I tentatively penned poems and short stories, my confidence growing through nurturing young minds in the classroom. I had ideas for novels, but never moved beyond scrawls in a notebook. I told myself I didn’t have time. That one day I would do it, but that I wasn’t ready yet. I dreamed of moving out of the city, having a child, and finally being able to write.

And now suddenly I’m doing it. Every day. And it’s terrifying me, every single day. In the eighteen months since Arthur came along I’ve written two novels, and since January this year I’ve poured everything else into this blog. I don’t know if what I’m writing is any good, I don’t know if it will ever catch the imagination of a publisher and be read further afield than the small circle I’m reaching out to now, but I am writing.

It’s strange that the one thing I always felt I could do was the thing I never did. That I could pride myself on pushing myself to my limits but resisted the urge to write that was burning in my core. I am very glad that after all those years of wondering I am finally getting the words out of my head and on to paper – and I hope that in the not too distant future what feels like the ultimate risk will bear fruit.

Thank you to Sara at Mum Turned Mom for inspiring this post with her prompt: “Why not go out on a limb? That’s where the fruit is.” (Mark Twain)

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London Fields

Before we moved to Devon, I’d been in London for sixteen years. I lived, worked and studied all over the city, but it was when I moved to Hackney that I knew I’d found my London: the place in that sprawling metropolis that felt like home.

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We still have a flat in London Fields – one of my best friends lives there now, but it’s been ages since we’ve made it over to that part of town. So as part of our adventures last weekend we thought we’d go back to our old manor to take a stroll.

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We wandered through the park, down Broadway Market towards the canal. As an area it’s constantly changing – it has been for as long as I’ve known it – but its spirit remains the same. A vibrant mix of people and cultures, quirky shops and friendly bars, street art and ice cream vans and bicycles and community cricket.

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I know there are plenty of people who turn their noses up at its gentrification or self-conscious variety of cool, but there’s something about Hackney that has got under my skin. It was great to be back, to introduce Arthur to the world we were a part of before he came along. It was almost enough to make me want to move back to London. Almost.

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Country Kids from Coombe Mill Family Farm Holidays Cornwall