Thoughts on education

When I was small, I was brought up to be very left-wing. My grandfather held very strong union values; I went to a state comprehensive school, and did pretty well out of it. Thanks to a combination of good teaching and personal ambition, I achieved my goal of studying at Cambridge university. (I attended Churchill College, a modern building in brutalist brown brick. It amused me to read a recent feature in The Guardian regarding Cambridge admission procedures, which focused on Churchill but featured pictures of rather prettier edifices).

At Cambridge, I met privately educated students and sneered at them for being “bourgeois”. Amazingly, some of them remained friends with me. At the time, Cambridge was proud of its 50% state school ratio, which was nevertheless most unrepresentative of the nation as a whole.

Now we have a child of our own, I’m astonished at how differently I feel. Perhaps I’ve mellowed with age; or maybe (most probably) I’ve become more middle class myself as I’ve travelled along my chosen career path. It helps that as editor of Cornwall Today, I’ve visited some of Truro’s private schools, which advertise with the magazine.

With its sweeping views of the cathedral and city, Truro School was lovely, reminding me of Cambridge’s more ivy-clad colleges. Truro School students have access to a fabulous art collection, theatre and multitudinous sporting activities. The students I met were fine, upstanding citizens, destined for great things.

And I’ve been attending toddler group at Polwhele House on Truro’s outskirts. On my first day, I was given the full tour, along with a list of activities planned in the run-up to Christmas: working with home made play-dough, making treasure boxes then filling them during a winter welly walk, etc. All followed by a snack and a story or song. It’s a wonderful place to spend an afternoon.

For the first time, I find myself asking: if I could afford to send my daughter to such a school, would I really deny her the privilege of a good education, based purely on principle? It’s so much harder to stick to that view when I can see the inherent goodness before my very eyes.

Polwhele is a prep school taking pupils from age 3 to 13. I’d love to see Daughter in its uniform – having returned in a professional capacity to write a feature about the place (see February’s Cornwall Today, out next week), I’m convinced the educational goals of owners Richard and Rosemary White could only be of benefit to my daughter.

But there are many reasons, both practical and personal, why this might not happen. Could we afford to send Daughter to private school? What if we had a second child – could we afford the cost of two school fees? It would hardly be fair to deny one the privileges that the other has enjoyed.

And of course, it’s not simply my decision. OH is much more rigid about his state school ethics. Penair was good enough for him, and will be good enough for daughter. And he’s quite right. As highlighted in the September issue of Cornwall Today, Penair School has a fantastic reputation, and has been making great strides in food education thanks to a forward-thinking chef.

Education is a highly emotive subject, and our views are often coloured by our own experiences, be they good or bad. As my own were unerringly positive, I could hardly imagine sending Daughter anywhere other than state school – or so I thought.

I don’t remember my mother agonising over which school to send me to as a child. In those days, you went to the one nearest your home, which must have made things a whole lot easier. Today, such schools are over-subscribed. Some have religious ties, prompting the question: do I want my child to be led thus from such a young age?

And the state school system is far from perfect. Failing schools are often found in difficult areas, where teachers are working in challenging environments, tackling discipline issues as well as education needs. Small wonder parents play the postcode lottery, or have their children baptised. It might not be right, but what wouldn’t you do to help your child through life? (I know there are probably many answers to that question).

Principles are important. I still believe that everyone should have access to the same education opportunities, and not just those who can afford to pay for it. And just as there are boffins who rise from state schools, so I’m sure that public school produces its own share of not-so-intelligent specimens.

I see education as a basic human right, like health care. It still worries me when our systems are broken up in favour of competition. Is it naïve to hope that one system could make it better for everyone?

I hope this blog doesn’t come across as too overtly political, as that was far from my intention. And, as always, I should stress that the views contained in my blogs are my own, and not those of my employer. It’s simply an honest account of how the opinions I thought were deeply entrenched have changed unnoticed over the years. It’s surprising, confusing, yet only natural.

As a teenager with few responsibilities, I accepted the credos handed onto me by others, spouted them openly and scorned those who disagreed with me. I haven’t abandoned these ideas completely, but they have changed to fit the person I am today – a mum pushing 40, with different priorities. Judging by the comments I’ve had already (this is my second draft), I’m not alone.

