It's been a while

OK, so yes, it's been a while.

Husband has had a kidney stone for the past month. The treatment has been patchy. At first it was incredibly good and quick, enabling us to rave about the NHS and feel smug about how great it seems compared to all the health insurance wrangles involved any time you're ill in America. Then the machine which they need to zap it (lithotripsy, if you're interested) broke down, or the scanner did, or something, and they haven't been able to get it repaired for over a week. (And it's the only one in Scotland.) That doesn't sound too long, until you know that renal colic caused by a kidney stone on the move is said to be the nearest a man gets to experiencing the pain level of childbirth. Luckily it comes and goes, and has gone more than come, but Husband has been on painkillers for a month, which have left him washed out and half his usual self.

I've been applying for new jobs and have got one. You know how demanding a process that can be. There was one week where I had a job interview each morning on three consecutive mornings. It began to feel like I had a new job, and the job was doing interviews! And then there were second interviews, and every time, they picked a day which is a day I work (only 2 of them in a week, so what are the odds?) which is horrible, because you end up fibbing. I don't like fibbing, and I'm not good at it. I particularly don't like pretending in a vague way that I'm off work because my husband has a hospital appointment when he doesn't. Anyway, I got one of the jobs, and so I'm working out my notice. Hurrah. I haven't been in a happy place for months. You know it's time to move when.... oh, but I'm not going to share all my baggage on the internet, because we all know how that ends.

Two things I have discovered about myself in the past month or two.

1) When I'm in an unhappy situation, my shadow side comes to the fore. I really can be quite gossipy and bitchy, and even as I open my mouth and some of the stuff comes out to colleagues, I listen to myself and think "What are you like? I can't believe you're saying these things?" I guess we all have areas of ourselves to work on, and this is obviously one of mine. There are plenty of extenuating circumstances; it really has been very aggravating and personal. Nonetheless, I do not like this version of myself. When I go, I feel I want to leave a note on my chair saying "I'm a nice person really".

2) I am strangely motivated by the thought of saving 5p. Scotland has recently introduced a compulsory 5p charge for a carrier bag. Shops aren't allowed to give them out free any more. The 5p's go to charity. All in all, it's a good scheme. A very good scheme. I have found it intriguing to see how incredibly annoyed I am with myself if I forget to take bags with me when I go shopping, and how I will cram purchases into one single bag instead of splashing out 10p on two bags. I stuff items into my pockets, or handbag, or make my accompanying child carry them. It's not that I resent spending the money - it all goes to good causes, and it's cutting down the amount of plastic in landfill, and what the heck, it's only 5p. It's also quite good at making you decide how much shopping you're going to do in advance of arriving at the shop, which is a good discipline. I'm all in favour or it. I just get very cross with myself when I forget my bags. I now have various stashes of bags in the car, and a couple of those ones that scrunch up into the size of a handkerchief and live in a little wallety thing.

And finally...

10-yo, too, has written a blog post, having been away from her Harry Potter blog for a spell (geddit?). No comments yet, so if any of you would like to read about a day at the Warner Brother Studios, then please do head over here (and if you're thinking of going to the Warner Brother Studios, then do - it's a great day out).

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A blog on the move

One of my favourite blogs is Happy Homemaker UK. She's an American mom living in the south of England. She's just about to return to America, and I will miss her beautiful posts all about English life. If you want to feel good about England, scroll back through her blog, and see all the wonderful places you can go, and all the amazing things you can visit. I wonder, has she been in the pay of the British Tourist Authority?!

To me, she has exemplified the approach that I tried to maintain, when I was living in the US and this blog was called "Not wrong, just different". Her acceptance of, and fondness for, all things British is evident in all she writes. I've found it affirming, reading her posts over the years. Yes, Britain IS lovely, isn't it?

I haven't been blogging much lately. I've got busy with other things, and I do quite a lot of writing in my job, which makes me less inclined to write at home. I was interested to hear my job described as "Grant Writer" the other day. That's an American term, which I'd not heard this side of the Atlantic before. I like it. It's not technically accurate - the job is writing applications to get grants, not writing grants. However, it's good shorthand for what is involved, and "Application Writer" really doesn't have the right ring. The British equivalent is something like "Trusts Fundraiser", or you quite often see job title variations such as "Trusts Manager", which is all wrong, as you're not managing the trusts at all. You're trying to get money out of them. Sometimes it's "Trusts and Foundations Manager" which is a case of tautology, really. I mean, does anyone know what the difference between a Trust and a Foundation is? Incidentally, they're all called Foundations in the US.

