As far as I am aware, this is the first time in my life that I have spent Saint David’s Day outside my country! Apart, that is, for a few times in England.
I am the only Welsh teacher in my school – that in itself must be something of a record. Where else do you get a school where the teaching is in English where there are not at least a couple of Welsh teachers? I am assuming that in English speaking countries you can count people of Welsh descent as fulfilling the necessary quota!
There were no plans for an Eisteddfod and I did not feel inclined to try and institute one, but I felt that such an auspicious day (even if March the first was on a Saturday) could not be allowed to pass by the benighted pupils of our school.
On Friday (the nearest school day) my classroom was bedecked with full colour Welsh flags, depictions of leeks and daffodils and outlines of the country. My English class were treated to a potted version of the Saint’s life complete with sceptical version of the Magic Mountain incident in his life.
It appears that Saint David was preaching to an outdoor congregation, some of whom had difficulty in seeing him. Cue the miraculous: the ground beneath David’s feet rose up and, lo and behold, all could now feast their eyes on the holy man! One cynic among he commentators that I read through on line described this as one of the most redundant miracles ever performed given the mountainous nature of Wales and that fact that David could merely (and probably did) just walk up the nearest slope to give everyone a good view!
Still, the pupils seemed quite amiable about accepting, with equanimity, the impossible and expressed delight when I distributed outline versions of the Welsh flag for them to colour in. I also gave them drawings of the saint himself and they were even more delighted to hear that they could colour this in with any colours they liked as opposed to the restricted palette of red, white and green for the flag.
In one of the even lower age classes than the one I teach there is a Welsh boy. This lad knows he is Welsh but he didn’t know where in Wales he was born when I questioned him. Still, his mother cooked some Welsh cakes and his class teacher allowed him to bring some to me.
The frantic and pathetic pleading of my class meant that I broke up the Welsh cakes and distributed them around the class like some sort of Celtic priest distributing communion bread! This went down, literally and metaphorically, very well.
If I am still here next year (teaching in Sitges I mean, not in Castelldefels) then I will have to do something more, even if March the first is on a Sunday in 2009.
I am the only Welsh teacher in my school – that in itself must be something of a record. Where else do you get a school where the teaching is in English where there are not at least a couple of Welsh teachers? I am assuming that in English speaking countries you can count people of Welsh descent as fulfilling the necessary quota!
There were no plans for an Eisteddfod and I did not feel inclined to try and institute one, but I felt that such an auspicious day (even if March the first was on a Saturday) could not be allowed to pass by the benighted pupils of our school.
On Friday (the nearest school day) my classroom was bedecked with full colour Welsh flags, depictions of leeks and daffodils and outlines of the country. My English class were treated to a potted version of the Saint’s life complete with sceptical version of the Magic Mountain incident in his life.
It appears that Saint David was preaching to an outdoor congregation, some of whom had difficulty in seeing him. Cue the miraculous: the ground beneath David’s feet rose up and, lo and behold, all could now feast their eyes on the holy man! One cynic among he commentators that I read through on line described this as one of the most redundant miracles ever performed given the mountainous nature of Wales and that fact that David could merely (and probably did) just walk up the nearest slope to give everyone a good view!
Still, the pupils seemed quite amiable about accepting, with equanimity, the impossible and expressed delight when I distributed outline versions of the Welsh flag for them to colour in. I also gave them drawings of the saint himself and they were even more delighted to hear that they could colour this in with any colours they liked as opposed to the restricted palette of red, white and green for the flag.
In one of the even lower age classes than the one I teach there is a Welsh boy. This lad knows he is Welsh but he didn’t know where in Wales he was born when I questioned him. Still, his mother cooked some Welsh cakes and his class teacher allowed him to bring some to me.
The frantic and pathetic pleading of my class meant that I broke up the Welsh cakes and distributed them around the class like some sort of Celtic priest distributing communion bread! This went down, literally and metaphorically, very well.
If I am still here next year (teaching in Sitges I mean, not in Castelldefels) then I will have to do something more, even if March the first is on a Sunday in 2009.
When did I last buy something nice?
Perhaps I should have written that word as ‘nice’ because it is a quotation. Whenever I ventured into town with a certain number of items to buy for my mother, she would often say to my departing back, “. . . and anything else nice that you see.” Which being interpreted meant, “If you see anything that you and I (and not your father) would recognize as interesting and which it would be crime to leave on the shelf at that price - then buy it.”
When you have been trained (as I have) by a mother who sometimes regarded shopping as a vocation rather than a chore, then you begin to develop which may be termed a Value Instinct.