I don’t pretend to know enough about the issue to have an expert or even informed view; but now that I have a child, it’s no longer black and white for me.

* Polwhele House schools all of Truro Cathedral’s boy choristers, and we were treated today to a fine display of their talents at the annual Cushion Concert sponsored by CT’s sister title, the West Briton.  Parents and children of all ages sat at the front and enjoyed a short performance of beautiful music including Franck’s Panis Angelicus, Lloyd Webber’s Pie Jesu, Rutter’s For the Beauty of the Earth (a personal favourite), and Timothy Winters – a poem by Cornishman Charles Causley set to music by fellow countryman Russell Pascoe.

It’s a brilliant idea. I love classical music, especially choral, but concerts aren’t the ideal environment for toddlers, to whom the concepts of being quiet and sitting still are anathema. So it was heartening to be surrounded by other parents, whose little treasures were chasing each other and climbing the pulpit while our daughter, bless her, slept through the entire thing. The music was beautiful, and I hope she had sweet dreams.

The Christmas Spirit

What do you call someone who is scared of Father Christmas? Claus-trophobic. Well, it made us laugh. Daughter had her first encounter with the red-suited one last week, and by all accounts it did not go well. Big man, huge beard and booming voice are not a good combination for a 17-month-old, and she wasn’t that impressed with the present either. FC gave her a “Pasty Peep” – that’s a soft toy pasty with arms, legs and little pink bows in her hair. Pixie and Penrose are characters in a series of books which aim to teach children to take care by the coast. I thought they were incredibly cute; Daughter viewed it as a major irritant and flung it over her shoulder in disdain.

I know it won’t be long before we are leaving mince pies and brandy out for Santa, and racing downstairs at 5am to check he’s been. In a few years’ time, we’ll be taking Christmas lists complete with Argos numbers, but for the time being, Daughter’s brain is uncontaminated by the greed and consumerism that all too often pervades the festive season.

As such, I’m not intending to spend vast amounts on her, as I’m only too aware that the things she finds most fascinating are the everyday objects that barely register with adults. A few months ago, it was my shoe laces, which were lovingly stretched and stroked. She’s since graduated to her own shoes and socks, which she tries, endearingly but without success, to put on by herself.

Loo rolls need to be hidden, lest they be shredded and strewn; pens, mobile phones, remote controls, all offer limitless entertainment possibilities. I’ve even considered buying Daughter her own purse, filled with fake debit and credit cards, but suspect my own will still be more appealing.

I can recommend fridge magnets for toddlers – we supplemented our collection with an alphabet train set from the Early Learning Centre. This keeps her occupied when I’m busy in the kitchen, and was used to great effect during a visit to the estate agent, where we commandeered a filing cabinet in a bid to divert attention from the irresistibly hazardous window display. She’s also very fond of stacking building blocks, and can spend hours turning the pages of board books and babbling to herself.

Food is her biggest obsession right now – what she’s eating, what we’re eating, what someone on the other side of the restaurant is eating. Nothing makes her happy than a sweet little tangerine. Left to her own devices, she’ll eat it like an apple, peel and all. So I’m going to go all Victorian, and stick one in the bottom of her stocking.

I love Christmas, and have already sung four concerts around Devon and Cornwall with Resonet Choir (check out our Facebook page, which will soon have a link to a recording of our concert at Plymouth’s Christ the King, with its divine acoustic). As for presents, I like to buy local where possible. Cornwall has so many fantastic crafts and foodstuffs, and I love poking aroundTruro’s Christmas markets and mouth-watering delis. Without giving away any secrets, there will be some Cornish booze under our tree, and a hamper for a lucky friend. It’s also a great way of discovering new products – I bought some medlar jelly for the Christmas table from Cornish Meadow Preserves (apparently it’s lovely with foie gras or a French cheese like Camembert).

But  occasionally, I find myself guilty of buying presents that would make me happy. When one friend showed an interest in my winter spiced tea, I bought her a tin – then she asked me to make her a “plain old Tetley” brew, and I realised I’d be better off going back to the drawing board and drinking the Whittards stuff myself.