Job titles are often ridiculous, though, aren't they? I mean, what does a "Knowledge Manager" do? I remember being quite shocked the first time I heard that a company had a "Human Resources" Department, rather than a "Personnel" Department. How could you treat people as just another category of resource? Rather telling, really.

Meanwhile (since this has developed into a rambly updating-you-about-my-life kind of a post, rather than one that is coherent in any way), 16-yo is starting GCSE's proper tomorrow. Two week of an inordinate number of exams. He had his Spanish oral a couple of weeks ago, and as he left the house, I said to Husband "We have a son who's doing GCSEs. How can that be?"

10-yo has decided she's going to start giving a small proportion of her pocket money to charity, and put another small proportion in a savings account. "I'm sure I'll need money when I'm old", she said. I was impressed. I mean, most of us hardly bother to think much about our pension before the age of 40, so to start at 10 seems very responsible. "I think it will be useful to have some money saved up for my gap year, don't you?" she continued. "Old" is a matter of perspective.

13-yo is trying a dairy-free, sugar-free diet, recommended by a homeopath, to combat his hay fever. What they call in America, "seasonal allergies". The sugar-free bit is hard to get round, though he's thrown himself with gusto into the deprivation of cakes/biscuits/chocolate that it involves - all credit to him. The dairy-free bit isn't too bad. You know why? Because I am a blogger, and I know that when you need advice on these kinds of things, blogs are great resources. Thank you, blogging world, for being so full of ideas on everything from how to organise a Harry Potter party for a 10 year old, to how to cook dairy-free toad in the hole.

I hope you feel you've caught up with my life! Rambling over. I'm off now to walk the dog, and buy white underarmour for cricket-loving son.

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A boy with a heart

Since we're on the subject of 10-yo, I'll tell you about the big event of his day today. Fourth grade were having their first taste of dissection. Oops. Unfortunate turn of phrase.

I've had the note home, with the permission slip to be signed. We've had the conversation about where they get the hearts from (dissection number 1 is a cow's heart, dissection number 2 is going to be a cow's eye). We've had the discussion about whether the cows died naturally or by other means. This led to a discussion about animal rights, in which 7-yo declared that she just doesn't think about the fact that meat comes from animals when she eats it, so she feels like a vegetarian, even though she isn't one. "I do FEEL like a vegetarian." Hm. Not sure you can really be an honorary vegetarian, but it'll do for today. She IS only just 7...

Anyway, in the car on the way home from school, 10-yo was showing me how big a cow's heart is. "This big... no, maybe a bit smaller... this big... well, perhaps a bit smaller... um... this big" (during which he moved his hands from about 2 feet apart to a size that still looked to me unbelievably large for a cow's heart, but this IS America where everything is big, so after we'd exchanged a mutual "seriously?" "yup, seriously", I agreed that wow, a cow's heart is pretty big. (Not that my son is prone to exaggeration.)

10-yo told me that he had felt a bit sick while he was waiting for his turn, but thought he would feel better once he was actually doing the dissection himself. "And I was right. I did feel ok when I was using the scissors." This child has good intuitions. He may be right in his next observation too.

"I don't know why they make you wear gloves and goggles. The gloves were really hot, and I can't see the point of the goggles. Perhaps they thought they'd make us feel scientific."

Gloves, yes, I can see the reasoning behind that. But goggles? Seriously? So that you don't get a squirt of cow's blood in your eye? Or in case of over-enthusiastic scissor use by your class-mate? (In which case, why not goggles for art projects?) Yup. I'll go with 10-yo's "make us feel scientific" insight.

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Dirty laundry

Having children is such a rich experience. You watch them grow, mature, become their own people. You give them roots; you give them wings. That is your endeavour. You do your best in the daily muddle, hoping they are learning the skills and wisdom to find their way in life. You look at the World, and your maternal heart clenches a little. Are you preparing them for it adequately? And then, the occasional glorious moment comes when they demonstrate that, yes, they can handle what comes their way. They are more than up to the task. Watch out, World.

This was one such moment.

