Years later, at college studying for a Higher National Diploma in Institutional Management (less exciting than it sounds), adages were dredged up from the predominantly female, middle-aged, 'spinster' staff, such as, 'Girls who sit on tables don't get married'. They were right. I have remained co-partnered, but through choice.
College was an old-fashioned experience. We weren't allowed to wear trousers and were addressed as 'Miss Riddell, Miss Thompson..' The institution pivoted on domestic science, instructing us on how to keep home and cook jolly puddings for our husbands, all somewhat surreal - and from the home-keeping aspect ( see October 27, 'long awaited emergence of domestic angel', and October 31, 'slob at heart' ....) spectacularly unsuccessful.
The acquired qualification, however, allowed me to progress to an abridged Diploma in Dietetics - more successful. Even though I no longer practise as a dietitian, I am still able to trot out unsolicited but worthy advice to loved ones about the potential dangers of liberal salt use and high energy drinks. And to advise others who do wish to benefit from the earnestly- taken pile of lecture notes.
As memories continue to surface, I recall the principal dietetics lecturer whose innovative teaching style involved writing everything longhand on the blackboard (gulp) which we were required to copy verbatim. The constant looking up and down was the final straw where my eyes were concerned and resulted in the need for my first prescription spectacles.
Then there was the supervisor for my dissertation for a Degree in Health Studies. Half way through this project I attended a meeting with her. As I took my first few steps along the carpet to her desk, she shook her head and said 'This won't do'. I panicked, thinking I was doomed, my dissertation far below standard and I could say goodbye to my honours degree, on which, I believed, my future - job wise - could depend. On further unpacking, all she meant was that I wasn't writing in academic mode. Hardly surprising, as in my spare time I was working on a Mills & Boon romantic novel. All I needed to do, in fact, to bring my dissertation up to passable level, was swap 'touchy feely' verbs for bolder, unprevaricating ones, such as 'demonstrate', 'prove' etc. etc. Easily done, but I still remember my thudding heart at her gloomy words.
And as for the personnel involved in the recently-completed Masters in Creative Writing course, well, that whole experience screams out for a three act drama. With uncharacteristic restraint, I am holding back from relaying the story, to allow some distance. Though I doubt that the objectivity and detachment of time will significantly affect its telling. And the telling will finally allow closure. Closure - quel mot magnifique...
My studying days are over, I believe. Four qualifications are more than enough. Perhaps I will participate in the odd week-long course for writers (Arvon courses come highly recommended), but nothing more onerous. And of course I'll continue to teach myself the craft of writing from technical books. And now I have a mentor with whom I had a constructive and motivating first meeting last week.
My son is at the beginning of his 'academic' era. I hope he'll find the balance. Being cynical, one could argue that the push for children to do well at school is about enabling them to go to university, which is about enabling them to find a good job, which is about enabling them to afford a decent lifestyle, and perhaps, about having an adequate pension at the end of the day. I often think, though, that we are in danger of perpetually thinking ahead too much and that living in the present is an overlooked philosophy. This is especially true in the knowledge that killer diseases can strike us down in our forties and banking incompetence can rob us financially.
Skeptically yours
Jane
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