It’s the same story with the Pasty Peep, and the RaggyTag I bought my daughter last Christmas, with fond memories of the quilt I used to cling to lovingly during my childhood. Apparently, I even used to stand under the washing line and rub its fringes, although it was never so comforting as when it was well used. Daughter has showed little interest in soft toys or the RaggyTag, which I intend to wash and give to the next available newborn.

The adults of our family have resorted to asking for presents – a term of yoga lessons, a DVD. My main present will be a pendant bearing Daughter’s fingerprint, made by my friend Suzi at Saved in Silver. You could say we should just keep our money and treat ourselves, but Christmas is a convenient excuse.

Whatever we find in our stockings, it’s being with friends and family that’s the most important thing, and I wish you all a very merry Christmas.

Pasty Peeps books and dolls are available from Waterstones Truro or at http://www.thecornishstore.com

Saved in Silver: http://www.savedinsilver.com/

Recipe for success

I recently read about a Bristol cafe that had incensed mums by charging corkage when they cracked open ready-made baby foods. On reading further, however, I found that said cafe was serving its own, freshly prepared organic baby food at £1.40 a portion. Now, given a choice between shop-bought processed food and home made fare, I’d happily choose the latter every time, and I wish more establishments  would follow this example. After all, they are preparing food in their kitchens; how hard can it be to whizz up a puree?

Babies are not often catered for on restaurant menus, which can make eating out difficult. My toddler is a wee girl; at 16 months, she weighs 20lbs (25^th centile) and measures 73cm (2^nd centile). I do hope this won’t mean she’ll be short and dumpy, but I won’t put her on the Atkins diet just yet. And I won’t be ordering from the kids’ menu either, as these are for strapping youngsters aged two and over, and most of it will get sent back to the kitchen bin. And I’m not always organised enough to have a Cow & Gate toddler meal immediately to hand.

I wrote about my cooking exploits a while back. When Daughter was a tiny baby, she slept a lot, so I ordered a veg box and came over all Delia. This now feels like a long time ago. Now I’m back at work, and managing a harum-scarum toddler in my time off, I’ve slipped back into ready meal/fish and chips territory, for myself and OH at least. It helps that we live next door to his parents, who are great cooks and are more than happy to feed extra mouths. Occasionally, after baby bedtime I delve into the River Cottage Baby and Toddler cook book – the spag bol is a good stand-by, and the banana and sultana bread made a spectacular debut this week. But that depends on how tired I am, and what’s on telly.

This all came up at a recent Cornwall Today meeting with my contacts at St Austell Brewery. Over a lovely lunch at The Wig and Pen in Truro (highly recommended – they even make their own crisps), we found ourselves discussing family friendly establishments. They are rightly proud of The Fort in Newquay, which has a great reputation in the town – another contact told me yesterday that her family practically lives there, thanks to its various play areas, harbour views and great menu.

The Fort landlords are more than happy for mums to take in their own baby food, and even provide microwaves so they can heat it up. That’s admirable; but, I asked, swapping my editor’s hat for my mummy version, had they considered putting baby options on the menu? A couple of days ago, I got an email – the suggestion had been passed on, considered, and they’ve done exactly that.

As of today, The Fort Inn will offer warmed pureed fresh vegetables at £1 per portion, on its specials board. What’s more, the Fort is currently running a kids eat free offer (Monday to Friday – one free child’s meal for each adult meal purchased) so the baby food offer applies for that.

Quite frankly, I’m cockahoop that something I proposed has been taken up. It’s only a small thing, but it makes me feel that I have a voice, and I’m telling anyone who’ll listen. It’s a victory for all mums who, like me, aren’t paragons of domesticity and organisation, and who like eating out with small people from time to time. And it’s a victory for the small people too – why should they be an afterthought?

So I’d better get down there and put my money where my mouth is. And so should you – maybe I’ll see you there? Watch this space for more.