I was having a round-up of the kids’ clothes – as you do. In 10-yo’s side of the bedroom he shares with 7-yo, there was something of a heap, which I gathered up. I opened the bottom drawer of the chest of drawers, to put some of the heap away. The drawer was full, not of folded clothes in a neat stack, but of a jumble of clothes, much like the one I was holding, scrunched up, and jammed down. I took out the jumble, to find that it was a pile of dirty, not clean, clothes, including several items of smelly underwear.

I looked over at 10-yo, lying on his bed, rapt in his book, oblivious to the laundry concerns of his mother.

“10-yo, these clothes in your chest of drawers. I think they’re dirty. I think they should have gone into the laundry basket.”

With his grinning face alight with an expression that said “I know you’re going to think this is funny and not be cross with me”, he replied,

“Last time I put a whole pile of clothes in the laundry basket at the same time, you got mad at me.”

“So you’re hiding dirty clothes in your clean clothes drawer, and you’re going to sneak them into the laundry basket little by little?”

With a beatific smile,

“Yes! Exactly!”

[Now, just to set the record straight here. He’s referring to the times when I send the kids down to the basement to tidy up. The basements here tend to become the kids’ areas. I don’t know how other people manage their basements, but I hardly go down to ours. I let the kids do what they like down there, and then from time to time, I call a tidy-up day, and I make them put the basement back to rights. By that stage it has become a fearsome task, but as I point out to my little Herculeses, they are lucky I don’t make them tidy up every night. On these occasions, out from the basement emerges a whole pile of sweaters and assorted clothes. And if I don’t intercept quickly enough, that whole pile of sweaters, which are perfectly clean - worn once, discarded in the heat of an air hockey match, and left on the basement floor - are dumped into the laundry basket, with a clean dressing gown or two for good measure, and perhaps a clean blanket. And yes, when that happens, I have been known to have a small rant the next day about washing a big load of sweaters which weren’t dirty when they reached the laundry basket, but having had a damp towel crammed on top of them overnight, now do need washing after all.]

He knows me so well. He knows that I do, indeed, think it is funny to store your dirty underwear and sneak it out bit by bit into the laundry, like the British prisoners of war digging a tunnel, and dropping the loose earth out onto the compound, handful by handful, through holes in their trouser pockets, evading the notice of the German guards. He is right: I’m not going to be cross. He knows I am amused by the intention behind the deed, and am not, when all is said and done, terribly worried about smelly small boy underwear. He knows he got away with it, when the conversation ends in a laugh, not a lecture about cleanliness. As I leave the bedroom, he probably allows himself another grin, before returning to the world of Fablehaven.

He’s a couple of steps ahead of me already. He beats me at chess easily, and even laughs sometimes when I move a piece, saying “Really, Mum? Seriously?” before mercilessly denying me the opportunity to change my mind, and switching that piece with one of his own, removing it off the board. He's just proved his ability to dodge a maternal laundry rant. He can handle a mother. Oh yes, he’s a couple of steps ahead.

But he’s not ahead of me in everything. He doesn’t know how I’ve stored away this conversation. How I, too, am grinning as I go downstairs. How I laugh inside myself at the World, and know that he will make his way through it very well. Yes, in some things he’s a couple of steps ahead of me. I came across the dirty laundry pile today, and a few weeks ago I found a secret stash of Twizzlers. What other secrets lie hidden throughout the house? What other things make him grin in secret triumph as he goes to bed with his Fablehaven friends? But aha, for the mother’s secrets that meanwhile are making me grin in secret triumph too!

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State fair

In this post, I’m taking part in a blog party 'Around the World in a Day' at Happy Homemaker UK.



When we first arrived here, my oldest went into fourth grade, just at the point when the class was learning all the states in the US. This involved being able to place them on a map, and knowing their postal abbreviations and capitals. This was a rather daunting task for him, to say the least, so I said I’d do it with him. It was something of a challenge for me too, since my geography of the US was so bad that I didn’t get much beyond knowing that California was on the west coast, New York on the east, and we were somewhere in the middle. So we plodded through together, and now, if I’m ever on your pub quiz team, I will be able to help out with the location of all the states and their postal abbreviations (so many beginning with M, it’s just crazy - you darn Americans, you should have set a cap on the number of states allowed to begin with the same letter). I’ve forgotten all the capitals, though. Sorry.

