A camp in the woods

Dropped eldest son at scout camp this afternoon. The Explorer section, aged 15-28, were trying to work out where to pitch the tents and how they were going to manage to cook as no-one had organised the camping gas needed for the cookers. Be prepared, as someone once said. Happy camping. There's much to be said for the comforts of home. Collecting him on Saturday lunchtime, hope he'll have had some hot food by then.

Marketing Heaven

Called into a cafe in Ripon for lunch and noticed a sign in the window advertising a job vacancy. Half through my food, a young woman came in to inquire about the work. They explained to her that she wouldn't be working in the cafe itself, but that the job involved walking around with a board and handing out fliers. Marketing of a sort, but I don't think the putative applicant was that impressed by the terms and conditions...

Homage to Finkle Street

The trip to Ripon Library culminated in the discovery of my great grandfather's obituary, as well as that of his son, my great uncle, who died in WWI. Also discovered that three great aunts all 'succumbed to pneumonia on attaining womanhood' (1937 speak for died aged 19, 23 and 25, so heartbreakingly young). Now hope to learn more about their brother who emigrated to Australia three years after the end of WWI. At 80, my great granddad was 'Ripon's oldest hairdresser' when he died - says so in the title to his obituary, left me feeling rather proud of the old boy. He worked in his own shop, at 7 Finkle Street, top of the Market Square - must have done a roaring trade on market day, with various of his sons, for just over 44 years. That's a lot of snipping.  Bet he also did a nice line in 'something for the weekend, sir?' sales.

Mental health reporting - a perfect storm brewing?

As we struggle to come to terms with the loss of the Germanwings flight, news media focused on the mental health of the co-pilot, the Association of Teachers and Lecturers (ATL) warns of a worrying rise in depression and anxiety among school pupils. Worryingly, however, tabloids are reverting to their previous practice of stigmatising mental health issues. Given the increase in depression and other mental health conditions among the general population, this risks trivialising - or even victimising - a large number of people and raises the danger that some will fail to seek help for fear of losing jobs or endangering personal relationships, causing untold misery for themselves, their families, friends and loved ones.

A one-to-one ramble with the Ramblers

After a gap of several years, I decided to utilise the £44.00 a year I pay for joint membership of the Ramblers and go on a guided walk in the south Pennine hills. The walk had an inauspicious start, mainly because I was the only punter, so the guided walk consisted of myself and the leader. We set off at a quick pace and were soon climbing briskly across open moorland, but the guide was rather apologetic because part of the route might not be navigable, which would add nearly a mile to the advertised distance. I told him I had no problem with that, whereupon he informed me that changes to the advertised route or distance to be covered could be difficult: 'there's usually someone with a GPS, and there have been complaints'. This rather took me aback; leaders don't get paid for the difficult task of taking groups, or even single walkers out. In my case, being somewhat directionally-challenged, being able to walk in open country, with navigation left to someone who knows the way is the main attraction of Ramblers' membership. Surely, if you have GP you could navigate your own route, rather than use it to keep a constant check on the volunteer leader. We covered the route in quick time and the weather remained dry and sunny throughout. The only thing that spoiled the walk was a suggestion that I might consider leading walks - 'everyone has a walk in them, you should think about it' counselled my personal guide; leaving me to contemplate the utter chaos that would ensue if I should ever be put in charge of a ramble, with or without GPS.

Sanctions and church roof repairs

Jeremy Hardy joked that Osborne's Budget announcement of a £40 million Church Roof Repair Fund would at least mean that you'd be dry while queuing for the food bank. Given the Tory party's antipathy towards the current Anglican Church leadership's comments on poverty and social injustice, the fund smacks more of a desire to hold-on to a golden age that probably only existed in the era of the 'Tory Party at Prayer' gibe. Certainly, Osborne should find any attempt to buy favour receives short-shrift from those Church stalwarts who either volunteer at food banks or make regular cash or food donations to allow the vital work to continue. Getting a food parcel ready for someone who's turned up after being sanctioned by the DWP is enough to put anyone off voting Tory for life. And its good to see the Methodists aligning themselves very publicly with those who have been treated in this way by the present Coalition Government.

The problem with bagels

Thirteen-year-old youngest son decided that a toasted bagel spread with strawberry jam was his choice of pre-bed snack for a Friday night. After cutting and toasting, he then placed the bagel on the kitchen worktop (sans plate) before spreading with margarine and jam, he then announced that the one thing he didn't like about bagels was the hole. Having spent what seems like an age cleaning up hardened globules of jam, neither do I.