A Value Instinct is the ability to be able buy, with assurance, something that Others might say you don’t really need. And not feel guilty about it.
My mother started my training young and I often accompanied her on shopping Expeditions (I use the capital letter with some reason) which were far closer to Campaigns (I use the capital letter with some justification) as she moved around town with the confidence of a cross between a general and a guerrilla fighter.
When I was old enough to wander around town by myself, so that I too could handle, assess and deliberate upon articles that I had absolutely no intention of buying (the sign of a true shopper) my mother always insisted that our later rendezvous point was the Wedgwood concession near the entrance on the ground floor in Howells. This was, of course, before the irresistible rise of the perfume concessions which have now swept away all other opposition and reign supreme in the prime sites of department stores at the ground floor entrances. Have you any idea how great the turnover of over priced pungent liquids actually is? I was once told (some years ago) how much the perfume department in Debenham’s in the St David’s Centre in Cardiff made in one week, and I was speechless with frustrated envy and horror.
Wedgwood has had a not inconsiderable effect on my life. My mother liked jasper ware and that took care of a fair number of birthday and Christmas presents before she tired of it. Wedgwood is my default setting of choice for china and glass.
I have to admit that sometimes this preference is not a good thing as, for example, when I priced a fairly simple dinner service in white with a metallic trim and was told that it was two thousand pounds!
As the assistant had worked quite hard pricing all the individual items that I deemed essential for a basic dinner service (one surely needs two gravy boats?) I thought that my look of horrified amazement at this price was hardly an adequate recompense for her attention. Thinking quickly I stuttered out a panicky question, “Can you use it in the microwave?” The answer was delivered in a stern voice and with a steely gaze.
“No sir, that would adversely affect the platinum.”
That gave me the escape route that I needed and mumbling my thanks I told her that anything I bought would have to be microwave safe, and I hastily beat a retreat from a place where my budget did not give me admission!
The dinner service that I eventually bought was dishwasher safe, microwave safe, oven proof, freezer proof and insured for twelve months against breakages!
And it was Wedgwood.
Like riding a bicycle, some things remain with you for life!
Perhaps I should have written that word as ‘nice’ because it is a quotation. Whenever I ventured into town with a certain number of items to buy for my mother, she would often say to my departing back, “. . . and anything else nice that you see.” Which being interpreted meant, “If you see anything that you and I (and not your father) would recognize as interesting and which it would be crime to leave on the shelf at that price - then buy it.”
When you have been trained (as I have) by a mother who sometimes regarded shopping as a vocation rather than a chore, then you begin to develop which may be termed a Value Instinct.
A Value Instinct is the ability to be able buy, with assurance, something that Others might say you don’t really need. And not feel guilty about it.
My mother started my training young and I often accompanied her on shopping Expeditions (I use the capital letter with some reason) which were far closer to Campaigns (I use the capital letter with some justification) as she moved around town with the confidence of a cross between a general and a guerrilla fighter.
When I was old enough to wander around town by myself, so that I too could handle, assess and deliberate upon articles that I had absolutely no intention of buying (the sign of a true shopper) my mother always insisted that our later rendezvous point was the Wedgwood concession near the entrance on the ground floor in Howells. This was, of course, before the irresistible rise of the perfume concessions which have now swept away all other opposition and reign supreme in the prime sites of department stores at the ground floor entrances. Have you any idea how great the turnover of over priced pungent liquids actually is? I was once told (some years ago) how much the perfume department in Debenham’s in the St David’s Centre in Cardiff made in one week, and I was speechless with frustrated envy and horror.
Wedgwood has had a not inconsiderable effect on my life. My mother liked jasper ware and that took care of a fair number of birthday and Christmas presents before she tired of it. Wedgwood is my default setting of choice for china and glass.
I have to admit that sometimes this preference is not a good thing as, for example, when I priced a fairly simple dinner service in white with a metallic trim and was told that it was two thousand pounds!
As the assistant had worked quite hard pricing all the individual items that I deemed essential for a basic dinner service (one surely needs two gravy boats?) I thought that my look of horrified amazement at this price was hardly an adequate recompense for her attention. Thinking quickly I stuttered out a panicky question, “Can you use it in the microwave?” The answer was delivered in a stern voice and with a steely gaze.
“No sir, that would adversely affect the platinum.”
That gave me the escape route that I needed and mumbling my thanks I told her that anything I bought would have to be microwave safe, and I hastily beat a retreat from a place where my budget did not give me admission!
The dinner service that I eventually bought was dishwasher safe, microwave safe, oven proof, freezer proof and insured for twelve months against breakages!
And it was Wedgwood.
Like riding a bicycle, some things remain with you for life!
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