So now my second child is in fourth grade, and has been through the same exercise. I didn’t volunteer to do it with him, but instead came up with a suitable bribe, and the deed was duly done over the course of a few weeks. But they’ve introduced a new project since oldest learned his states. Each child picks the name of a state out of a hat, and then has to research that state, and put together a report and a scrap book. I remember oldest doing a scaled down version of this (he got Wisconsin), but it’s since really blossomed into a magnum opus. The children wrote to the relevant state tourist office in class, so the first task was to intercept the brochure which arrived and not chuck it in the bin with the other junk mail. The report had to include a rough draft as well as a final copy, an outline (I never did quite understand what this was, but it involved writing in bubbles), and a bibliography citing at least three different sources. The scrap book was to supplement the report, with illustrations and… oh heck, you all know what a scrap book is.

Hurrah for the good luck with which 10-yo picked Colorado out of the hat. It’s an interesting and picturesque state, and we’ve been there, which surely helped. So, following the suggested format, Husband and I helped 10-yo put together a report about Colorado’s geography, history, flag, emblems, state government, famous people, main industries, places to visit, sports teams, and ‘fun facts’. You might know that Colorado has the highest mean altitude of all the states, but I bet you didn’t know that Colfax Avenue in Denver is the longest continuous street in America, or that Colorado is one of only two states in which all the water in the state flows out of it and none flows in. (Brownie point to anyone who can name the other one.) We helped him cut out pictures from the tourist office brochure, draw maps, and stick in photos of our own Colorado experiences.

Then last week, the children hosted The Second Annual Fourth Grade State Fair. (Yes, the Second Annual one… I don’t make this stuff up, you know). The school gym was duly decorated in red, white and blue, and each child had half a long table on which to display his or her scrap book and report, and any items that represented the state in some way. They were allowed to offer food items (this being America, where the policy ‘no snack left behind’ is in full operation). And they were to dress in an appropriate costume. Thus it was that 10-yo borrowed some ski goggles, and donned his snow boots, his winter coat and a woolly hat, and brandishing a couple of ice axes that I hardly even knew we possessed (maybe I really did marry an axe murderer by mistake), declared himself an ice-climber. His half of the table displayed a pair of hiking boots, a few boxes of ‘Celestial Seasonings’ tea (one of the biggest herbal tea companies in the world, which started with one Coloradoan gathering and drying wild herbs), and a little glass vial of iron pyrite, the substance known as ‘fool’s gold’ which we had panned from a stream when visiting an old gold mine on one of our trips (and which 10-yo insists is actually real gold). The food he offered was potato chips (crisps, to you Brits), because they grow a lot of potatoes in Colorado. By a stroke of happy luck, I just happened to be in a health food shop a few days beforehand, and spotted a brand called ‘Boulder potato chips’, which hailed from Boulder, Colorado. How clever was that?! (and they were even on special offer).

I thoroughly enjoyed the Second Annual Fourth Grade State Fair. It opened with the children singing a couple of songs, my favorite being ‘The Nifty Fifty’, which included a rapid run-through of all fifty states in alphabetical order. Quite a feat of memory and verbal articulation. Then the fourth graders took their places at their tables, and we all circulated round the displays, ‘we’ being the fourth grade parents, and kids and teachers from other grades.

The children were happy and confident, and as you approached their stand, they would readily engage you in conversation and share their knowledge about their state. This is one great benefit that my kids will have received from an education here. They are taught to present confidently and clearly. They have no problem addressing you as you walk up, saying “Would you like me to tell you about Vermont?” or “My state is Hawai’i. Would you like to sample some pineapple?” It will be a useful life skill, and not one we teach in the UK (not as far as I know). I loved the costumes: a cowboy from Oklahoma, a southern belle from Georgia, a scientist from Maryland, the Statue of Liberty from New York State. The snacks were fun and varied: fruit of many kinds, fish sticks, bread, cheese, green jello (looking at you, Utah), Ritz crackers (I thought they originated at the Ritz Hotel in London, but apparently they’re from Maryland), rice krispy cakes (did you know that Arkansas produces half the rice grown in the US?) and various drinks, including milk, which is the state beverage of several states. Who knew?

I loved the enthusiasm of the fourth graders to share the wonderfully random ‘fun facts’. The official state cookie of Maryland is the chocolate chip (yes… some states have official state cookies). In Oklahoma it is illegal to take a bite out of someone else’s hamburger, and you may not take elephants into the downtown area of Tulsa. Also in Oklahoma, women may not gamble in the nude, in lingerie, or while wearing a towel. Good to know.

