Today I learned how to fold a terry nappy, how to make Lancashire Hotpot with a microwave and how to excavate Anglo-Saxon burial mounds. In that order.
I wanted to do pottery.
I learned about nappies on the ante-natal course we are on. Most of the fathers have stopped coming, and most of the mothers now chat as much as we are allowed to, flinging inhibition to the nappy pail of pre-motherhood. I also learned what a TENS machine feels like (I have a lower pain threshold than my husband) and how to breathe (something I feel I should have learned thirty years ago).
At home I prepared my first microwaved Lancashire Hotpot because:
a) somebody had to;
b) I found some in the fridge; and
c) I had to rush out.
After this I waddled down to the local college to begin a new phase of my life: Evening Classes. I wanted to do something which got me out of the house regularly. I wanted academic stimulation to offset the umbilical drip of my cerebellum babywards. I wanted to do pottery.
But they were offering ‘Sutton Hoo and Anglo-Saxon Suffolk’ for 5 weeks only, which places it neatly ahead of our due date and is unlikely to involve icy walks at 9pm in mid-winter. So I applied for that. It turns out that there is no test (shame), no pre-requisite and no need to learn a language. I held in my amusement as we watched a video documentary from 1985. It took me back to primary school TV lessons (both of them) and Open University programmes with funny glasses and Received Pronounciation. Most of the document’ry was footage from an earlier progremme from the naneteen sixtiss. Almost oll the cheps wear fratefully well-spoken and oll thet, but the rale heroes were loc’l lads hoo jus’ dug up th’olwd boot at Sutton ‘Oo, inckloodin the gardna and a loc’l buwy archologist. Moost intertainin’.
Pottery’ll have to wait until January.
jam and giraffes 