Feline feelings

Strolling in Truro during my recent childcare disaster day (see Working things out), I spotted a sign for a pet healing day. Drawn into St Mary’s Mews, I discovered Justin Roseveare, a medium, clairvoyant and healer who works with his spirit guide, Jacob. I poked my head round the door and explained that we were about to move our cat to Truro, and that she wouldn’t be too happy about it. “She’ll be carrying a lot of grief – I can realign her chakras for her,” he replied. Believe me, I was almost tempted.

I last wrote about Polly a few days before giving birth, and she’s had a lot to put up with since. Once our substitute child, she has been (as predicted) well and truly supplanted in our affections by a tiny human interloper. I suppose this is a natural part of being a mum, but I can’t help but feel a massive twinge of guilt.

I wondered how the two of them would get along, and there have been highs and lows.

For the first few months, 3am feeds in the baby room were accompanied by Polly, who would watch imperiously from a lofty position (the top of the wardrobe being a particular favourite). She’s a black and white puss, and therefore ideal for our young daughter to spot with her early monochrome vision. Baby smiled a cheery hello; Polly sneered and turned away.

She had thawed a little by Christmas. Watching Carols at King’s by a roaring fire, I was stunned when Polly walked towards Daughter’s outstretched hand and rubbed her head against it, as if to say: “This is how to stroke me.”

She recently became a lap cat again, only to discover there was competition for space. Daughter was very excited, and has not yet learned to stroke gently, despite expert tuition. Polly was tolerant to a point, and remained remarkably restrained. Is she aware of the pecking order?

A more unpleasant development is that Polly has taken to doing her business around the house. We move the tray, a few days later she changes her spot. This is hardly ideal when we are trying to sell the house.

An attempt to tidy up ahead of one viewing made me realise just how untidy our home is. As Polly slept in the kitchen sink (??), I worked my way around the house, followed closely by a 15-month-old whirlwind intent on untidying everything I’d just tidied. I thought I’d found cat poo in a dark corner of the master bedroom, only to realise with relief that it was a geological souvenir half-inched from a European volcano (I forget which).

And now, we are considering moving Polly to Truro. Given that she hates travelling, this is as stressful a concept for us as for her. With this in mind, we took her to the vet for an overhaul. Blood test, urine test, flea treatment, worming tablets… to the tune of £160. Cornwall Today columnist Pete Cross told me I should be thankful: “I had to pay £260 once to pin a goose leg. It’s not as if you get any return – a goose can’t sit on your lap.”

The results were largely encouraging, in that Polly is as healthy as a 15-year-old cat can be. However, she is suffering from a low thyroid – the sign of chronic stress. MORE GUILT. She is also too old to be sedated for the journey, although Feliway was recommended to chillax her. I have lost count of how many people – even my gran, who professes to hate cats – have told me to put butter on her paws once in her new home. I regard this in the same light as the spirit medium – a large dose of cynicism, with just a smidgen of doubt. Should I…

In any case, poor Polly had such a rotten morning at the vets that we bottled out and left her in familiar surroundings for the time being. Watch this space.

Visions of youth

Year 10 Gifted and Talented students from Truro's Penair School visit the Cornwall Today offices

I met some of Cornwall’s inspiring young people this morning, via Cornwall Learning Education Business Partnership, a council initiative that prepares students for work by exposing them directly to business. I’ve spoken at several “Women in business” events, encouraging girls to follow their ambitions, regardless of their gender; and welcomed youngsters into the office, to answer carefully prepared questions. Today’s group was made up of four Gifted and Talented Year 10 students from Penair School in Truro.

It’s always heartening and refreshing to hear the ideas and opinions of minds that are undeveloped, and therefore have yet to become fettered and jaded by overwork. I am frequently surprised by the pertinence of their questions, and the maturity of their approach. Today’s bunch gave me a thorough grilling on all aspects of magazine publication, from editorial inclusion to commercial pressures and distribution strategies.

My contribution to such events hasn’t always been journalism related. On one occasion, I conducted mock interviews in Camborne. One young man was training to be an electrician, and while I tried hard to mask my ignorance of this field, it must have been obvious as he executed perfectly the “show and tell” technique that I’d learned in management training just days earlier.