All in all, it was a great event, an imaginative culmination to the state projects. If I was American, it would have made me proud to be American. As a resident alien (yay), it made me reflect on really how incredible the USA is. What a land of plenty, and variety, and beauty. So much to offer “from sea to shining sea” as the words of America the Beautiful go. You may not know, incidentally, that the words of that song were written by Katharine Lee Bates, after being inspired by the view from the top of Pikes Peak. Pikes Peak in Colorado, that is.

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ADHD

Don't you hate it when a juicy blog post dies on you? Here's one that's done just that. This is what I wrote earlier.

I thought I'd open a little can of worms here. I'm going to report a conversation I had with 10-yo the other day, and not reflect on it at all, but see what you all think. I suppose that's a bit disingenuous, since by posting the conversation at all, I am implying that I think there's an issue here. But I'm not sure what my opinion is, and it would be a very uninformed opinion in any case (though that doesn't usually stop me) so I thought I'd just ask and see what you all think.

Him: Mum, do I have ADHD?

Me: No, you don't. Why do you ask?

Him: Lots of fourth graders do.

Me: They do? How many kids in your class have ADHD?

Him: Oh, six, I think. [out of a class of 17]

Me: So do they take medication, or do they have special routines, or what?

Him: Some take medication, but I don't really know much about it. I just wondered if I had it too.

What do you make of that conversation?

That would have made for a good discussion, wouldn't it? Trouble is, I casually threw a question over my shoulder, just as I was finishing up.

"10-yo, how many kids in your class did you say had ADHD?"

Must have been some journalistic instinct that made me want to check my facts.

"I dunno."

"You said 6, the other day."

"I think it's just one. And one or two in the other class."

"You said 6, I think."

"That was an exaggeration. Why do you want to know?"

Bother. Or as we say in blogging circles, aaaaargh...

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Foolish words

A couple of weeks ago (a fortnight, one might even say), I had to take 7-yo to the doctor for something fairly routine. In the bit of small talk that one has time for during a doctor's appointment here (shock, horror), I mentioned to the doctor that we'd had a really healthy winter season. The kids had been well, Husband and I had been well, not much in the way of bugs, coughs and colds. Oooooh noooo, I hear you wail. Yes, indeed it was foolish talk.

A week later, I have three sick kids, and a head cold. I am debating with myself why I am posting this, and I think it is for some e-sympathy. I have a superstitious sense, too, that if I repent of my foolhardy words in a public forum, perhaps Providence will relent, and everyone will be well again in 9 days time, so that we don't have to ferry poorly children across the Atlantic. Not fun.

There's something that is complicated about going to the doctor here, as well as understanding the insurance system (which I don't think anyone does, actually). It's the vocabulary. A surgery is something you have, not something you visit. Sick means ill, vomiting means sick. Fever means high temperature. I don't think they use the word poorly at all. Not even poorly. And it seems that 7-yo has walking pneumonia, which I just wish could be called a chest infection. I assume that is what it is, but doesn't "walking pneumonia" sound much worse? What they used to call the old man's friend, on legs. If we had to have walking pneumonia around the place, I would rather it was something in the back yard, alongside the creeping jenny and the climbing wisteria. But at least if it's walking pneumonia, it will respond to the antibiotics and not be mono (which was mentioned), which is glandular fever, and not nice in either language.

Today's turn at the doctor's office is 4-yo's, who I suspect has an ear infection. Usual symptoms, plus half a dozen large red circular marks on her arms and abdomen, including one perfectly centred over her tummy button. These may confuse the doctor, although if he looks carefully, he will see Barbie's face, and conclude, rightly, that a Barbie stamper with rather permanent ink has been in use. At least I hope he doesn't want to investigate further, as I'm sure the ailment isn't covered by insurance and it could be hugely expensive. Either that, or she will be hailed as some kind of miracle child in the religion that Barbie has become, and we'll have to set up a pink shrine on our front porch to accommodate worshippers, once word is out.

I've come a long way though. The first time I went to the doctor, early on in our time here, the receptionist told me brightly "there's a $20 co-pay today", and not having a clue what that was but assuming from her tone of voice that it was some kind of jolly little extra I could opt for, I replied equally brightly "oh, um, no thanks".

When is a joke not a joke?

A 10 year old boy walks into a kitchen and tells a joke:

A man walks into a bar, and says "Ouch".

