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worse than parroting what is common knowledge; poor or non-existent careers advice, class dichotomies, a rigid and outdated curriculum.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.

The Pursuit of Country Life: Review of The Country Living Spring Fair

Having lived and grown up in rural Norfolk all my life I know both the glories and the adversities of living in the countryside. I'm sure we’re all familiar with the myth of the urban/rural social divide. City dwellers dream of a pastoral portrait dotted with darling little rural retreats, whilst miles away farmers contentedly tend their livestock and their wives prepare home baked apple pies back home.

This generalisation is out-dated though. There may well be people who cherish the thought that there are pockets of William Blake’s “green and pleasant land” nestled away like long lost Egyptian treasure, biding its time until one intrepid adventurer unearths buried riches. But I think it’s pretty well established now that the countryside is blighted by a range of social issues just like anywhere else in England. I know, for example, the realities of maintaining a livelihood in the countryside, having practically grown up helping my Mum in her country workshop, English Country Garden Dresses. The same jolly farmer that one may imagine ambling alongside his animals will in fact happily mow you down with his Massey Ferguson if one toe encroaches off the un-farmed field boundary onto his land. The roguish gamekeeper is scandalously doing the rounds hunting down the vixens in the village; not the usual foxy rendezvous you expect him to be undertaking.

It’s not just that I know the real countryside experience; the landscape, people or culture. I know the ins and outs of what it takes to successfully live and work in a rural area. But if I can hone in on one real discrepancy in how the country life is represented, it is within the shady sphere of commercialisation. It always amuses me to see the how consumers are sold the rather one dimensional manifestation of the country lifestyle. Just as in the manner of a beautiful fruitcake, from the heart of London to the depths of Norfolk, the delicacies and idiosyncrasies of fine country fare are masked by a thick layer of frosted icing.

In thoughtful, time-honoured, and eternally misjudged fashion, my latest parcel from Mum arrived with two tickets to the annual Spring Country Living Fair (one for my older sister-strike two). What could be more commercially palatable than a slice of this utopian country lifestyle jamboree?

Abandoning my self-imposed exile (and exam revision) and complimentary ticket in hand, I hopped on the Northern Line from Borough to Angel, where the Country Living Fair is hosted in Islington every year at The Business Design Centre. Being of rather mercurial temperament, and more importantly a student, I was actually really looking forward to a free day out perusing all that’s pink and pretty, regardless of the fair’s estrangement from my reality of the countryside.

Greeted by the striking scalloped glass façade of The Business Design Centre and crowds of shoppers I had no reason to be suspicious. But as I walked through the entrance the scene was at first a disorientating, kaleidoscopic mirage of pastels. Pink and blue bunting fluttered from every junction, chiffon drapes cobwebbed the majestic glass roof and fringes of frilly xanthous daffodils lined every staircase.  It was exactly what I had envisioned. Nevertheless, free goody bag in hand I waltzed cheerfully into the sea of be-jaegered ladies who lunch.

I have to admit I had a good time. It wasn’t the representation of country life that I knew, but I didn’t expect it to be. It was a carnival of kitsch and colour; I felt like I had stepped into a feel-good romanticised episode of ‘Escape to The Country’ where all the model homes sport a colony of distressed style metal kitchen containers and plush white carpet devoid of children’s muddy footprints carpets every floor. A considerable amount of the exhibitors’ work was hand produced; but the goods which were imported were so obvious they might just have well have boasted neon light bulbs, pyrotechnics and backing dancers; namely rails of Boden-style separates and imitation Cath Kidston patent handbags.

Nevertheless, two hours, a restored print of ratty and mole from The Wind in the Willows and a raffia beach bag later, I happily, albeit slightly intoxicated by the pervasive clouds of lavender, strayed  upstairs and miraculously happened upon a tea stall. The Design Centre is the sort of place where seating for weary shoppers truly is a figment of the imagination, and if, like me, you decide to perch on the bottom step of the stairs to regain your strength, a security guard will close in in no time, who moves you on while smiling apologetically at passers-by as if he is disciplining a naughty schoolchild. The girl manning the tea urn bossily charged me four pounds for a cup of tea and a biscuit, which I decided to write off as totally forgivable in light of my fatigue.

As I sat, rather awkwardly on a mercilessly hard wooden garden chair, I found myself giggling at a stall in my line of view devoted to bespoke fabric bra straps; pegged fastidiously along a mini washing line. Next door, expensive, and presumably, ‘authentic’ looking country tunics hung jauntily on shiny hangers. It was so not what I, or my family, or anyone I know back home for that matter would gaily deck themselves in for cleaning out the chicken pens. But it did crystallise the essence of the day.

If you are questing for an idealistic souvenir of country life, look no further than the cornucopia at hand at The Country Living Fair. You will be reminded afresh of why we are so perennially fascinated with pursuing a taste of rural life. It is an ingenious sensual seduction, an escape from the monochromatic palette of modern life; work, bills, chores. Just like the realm of the written word, it allows you to find solace, if only for a few hours in a physical manifestation of charm and colour. 

There were undeniably one or two stalls which really had captured what country life means; what true English craftsmanship is all about.Those were the people who you could read in their faces what it was to sustain a truly faithful vision of English country living. I could recognise what it meant to them to design, produce, market and sell your own creations, and how much work had gone into breathing life into their ideas; not only that but maintaining that pulse. Keeping a rural business going is tough; part of maintaining its survival is marketing it an appetizing way to those unfamiliar with the realities of rural life and work. But I feel saddened that the true representation of the countryside is compromised for its commercial potential.

The compelling simulation of country living brightened my day. But the sensation was short-lived. Just as the glow of materialist contentment fades when exiting the bright lights of the city, as the never-ending Angel escalators snailed down to the bowels of the underground I was left yearning for the corporality that exists in my country life; the scent of meadow grasses, the ravens cawing on the chimney pots, the verdant forest canopy and the boughs of the oak trees welcoming me back home.

“If I should die, think only this of me…that there’s some corner of a foreign field that is forever England”- Siegfried Sassoon.