We Don't Need No Education

I feel that I could lecture indefinitely on the injustices of the education system in England if I really got going. And Student Finance for that matter. I also can't think of anything worse than parroting what is common knowledge; poor or non-existent careers advice, class dichotomies, a rigid and outdated curriculum.

It’s the time of year when school children, and in particular, college students stress about impending examinations. Phrases such as “your whole life depends on these grades” are casually tossed into conversation, amidst the angst and nerves permeating revision classes. There is also, annoyingly, an abundance of self-righteous articles bestowing advice to worried parents detailing how they should help their teenagers prepare.

At high school I was an undeniable geek. I worked hard and would hope my head is filled with things other than fanciful daydreams; but I also took the teachers’ word as inevitably possessing some grain of truth and rationality, given their authority.
So upon the arrival of A-levels, it is hoped that you have developed a strong independent work ethic. Yet I feel that too many students are afraid to embrace independent thought and define their own individuality for fear of being perceived as rebelling against the system. Furthermore, I think the schooling system actively supresses individuality and creativity.

I used to spend three hours a day on the bus travelling to and from a college further along the Norfolk coastline than I was technically permitted to attend. It was a great college with a true bohemian vibe. Half my day would be spent beavering on the sewing machines in the textiles workshop; the afternoons shimmered by in the summer heat as I hung out of the bay windows of my English classroom reading the classics. More than often I would simply chat to my fantastically unconventional English teacher, who would shake his head passionately and urge me to rise against the establishment, silver earrings jangling and huge feet kitted in Doc Martins with purple laces. 

Of course it wasn't that rosy. My attendance averaged about fifty per cent. I had daily altercations with my tutor, head of year, and in particular, my scary history teacher (there’s always one). Why? Because I refused to be in college when I could work so much more efficiently on my own. If I wasn’t sat at my desk at home, I’d most definitely be found skiving lessons sat in the library or out on the lawn. I really do object to time-wasting in educational institutions. Of course it’s not acceptable to routinely skive lessons. But if you feel that you can utilise and manage your time more productively than people organising it for you, I do wish that teenagers would do it.

I was told that I was going to fail. I would never get a university place. My head of year begged me not to take four A-levels. And I was blissfully oblivious to insults. 

The day one collect's A-level results is a rite of passage; a defining moment in a young person’s life that heralds your adventures into the big, wide world. My English Literature teacher once said to me that “There’s nothing that can match the feeling of opening your A-level results, getting what you wanted and knowing that you worked for it”. Forever late, I was the last person in the year to collect them. And I’ve never been more proud than when I stood in the shade of the beech tree on the tennis lawns, on a baking August afternoon and saw, in tiny black print, in a uniform column, four A-stars.

Now I’m in my first year at university, all sense of order really has flown away just like those flighty teenage years; as to be expected. I work until six or seven o’clock in the morning and sleep until the afternoon. The other day my Mum rang and bossily insisted I listen back to a Radio Four documentary about exam advice. Before I could interject and say that a) I don’t need any advice and b) I loathe self-righteous, self-help gurus; in classic, airy lucidity, Mum declared:

“This silly woman rang in worrying that her daughter studied until eleven at night. Well she’s in for a reality shock! I mean look at you working ‘till the early hours. I hope she gets used to seeing her daughter with huge black bags under her eyes. They just don’t live in the real world do they chrissie?!”

Anyway. What I really mean to say is that you should stand by your work patterns; nobody can tell you what is best for you. Don't let others inhibit your sense of 'self' and ability to succeed.

I hope I will be able to write a blog post sometime soon, though I have two very difficult exams to revise (I mean start learning stuff) for in a couple of weeks.  This week I inconveniently decided to get conjunctivitis which meant I couldn’t really see for a few days, let alone work. On the plus side, following in the vein of free-spirited academic timetabling, I got to dance with my university ‘FUSION’ Dance Troupe once more at a charity gala; our last performance of the academic year. Even though my mother threatened to come up to London personally and pin me down in bed in the hope of a speedy recovery. It's times like these I can just hear her intoning “You can’t tell them at that age”.

The blog title is taken from Pink Floyd’s classic hit ‘Another Brick In The Wall’ from the album ‘The Wall’ which protests against the rigidity of British schooling.

Beauty School Dropout

Hardly a day passes when I don't read something related to the struggle of the modern day woman to balance her lifestyle. Today, hidden in some dusty corner on an old USB, I came across a piece I wrote some time ago deliberating this quandary. Whilst I am not a wife, or a mother, I have witnessed the problems that women face nowadays, and thought I would share this piece, just as a humorous reminder that  whilst we all possess many admirable, individual qualities, we don't need to try and be superhuman. Speaking as (I fear) an eternally unorganised young lady who finds it problematic balancing essays and blog writing, I have huge admiration for the working woman. I hope you enjoy the piece!