Farage - an uneasy lesson from history

Interesting to hear Nigel Farage saying he wants to live in a country that is 'at ease with itself'. Leaving aside how this can occur while he and his minions rush around telling tales of fearsome foreigners, the words reminded me of another nationalist politician who was desperate to keep on the right side of the electorate. In his 1943 St Patrick's Day speech, Irish Taoiseach Eamon De Valera used the phrase to describe the Ireland he wanted to see. The speech, which celebrated the 50th anniversary of the Gaelic League, is also famous for his wanting to see 'comely maidens' taking part in spontaneous open-air dancing displays and no-one 'worth more than fifty pounds a year'. Within a few months of re-election, however, De Valera's Fianna Fail party had banned all unlicensed acts of public entertainment, although he never did quite manage to legislate against people earning too much money. At ease with ourselves, Mr Farage? Not with the likes of you around. Now, who fancies a quick dance down at the crossroads? Some Romanian folk dance perhaps, or maybe a touch of the Gay Gordons? I'm sure the UKIPpers will join in eventually.

Leeds and its squares

Leeds, my home town, likes squares. There's City Square, the proud home of the Black Prince's statue (though what connection he had with the place is anyone's guess), and his surrounding bevy of semi-clad nymphs. In 2000, the city created Millenium Square in front of the Portland Stone edifice of the Civic Hall. It was here that Nelson Mandela spoke when he visited the city to thank it for supporting him over the years and every Christmas features a German market, where dodgy tasting gluwein can be enjoyed/endured while looking for overpriced wooden toys and other nicknacks from the land of lager and lederhosen. Further back in the 1970s, the city fathers decided to honour the twin city of Dortmund with a square. Rather more downmarket this time, with a socialist-realism-ish statute of an overweight brewer. Now, it's just been announced that there's to be another square, Tower Square, just off Wellington Street this time, on the site of a former rail marshalling yard and subsequent home to a failed retail park. But Leeds hasn't got any squares named after its famous sons or daughters - be they Leeds-born or adopted, and I think the city planners should look to them before naming any new squares. Two candidates come to mind, Jane Tomlinson, the indefatigable charity endurance athlete who raised so much money for cancer research before her untimely death. OK, so she's got a race named after her already, but a square is a more permanent reminder. Or why not Moshe Osinsky (Sir Montague Burton), who founded his clothing empire in the city after arriving in England from Lithuania. In addition to his business success, he also went on to endow professorial chairs in industrial relations and international law at several leading British universities. His factory at Hudson Road, once the city's largest employer, is long gone, and apparently the only memorial to him in his adopted home is an out-of-town university hall of residence. Burton Square would do nicely.

An exciting employment opportunity, or an over-excited employee?

It's high time the burgeoning employment agency sector was subject to regulation and statutory control, especially in the education sector. I was contacted, cold-called to be precise, the other day by an agency that said it had seen my CV, presumably on another recruitment agency website, as I hadn't even heard of them previously, and wondered if I could send them an up-to-date version. Where, I asked, was the job; not an unreasonable question. While, however, my CV was enthusiastically received - 'excellent' was the feedback from the 'consultant', my request was politely deflected - she 'was not at liberty' to discuss the actual school. Neither, as it turned out, was she able to be more enlightening on the number of hours or rate of pay - pretty much the most basic information you would expect - particularly in view of the long list of personal details they wanted from me. A second request for further information was met with the response that my previously 'excellent' CV was now sadly missing essential details that the anonymous school deemed to be essential. I demurred at this point, only to receive a rather embarrassing email from my current line manager, just letting me know he'd received a reference request. Now, I work part-time, and he has provided references previously - but only after I've given my permission for him to be approached. Here, we had a bunch of incompetents and shysters, who couldn't or wouldn't provide me with even the most basic details of the job, taking the decision to approach at least one of my referees to ask for a reference. After complaining to the agency, I was then told the fault was that of an 'over-exuberant' employee. Bad workmen and tools came to mind when I read it. I think the fault is rather over-caffeined, commission-driven cowboys let loose in a sector of which they have little real knowledge or understanding.

A pork pie, but not as we know it...

