Silver chatterbox badged.

Free floristry was good yet again at Lea Bridge Road Library. Nothing like a relaxed honest know your stuff tutor. Receptionist even more non-welcoming than before. Sour face. The register of names as supplied by Waltham Forest Libraries is nothing like who we are. Thursday’s task was to make a triangular-shaped display using our bargain basement florals and gathered foliage. I was very lucky to have found purple flowers at Tesco Express reduced by a third (but I know all the tricks to revive the wilters) and bog-standard white chrysanthemums as my plan was to mark International Women’s Day with a personalised salute.

iwd flowers“Do better next time”.

We all 8 of us did well. Evidently our tutor was booked to demonstrate button-hole making at the big jamboree nod to International Women’s Day at Waltham Forest Assembly Hall on the Saturday. The men once again get relieved of baby care duties and pleasures as children are welcome every year at the Walthamstow….oops I mean Waltham Forest womanly shindig. Talking of baby-care. The other evening about 6pm there was such an hollering in the street that everyone looked over. An annoyed father was screeching at his charge, a mere tiny toddler couldn’t have been more than two and the man was screaming for all to hear “Just walk!” Bastard. The little mite was cry, cry, crying. Enjoyed the sex, now do the work. See so much all the time. Many many parents have not the capacity to realise that what they do now shapes the child. The tyranny.

I know a mature student in a central London university. She is recording everything not satisfactory about the course under the heading “What am I paying for?” Every session the tutor leaves early, continually walks out of the room, verbally abuses students who are actually grown women and men, never teaches but encourages research i e Google and calls the class “you lot”. Others are just as bad. No-one gets feedback and the only one to one is a cursory flick through work done accompanied by a smirk of disdain in front of the rest of the class. There is no encouragement to do well, to strive for higher, The grown students know it’s because they are a class of black people gathered from deprived areas of ghetto London. They know it. I know it but you know, what can be done? It’s the raise the community post London Riots: It’s the settle the unsettled post Swann Report. It’s stick white business women aka tutors in front of seasoned Londoners who know the once dishevelled now trendy hotspots of their own town and recognise the patronising tones about their backgrounds and neighbourhoods. It’s the them and us and God no the twain shall never meet. It’s calling a mire a university.

Timetables never known in advance are changed. The students move buildings without being informed about security or fire protections. If, as they sink into lethargy and no-hope, they ask about their rights and conditions of work/study, they are readily accused of insolence and trouble-making. Where is the adult to and fro? Where is the thirst for intellectual challenge? Certainly not fostered under this climate. And where is the consideration for studying parents who have to alter child-care arrangements to suit a disorganised unstructured recently inspected and okay-ed  institute of education?

The University is merely a money-making business,  headed by a business guy who is ready to expel at a whim those with whom he will never interact. He will count, as a normal business person would, the interest on the paid fees. Criminal.

I am recording everything too.

Not for nothing am I a silver chatterbox award holder at!

Enjoyed watching the squirm and the reactions on Question Time in Barking. Say it like it is you indigenes. Nothing will return to the Union Jack flag waving days of the Coronation years although we had a little taste of its revival when two Royals married recently. What do Memories of Hoxton, Priory Court OAP Lunch Club, Walthamstow Memories, The Claremont Project, Buildings Exploratory for Seniors all have in common? It’s a hard one.

Today I dared to ask the man who was cleaning the lamps of the horse- drawn white wedding carriage parked opposite me with a horse in a van too what nationality the wedding would be? I meant ‘Was it Roma?” and that was because the local Chinese restaurant behind the horse van had been hired a month ago by men in winkle-pickers and women in aproned and petticoat-ed skirts holding hands with Brylcreem-ed boys in velvet suits and girls in pink pink pink. The east-end accented geezer said “Well it’s English, English Roma”. Lovely jubbly. I wish the couple and their families well.

Just read “Viber”‘s instruction  to me  as I wanted to shortcut a photo to here, “You cannot add yourself to the conversation”. Ha ha. I add you.