A mother pauses, thinks, and laughs. “That’s funny” she says. “That was a first” she thinks. He has told her a joke that she didn’t already know, that she found genuinely funny, and that wasn’t followed by “d’you geddit?” and an explanation.

Ten years ago, she wrote his milestones in a book. They came thick and fast. The first tooth, the first steps, the first words. They come less often now, but they still come. The first filling, the first soccer goal, the first real joke. She doesn’t write them down any more. Then there are the kind that she couldn’t write down anyway. They’re not “firsts”, they don’t stand out, they creep by slowly, and when she notices them, she is already looking back. He doesn’t need a spoon to eat peas. He doesn’t always choose from the kids’ menu in a restaurant. He sometimes empties the dishwasher in the morning, not because he’ll get a sticker on a chart, not because he's proving he can do it all on his own, but just to be kind. When she sorts the laundry, his socks are easy to muddle with hers. The golden window between his bedtime and hers is getting smaller; it’s more of a chink than a window already. The park is no longer about the swings and slides. She can’t dribble a soccer ball past him, but he can get one past her, every time, easily.

She needs his advice on school matters. She remembers it was she who decided it was time to replace the Bob the Builder lunch box, but now it is he who tells her that Spongebob valentines won’t do for fifth graders (though he can't tell her what will).

Soon will come the milestones hidden from her view. The first joke he hears that he doesn’t think he should tell her. She knows these days are not far off. Perhaps they are already here.

A mother walks into a milestone, and would say “Ouch”, but mothers don’t say that, and anyway, this one is a fun kind of a milestone. A mother walks into a milestone, and keeps on walking.

Siblings and soccer

If you have more than one child, occasionally you are privy to the conversations they have between themselves without your presence. Most of these you miss, of course, but occasionally you can eavesdrop. Eavesdropping is, as we all know, a bad thing, but maternal eavesdropping, as any mother will tell you, doesn’t count.

This particular conversation took place in the sitting room, which, conveniently, is within earshot of the desk where the computer is. I could therefore type the conversation as it happened, so I know I got it down verbatim. 10-yo was watching soccer on tv (hence the curtailed ability to utter a sentence longer than three words). The boy lives, breathes, thinks, eats soccer (just to set the scene for you). The conversation went like this:

3-yo: Why do soccer matches be silly? [blimey, 3-yo, talk about going for the jugular]

10-yo: They’re not silly.

3-yo: Why are they?

10-yo: They’re not.

3-yo: Oh. [long pause] Are they good or bad?

10-yo: They’re good.

3-yo: Oh. [long pause] Where did soccer matches came from?

10-yo: Different places.

3-yo: What do you do when you play a soccer match?

10-yo: You try to score a goal.

3-yo: Why do they have matching costumes all the same? [honing in now on the more important aspects of the sport]

10-yo: They have to.

I’m so glad that 3-yo has the opportunity for such a comprehensive education concerning the beautiful game. After all, there won’t be many boys in her life with whom she will be able to use the opening gambit “Why do soccer matches be silly?”. Not if she’s got any sense.

Vile dins

I left this story as a comment on a blog. Two people said they liked it, which I thought justified me sneaking it in as an entry on my own blog.

I was once listening to The Archers. David and Ruth were having an argument and in the background there was the tortured scraping of a child playing the violin. "That is so unrealistic", I thought. "The BBC sound effects department were obviously having a laugh that day. It never sounds THAT bad." Then the signature tune (da da-da da-da da-daa) came and went. But strangely the violin scraping continued. It was my own son in the next room.

This is a true story. It has a happy ending. He persevered with the violin, and now plays with attack and confidence. The scraping days are over, and I hope he is on the way to enjoying a musical instrument for many years to come, and maybe for life.

I could listen to The Archers here, by internet, but I don't. It wouldn't be the same somehow. The storylines weren't grabbing me at the time we left Scotland in any case, and it seemed a good time to sign off. I wondered if there was a US equivalent, which I could listen to on the radio as I potter about the kitchen (does anyone listen to The Archers anywhere except the kitchen?) I think it would be a good step towards integration to get dug into an Archers' equivalent. I've heard about a radio show called The Prairie Home Companion, which sounds like it might be worth tuning into. I'll let you know how I get on. And how realistic the children sound effects are. It'll never have such a good signature tune, though. That's for sure. Those familiar jaunty violins...