When my mate Keith left school he got a job putting the glaze on pork pies for a now defunct bakery in Leeds. The job was only a stopgap - he was waiting to join the Royal Artillery, which was probably just as well, because the supply of pork pies would have presented a serious threat to health, had he not answered the call of Queen and country. Fast forward more years than I care to remember, and yesterday I was tempted by a growler in Morrison's. The only thing this dessicated article had in common with those of rose-tinted commestible memory was pork and pastry: gone was the glorious glaze and the glutinous jelly. All that remained was a dried hulk of pastry and unnaturally pink-dyed pork. Morrison's should hold their corporate head in shame. Keith's erstwhile employer might have gone the way of all flesh (hastened, it must be said, by a particularly nasty salmonella outbreak), but their product is not forgotten - certainly not after yesterday's sorry episode.

Spent a couple of days in the Lake District

Spent being the operative word, particularly when it comes to parking. The national park authority has been busy since my last visit, installing number plate recognition gizmos at its pay and display car parks Waterhead Car Park, Ambleside Charges have also increased, with £2.00 being the minimum stay and £8.00 for a full day stay. Payment can be made by cash or card, but no change is given for cash, so the authority turns a nice little profit either way. Just what happens if you turn into a full car park and then leave after only a few moments is not spelled out on the signage. Could this be met with a £2.00 min charge and £60.00 fine for non-payment within 48 hours? Constantly upping the charges levied on visitors, in the supposed name of improving the national park - and this includes 20p to visit the loo - risks alienating the very people the authority relies on for its income. A sense of proportion is needed, but seems to be sadly lacking at the present time.

Year of the sheep at the Magic Wok

An evening in Windermere after a day walking in the Grizedale Forest and dinner at the Magic Wok. Decor a bit dated, but food and service were great. Walk from Ambleside tomorrow. More Lakeland magic on the way.

Bigging up those 'traditional values' - selling fee-paying schools

The local fee-paying grammar must be feeling the pinch - they've taken to sending out leaflets, advertising the 'benefits' of sending children to a school first established in 1648 that 'upholds traditional values'. What the marketing hype doesn't say is that for most of the last century the school was LEA controlled - only reverting to independent, fee-paying status after reorganisation in 1974 (a craftily worded clause in the charter allowed to leave the LEA free of charge). Exploiting loopholes - traditional enough, I suppose. As is putting fear into middle class and aspiring middle class families that their child will do better in smaller classes, where, as the blurb has it 'pupils flourish academically in a happy and stimulating environment'. Also equips them with the sharp elbows the middle class need to stay ahead - mean, lean and ready to fight for whatever the Daily Mail tells them is important...

Better times for Little Germany

Bradford seems to have a talent for turning itself into a wasteland. The inner-most part of the city centre has been a building site for nearly a decade - due to the long-delayed completion of the Broadway development, which was intended to break the 60s ring of concrete and deliver a vibrant retail complex, but instead became mired in delay due to the recession. But the city's older buildings are also in need of care and attention. In the late 80s and early 90s much was made of the prospects for Little Germany, an area of mill buildings and commercial premises developed by German immigrants, including the family of the composer Frederick Delius, who came to the city eager to build links between the Yorkshire and German textile industries. Unfortunately, the thriving businesses, bars and cafes that moved into the area have now almost all gone - leaving behind near empty converted apartment complexes and flyblown alleyways. I spent a while in the Guzelian cafe and gallery, itself a bold attempt to create a vibrant watering hole opposite the cathedral where the works of the Guzelian photojournalism agency are displayed on the walls. It opened in December last year, but now faces the prospect of the road outside - one of the main routes into Little Germany - being turned into building site that will see cars largely banished from the area. The streets that once held so much promise now run past silent buildings with boarded up or broken windows. The Tuetonic entrepreneurs have long gone; and I was left wondering, along with the cafe-gallery manager, whether Bradford will manage to turn things around again, after so long in the economic doldrums. Hope that Guzelian will be around to capture the renaissance when it comes.

Yorkshire Sculpture Park - scenes from a walk: a triangular boat, an octopus and Ai Weiwei's tree

On a journey - the road to nowhere...

Eldest son's high school is in special measures after spectacularly failing an Ofsted in May last year. This damning situation was reinforced recently by a follow-up visit from HMI, which found little improvement. This is inspite of a number of - rather frantic - messages from the senior leadership team (SLT) to the effect that they have 'embarked on an exciting improvement journey'. Language like that chills my blood; it means absolutely nothing - and all the while reputation and lack of real progress ebbs away at morale (staff and student) - no-one wants to learn or teach in that sort of environment. Now, however, there is progress - a new name and blazers are on the way! Quite how this fits into the journey, or will lead to any concrete improvement in leadership or quality of education is hard to say, but we're all just so excited by it, not. I'm tempted to suggest a Latin motto for the new badge, something along the lines of Stercus non potest poliri.