I’ve also come to realise how many small things I’ve come to take for granted. One work experience candidate was a dedicated worker and produced sparkling copy, but had a handshake that could only be described as limp. Yet this is one of the first impressions any of us can make upon meeting a new professional acquaintance. As she left the office for the last time, my advice was: “Practise.” She did, on her father, and I can attest that her next handshake with me, while not a crusher, was a vast improvement.

A few years ago, I visited a tiny primary school on the Helford, to coach a class of nine-year-olds producing their own magazine. This was a worthwhile exercise for me, as I had to shed the industry jargon – for example, referring to the magazine as “the product” – that I had picked up as second nature, and to explain in simple terms such complex notions as context and defamation.

I also saw first hand the influence of modern technology on the future intake of journalists. Having decided to include jokes and recipes in their publication, they turned straight to the internet to Google them. When I gently pointed out the existence of copyright law (not to mention the importance of originality and imagination), they replied: “It’s all right, Miss, they won’t sue us – we’re only school kids.” Not quite the spirit, but such is the carefree attitude of youth.

At the other end of the scale, I’ve met students who have taken the first step into journalism by choosing a media course at University College Falmouth. Here, the Q&A has been more challenging, posing loaded questions on political hot potatoes like second home ownership. They then blog about you – all very 21st century. It’s quite disconcerting to see myself quoted in print, although I suppose it’s good to know how it feels, for a change.

I get many things out of doing “outreach” work. Firstly, I remember the journalists who patiently tolerated me at the Grimsby Telegraph when I was a cocky little upstart with dreams of a glittering career in Fleet Street. My confidence was matched only by my incompetence, and I atone for this now by doing my bit where I can, for the next generation.

But it also gives me a kick to see the promise in so many of these young people, who are only at the start of their career. To spot that natural ability gives me hope in my middle age that I’ve learned something over the years. Some of them have since gone on to do journalism courses and secure permanent jobs. I hope they’ll remember with fondness the advice I gave them, and who knows – perhaps, when the time comes, they might be the ones giving me a job.

A new start for Eden

Over the summer, I visited the Eden Project with the family to see No Fit State, a fantastic aerial circus performing in its lunar-like landscape.  We ate in the café between the biomes, and were both surprised and impressed to discover how much it had changed since our last visit.

Gone was the standard (albeit well-presented) fare of pasties and soup, to be replaced by bruschetta, frittata, focaccia wedges and Greek salads. The surroundings were pleasingly rustic, with wooden boards for plates, and mugs hanging from hooks above bench seating. Most amazing of all was the sense of trust placed in customers, who were invited to take food unsupervised, chow down and pay afterwards.

The refurbishment was the result of the disastrous floods which afflicted the St Austell area almost a year ago, in November 2010. Eden’s eating areas were destroyed, requiring a full-on revamp costing millions of pounds. But it also enabled Eden to reconsider how it caters for the million-plus visitors a year, and devise a whole new eating experience for this, its tenth anniversary year. 

Following a summer of tweaking fine details, the Bakery was opened officially on October 3 by managing director Gaynor Coley and senior sous chef Tony Trenerry, who sliced an outsized loaf at Eden’s first Harvest Festival.

Gaynor told me: “As we were coming up to our 10^th birthday, we’d been doing a lot of thinking about how we could improve the site. We’d wanted for a couple of years to take food from being something more than just part of your visit to Eden, to also being part of the reason you might choose to come here. We wanted visitors to know they could count on getting fresh, flavourful, seasonal, exciting food on site, every day of the year.”

She recalled how, on November 17, 2010, she found the cafe under four feet of water, and the support of volunteers got stuck in with the clean-up operation. “Opening the Bakery is very emotional. It’s almost an act of defiance. It proves that ordinary people working together can do exceptional things.”

Eden chefs worked closely with Clive Cobb of Town Mill Bakery in Lyme Regis to create the Bakery, which can cater for up to 600 people. It serves freshly-baked bread, croissants and pains au chocolat for breakfast; handmade pizza, bruschetta and salads for lunch; and cakes and sweet pastries in the afternoon.

