Bucket blip

Bear with me, dear reader, dull though this may seem at first sight.

The children's' writing and illustrating duo, Allan and Janet Ahlberg are legendary in their field. From Burglar Bill to the Jolly Postman, their work has delighted many a child and parent. Janet is no longer with us, but Allan's most recent picture book, The Goldilocks Variations, is illustrated by his daughter Jessica.

I stumbled across an article by Allan A the other day, and realised he'd written an autobiography, The Bucket, which I promptly ordered. It arrived today. I was tickled by the vintage school report inside the first few pages. Here's Allan, aged 8 1/2, being described as "Most inattentive and dreamy at times".

Hmmm. Wonder how many of us had reports of a similar nature? Didn't the teachers realise they had to try hard to make their subject interesting? That the fun stuff was happening outside the classroom (hence the window seat in my case) and that this is what they must compete against?
Listening is not the same as doing. Some of us need help to stay awake, something to do with our hands, if the topic is not of intrinsic interest.

The tenuous link (beyond school reports with the daydream word in them) with my life at present is that I've been writing reports, in much more detail than this, for children aged three and four years, and sticking photos of them in their files. This is what I do in my spare time. There is as much paperwork in the English Early Years/nursery/playgroup as there is in primary school. However, as I can't show you the reports, or even the photos I took over the course of the year, I've given you Allan's report instead. For "dreamy", read "imaginative".

In other news, I went to the pub for Jerk Chicken tonight. A pop up trailer in the car park serves a different kind of street food, with veggie options as well, every Friday night in July. Rodda, the landlord of our local community pub, is full of fabulous ideas for packing out the pub. I meant to take my camera along with me, but realised half way there that I'd forgotten it. Too bad, I told myself. Keep walking.

The blip I'd MOST like to have brought you today was the young American missionary, face shiny in the heat, standing outside the church of the Latter Day Saints, smart as Sunday in his clean white shirt. It was about 27 degrees in the street, and yet he was calling out to people as they passed. He called me "Miss". I nearly went straight over and asked for his picture. No-one has called me Miss for about twenty years (odd, because I'm not married).But I thought of my father, and his 'tour' of world religions, and the arguments it provoked in his various relationships, and the way he'd corner people he barely knew to discuss in detail some philosophical aspect of their faith that they'd never even considered. I thought of my father, a man I've only seen once since he left us when I was ten years old, and I just kept right on walking.