First of all, I must apologise for my pathetic efforts at bloghopping this past week. Many thanks to those of you who visited this 'ere blog without the courtesy of a reciprocal visit from me. I did have a couple of goes and got round a dozen or so blogs, but things is bad here.
I have The Cough still, which is making me feel extremely tired and driving me to my bed by half nine each night. This despite the fact that I've got a 4000 word essay to finish by next Thursday and I'm not quite sure what it's going to be about yet. Eeek. And I have an interview tomorrow for which I'm about to prepare, and another one next week. And another one the week after. Double eek.
However, I will try to do better this week. And here is what's on my desk, because my camera is working again, yay.
I have to tell you the story of this.
Last week we trotted along to our Concepts in Education session at uni, which was about our first mini-assignment this term. We already knew it was a 'five-picture story', and that this would involve coming up with visual representations of five stories taken from our experiences of education. This is the first one, which I had already shared in a previous session. And I'll share it again in a minute, but first let me tell you the exciting bit.
Our lecturer had invited along a guy who works at uni, who decided three years ago that Facebook shouldn't be his world, and so closed his account and instead invited people to send him, or bring him in person, postcards. Yes - postcards. So our lecturer thought it would be an excellent idea to ask us to make postcards for the assignment. I was bouncing up and down with excitement.....
And here is the story.
When I was about five years old, we used to have a tradition at my primary school of holding a Daffodil Competition each year. The bulbs would be ordered, and when they turned up we'd take them home and grow them before bringing them back in for a grand showing and the chance of a certificate.
This particular year, my Mum gave me my Daffodil Bulb money and off I went to school, clutching it in my hot little hand...Only I forgot I had it until after the register had been called, and when I offered it to the teacher she couldn't make a note of the fact that I had brought it in. So what she did was - she put it in her pocket. Of course the intention was to make a note in the register later, but obviously she never did, because when the Daffodil Bulbs turned up several weeks later, mine wasn't there.
I asked where mine was, and was told that I hadn't paid for one. But I did, I said, I brought the money in. It's not in the register, said the teacher. No, I said (because I am possessed of an excellent memory) you put it in your pocket for later.
Well, that was the point at which it all kicked off. By saying that the teacher had put the money in her pocket, I had apparently accused her of stealing it. She went to the head teacher, who rang my Mum, who told her that I had been given the money. But they refused to believe my story about the teacher putting it in her pocket. I can still see her now, standing there in her long beige cardigan and her red kilt, putting the bloody coins in her pocket.
I was taken into the head teacher's study and grilled for what felt like about a year. The head teacher, who was a horrible, pointy, wizened monkey-faced woman with ludicrously dyed black hair, asked me what I had done with the money. I kept saying that I'd given it to the teacher, and they didn't like that, which made me cry. Instead of accepting what I said, the head teacher and her two 'helpers', who were big well-built middle-aged matrons, loomed over me repeatedly asking what I'd done with it. I kept saying I'd given it to the teacher, and they insisted that I was lying. Eventually they told me that I must have spent it in the tuck shop. I said that I hadn't. But they kept on and on at me, and said that until I admitted to spending it in the tuck shop, they wouldn't let me go.
I don't know how I'd fare under interrogation should I ever be taken in by the CIA, but I tried for a long time to tell the truth. In the end, however, it was easiest to just lie and say I'd spent it in the tuck shop. I thought that this would be the end of it, but no. Next they had to get me to say what I'd spent it on. To me this seemed ridiculous, since I knew that I hadn't spent it in the tuck shop at all. We were constantly being told not to lie, and now I was being forced to tell a lie on top of a lie. This made me cry even more, but they wouldn't let up. After about another year I gave in and 'admitted' to spending the money on peanuts.
So they let me go.
But that wasn't the end of it. Because I had given in to them and made up a lie about spending the money in the tuck shop, these women decided to make a big fuss about my original 'lie' - that I'd given the money to the teacher. So I became A Liar. Every opportunity they had, these women would make comments about me lying - always in front of other people. Once my tongue swelled up - I have no idea why - and I remember standing in the line to go to lunch while the two 'helpers' had a loud and lengthy conversation about What Happens To Children Who Tell Lies. That was a field day for them.
It doesn't end there, either. I won't tell you the Saxophone story, because I'm probably beginning to sound like some deranged paranoic. Suffice to say that years later it suddenly dawned on me that She Is A Liar had been written all over my school file and sent with me to Secondary School. I couldn't work out why my teacher had a hissy fit one day when I told her what had happened to my saxophone. It made no sense. But then I realised - and lots of other things fell into place.
So. I hate that monkey-faced woman and her smug, self-satisfied spiteful 'helpers'. And that is why the incident is one of my five stories. And why the postcard looks like it does.
So there, lol.
Now, if that hasn't completely traumatised you, have a hop over to Julia's blog for more desk-related wonders. And happy WOYWW :D