The emphasis is on local, seasonal, organic or fairly-traded products, including Davidstow cheese, Cornish Sea Salt, Trewithen Dairy milk and cream, jam from Healey Cornish Cyder Farm and coffee from Helston-based coffee-makers Origin. During peak summer season, the Bakery is a 24-hour operation with bread being baked through the night.

“We have put food on that everyone said we could never serve to the numbers of people who come to Eden,” said Gaynor. “We wanted to prove them wrong, and while we have had growing pains while trialling new things over the summer, we’ve been overwhelmed by the response of visitors, who have thanked us for trying something with a bit of theatre.”

Of the décor, she said: “We wanted the effect to be rustic, but modern, and comfortable. We hope that people might share conversations with those sitting next to them, so the food becomes a talking point, not just a service like a ghastly motorway café.”

The Bakery has enabled Eden to employ four new people. Food is also available in the biomes: a small café has opened in the Mediterranean biome, and in the Humid Tropics biome, we sampled a baobab smoothie made using fruit grown on site. In the future, Gaynor hopes to launch a food and hospitality apprenticeship scheme to bring sit alongside Eden’s horticultural training provision.  

All told, the Bakery is a classic example of triumph in the face of adversity. “I would never wish a flood like that on anyone, and I know many people in the local community lost mementoes and treasures passed down through generations, which they can never get back,” says Gaynor. “But for Eden, the cloud had a silver lining – it gave us the courage to go for something new.”

For full details, go to www.edenproject.com

Working things out

So I’m back in the office, having joined the ranks of working mothers. Today, I reached a major milestone – my first childcare crisis. Wednesday is Granny day, but Granny was ill, and nursery was – horror – full to capacity. I was grounded. I spent a good couple of hours floundering around the flat, trying to come to terms with this change to my routine; then ringing to warn my appointments that we would be joined at lunch/coffee by a third, very small party (who, I’m glad to say, behaved tolerably well).

I’m not ashamed to say that, nearly three months on, it feels pretty darn good to be working again. I admit I entertained the idea of not going back – it seemed a very attractive idea when a full-time job was sapping all my energy. But I was talked out of this by my rather more practical partner, and am all the happier for it.

Just like before, I love my job. It helps that it’s a nice one, digging deep into the heart of the place where I live. At times, three days a week seems barely enough – I invariably reach Thursday evening thinking: “Already?” and hankering for more.

Not that I don’t relish the prospect each evening of coming home to a little person who looks thrilled to see me, puffing and panting her way in a high speed crawl to greet me at the door. It’s one of the best parts of my day. But while other mums tell me how much they miss their bubbas, I have to confess I’m too busy for that during the working day.

Should I feel guilty? One mummy friend recently told me it had taken five years of trying to fall pregnant; now she just wanted to be with her son, and had no plans to go back to work. Another wasn’t terribly satisfied with her job, and her husband earned enough to allow her to quit. It’s great that women have the choice these days, although of course, some have to work for financial reasons.

For me, a year’s maternity leave was the next best option. Other mums have taken different periods – nine months was a popular choice, no doubt because it’s the maximum paid leave. The final three months saw my payslips come back marked with zeroes, which was tough-going; I’m not used to going cap in hand to the man of the house.

Being back at work not only gives me an independent money stream, but also reminds me of who I was before I became a mother. I’m still that person, but my life is richer and my outlook less selfish. I knew having a baby would mean making sacrifices, but they have been immeasurably rewarded by the sheer joy of raising a little one.

Admittedly, the leisurely pace I adopted on mat leave has gone, as I try to squeeze every minute out of each day. I’ve certainly got my mojo back; I dash around on work days, and I’m a demon with the buggy, especially if I’ve been on the mochas.

The imminent departure of my job share partner offered the ideal opportunity to increase my hours – but much as I would love to do more, I know my work life balance is right just as it is. Full-time, I would no doubt be at my desk at 6pm each day, wishing I were at home.

As it is, the long weekend is a welcome indulgence, and one which enables me to travel around Cornwall, picking up stories to feed my insatiable desire to discover more about this fabulous county. On Monday, Daughter and I visited the Eden Project to celebrate the opening of its new restaurant; more on this coming very soon.