The days when sugar-coated fifties’ housewives seemed content to bathe in the joys of domestic proficiency and weekly Tupperware parties now seems a comical remnant in the historical tapestry of the female lifestyle. Society is happy to believe they perished in the wilderness of time long ago, alongside hostess trolleys and conical bras.

 But are women of the modern day really significantly liberated than from times past? Are we unfairly bridled with too much responsibility? We can laugh at the so-called captivity of the fifties’ lady bridled by a floral pinny but are we really the free spirits we humour ourselves to be? More importantly, what is the role of the modern woman?

Role One: Career Woman

Revolutionary though it may have been for a domestic deity of the fifties to sample the newfound follies of secretarial work, modern women are all too aware of the pressures in society of holding down a respectable profession. The Intelligent Woman’s Guide To Good Taste, by Susan Chitty, published in 1958 purports that it is “perfectly respectable to be an unskilled worker”, and startingly that the “least important thing about a job is being good at it.”

Sadly, this wishful thinking is rendered well and truly redundant in a world where qualifications, company training courses, and a comprehensive knowledge of technical jargon are all adversities we must overcome in the minefield that is being a professional. Women are all too aware of the impending electric bill and the new school clothes you have to buy the kids weekly as their growth spurts pull your purse strings.

But household expenses and children aren’t the only reason careers seem to be a big priority for the modern woman. We take pride in the fact that we are intellectual equals to men, and can match them with our degrees as well as with our pay packets. We don’t want to be confined to the kitchen where the extent of our mental capacity stretches to perfecting ‘coq au vin’. Climbing the career ladder through hard work and proficiency in our jobs equates to a huge sense of personal fulfilment and satisfaction, something that in my opinion, reaching competence in cuisine just can’t rival.

Role Two: Doting Wife

One choice phrase from “Housekeeping Monthly” in 1955 states that women should “Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready, on time for his return”.

Nowadays the absurdity of living in a shadow of subservience to men and cooking soufflés make us cackle at the fifties housewife life. Some champion the antics of the spontaneous Elizabeth Bennet in Pride and Prejudice, whom Austen created to challenge conventions of feminity and sexual inequality, influenced of course, by the renowned Mary Wollstonecraft. But back in the day, what to cook for their spouse’s evening meal was a genuine concern for most women.

Even though the modern day wife may be up to her nylon clad-neck in the stresses of work and her unruly brood of kids, some women might like to fulfil their husband’s hopes of looking perfectly groomed, cooking a meal from scratch and vacuuming a little from time to time. Sometimes it is a fight to fit those things into our quotidian lives.

But reality dictates that that spreadsheets and parents evenings take priority over trying a little fifties wifely finesse. One could argue that women are repressed as much in the

modern day by the pressure to be a super spouse, hold down a high-powered career and nurture the children as we were in the fifties.

 There’s nothing wrong with taking pleasure in baking a resplendent blancmange for our husband’s if that’s what takes our fancy. Similarly, bequeathing the domestic chores over to our husband is fine if we want to mow the lawn. What women are witnessing in the modern day is a disproportionate amount of responsibilities being shouldered because of the culture of the “super-mum”. If duties are shared equally between husband and wife, even I might be tempted in the future to embrace my inner domestic goddess and take flight with the feather duster.

I cannot say that I would don a prom dress and pearls though. Regretfully, my old faithful jogging bottoms and pineapple style ponytail style cannot compete with the polish and grace of the fifties lady. I am a self-confessed Beauty School Dropout; when at home, at least.

Role Three: Super Mum

Many a time I’ve witnessed a beleaguered mother’s anguish as she informs the other mothers’ at the school gates that her multiple talents do not encompass whipping up an angel costume for the nativity play with one night’s notice.

In between juggling a career and expectations of performing household chores, women also have to nurture their offspring so as to ensure they become well educated, responsible, rounded citizens.

Simple? Not so. My mother had five children and I can honestly say I have no idea how she had time to check whether we had our P.E kits, packed lunches and our slip of parental consent saying we could go on Friday’s trip to the activity centre; let alone run her own business at the same time.

The 1950’s “Housekeeping Monthly” has an epigrammatically short reference to one’s wide-eyed brood, in the context of appeasing The Husband. “Prepare the children. Take a few minutes to wash the children’s hands and face, comb their hair, and if necessary, change their clothes. They are little treasures and he would like to see them playing the part”.

And finally…That elusive work/life balance

So we’ve established that the squeaky clean fifties housewife belongs to a bygone era. But before we all lose ourselves in a celebration of empowered femininity, the modern women should take a step back and review her life before we all fall prey to the womanly neologisms that society has spawned. Essentially, it doesn’t really matter what principles we adopt in our lifestyles. But we also must remind ourselves (and others) that sadly, women do not spontaneously mutate into a tentacled power house every time there’s a spot of multi-tasking to be done. It’s all about equality. In my opinion, relationships should be based on mutual support and compromise for both sexes if those mercurial temptresses, sanity and reality, condescend to stay around.