A miffed-off former MIfL

The Institute for Learning (IfL) is no more. The unwanted 'professional body' for FE teachers, foisted on them by the last Labour government was finally laid to rest at the end of October 2014. In reality, most of the one-time captive membership had largely drifted away when Gove ended compulsory registration in 2010. Round about the same time, the DfE - following recommendations in the Wolf report into 14-19 vocational education - also accepted that the anomalous situation whereby FE teachers couldn't teach in schools, but school teachers could teach in FE should end. However, this was dependent on FE staff obtaining Qualified Teaching and Learning Skills Status (QTLS) - something that Post 16 teacher training qualifications didn't automatically confer. As with much Goveite thinking, details were sketchy as to how this would work out in practice and pronouncements from on high seldom reflected either conditions on the ground or the substance of subsequent regulations put out by the DfE. Yesterday, I found out how... As a post-16 FE qualified teacher I recently started working in a local secondary school sixth form on maternity leave cover. In spite of showing both my degree and PGCE paperwork to the HR people, I was bemused to learn that I was classed as an unqualified teacher: some mistake, surely, I thought - after all, I'm teaching 16-18 year-olds studying AS and A2 courses. Ah, came the reply, you haven't got QTLS status, and pending confirmation of this from something called the Education and Training Foundation (ETF) you're 'unqualified' in our eyes. A few emails later and the awful truth dawned. The IfL might have gone, but a new quango has risen in its place, literally in fact - ETF has the same address as the IfL, and is in the business of charging £485.00 for those FE qualified teachers who want to work in school on parity of pay with school teachers. But the thing that sticks in my craw - alongside the threat of being paid less if I don't undertake the supposedly 'voluntary' process - is that I'm teaching the same courses to students of the same age: the only difference is that they are sitting in a school's sixth form classroom, as opposed to one in an FE college. Gove and the IfL might have gone, but their influence lives on, unfortunately.

Immigration Enforcement Agency convoy heading west

Just scene a convoy of three Immigration Enforcement Agency driving through Hipperholme. Shame they weren't greeted by a dishonourable guard of tutting UKIPpers and Daily Mail readers: plenty of both in this neck of the woods.

Curtains for Churchill

My three-and-a-half year old self was recovering from measles on the day of Churchill's funeral and I spent the day on the settee alternately lying under a blanket and playing with the bow and arrow set my grandparents had given me as a 'get well' gift - the furniture bore the circles from direct arrow hits for weeks afterwards. The day was also special because I remember being cared for by grandma and granddad. At some point as the ceremony unfolded on TV, my granddad decided to close the living room curtains as a mark of respect. They did things like that in those days, or, more particularly, my granddad did. He'd spent his formative years 'in service' as a footman, and this had left a rather confusing legacy: he distrusted the toffs, but had an instinctive sense of place. While he got on well with my Labour-voting dad, his son-in-law never forgot that granddad was a member of that confusing breed - a working class Tory. I can't remember now how dad found out about the curtains, it might be that I mentioned it in all innocence when he got home from work, but however he got to know, the response was surprising and has gone down in family legend. Dad was mild-mannered and jovial, but he let us know he wasn't happy about the respect accorded to Churchill by his own drapery. Dad fought in North Africa and Italy during WWI, and while he recognised that Churchill had been a great war-time leader, he also knew he had made mistakes and swapped parties, apparently to gain political advantage. Churchill's ratting and re-ratting, which saw him transfer allegiance from Tory to Liberal and back to Tory was evidence, in dad's opinion, of an untrustworthy side to his character. This was further compounded for dad as - along with many other Eighth Army veterans - he felt that Churchill had reneged on a promise that they would be brought home after the victory in North Africa. Instead, they were sent to Italy - where, in Churchill's words they would have the easy job of destroying 'the soft underbelly of the Axis crocodile'. This turned out to be far from the truth and the First, Fifth and Eighth Armies spent three years, often poorly fed and ill-equipped, fighting against determined German resistance as they advanced the full length of Italy's elongated boot. After D-Day, dad and his comrades in arms also had to endure the put-down that they were 'D-Day Dodgers', who should be fighting in Normandy, instead of 'sunning' themselves in Italy. In typical squaddie fashion, the term of derision was turned into a badge of honour and became an anthem to the largely forgotten suffering they endured in the Italian campaign. We played the song at dad's funeral, and when the TV footage shows the London docks lowering their jibs in homage and the crowds lining the route to mark the 50th anniversary of Churchill's funeral, I think I'll play it again, because the man who led the nation to victory had his flaws and failings too.