We live in exciting times. We live in times when Pandas are moving into Edinburgh. We live in times when man has finally figured out how to stop painting the Forth Bridge.
And we live in times when, simply through losing his father to cancer, the Cherub will find himself eligible to attend Hogwarts Academy.
Or at least a Hogwarts lookalike academy - if he wants to.

Did you spot the catch there? Yes. I've promised him that he doesn't have to go if he doesn't want to.

And to decide if he wants to go or not, he was to attend for one day.

For one day he was to get to sit in on classes and mix with his future class mates and enjoy some of the finest education money can (allegedly) buy.

And so it was that this morning I left him in the cloisters outside the school office with two of his potential classmates.  The snow swirling around the quadrangle, his future schoolmaster greeting him by name.
Cheesetown High School it was not.
Cheesetown High School does not have a quadrangle or gargoyles or paving stones.
Cheesetown High School does not have a view of the Castle
Cheesetown High School  does what it does, but it doesn't lay claim to producing well rounded invididuals to the highest posible standards.

Ah had ma hopes


And so it was this afternoon that I collected the cherub. And we have a verdict. We have a verdict on a day of public school education in one of Edinburgh's oldest academies.

Meh.

I'm working on a translation of this...

In the coming weeks, we will be looking at schools. 
Well not you and I obviously.... The Cherub and I will be looking at schools.

Not a sentence I ever thought I'd be typing you know.

As a bit of background I have believed a my life that a fair society works better for everyone. That we're all in this together - and separating priveleged kids  or catholics and Muslims and Gaelic speaking from the rest at the age of five is in no one's interests. For every results league table showing the achievements of the private sector, I'll point out the achievements of the state schools given the raw material they have to work with.
And, hell, it worked for me.

And yet, and yet, and yet the Cherub is not flourishing.
Take any indicator of school progress you like, and the omens are not good. And I'm not just talking about the academic scores. Something needs to be done, and I can't make up this difference myself.

Dorrenfromwork it was who mentioned that the larger private schools in Edinburgh operate subsidised places for (Suitable) Children in Need.  One school in fact was established purely with the aim of helping "puire faitherless bairns".
This school, for her kids go there too, has so many puire faitherless weans that they have a commemoration day each year in the school.  And a school psychologist.  Along with a very tony looking library and science facilities.

A phone call has established that The Cherub is entitled to significant amounts of help in the private sector at this and other schools.

So I'll be visiting schools and talking to headmasters and guidance teachers, and comparing them to the Good Guys we already know in Cheesetown High.

And I'm not saying we're changing schools - but looking is free.

And his father will be rolling in the grave he doesn't have.  To which , all I can say is - Wayne you copped out. You died.  You left me with this.

That's us burling down the backroad to the CAR PARK where I needed to drop off the Cherub ten minutes ago. He has an urgent appointment with the Duke of Edinburgh Team. Not satisfied with an earlier attempt which was rained off (Scottish summers... fill in your own thoughts here...), my baby is off camping again. A bus with him and twenty of his dearest pals is off to Aberfoyle for the weekend. Last time they tried this they were flooded out and had to return home at 2 in the morning.  This time they will get that Bronze award or... or I dunno develop some kind of fungal rot in the attempt.

He's nagging me. It never works.  I'm taking revenge by SINGING to KANYE WEST.

I'm also threatening to HUG him before I let him go on the bus.  Even if I don't get to hug him, it's fun threatening, just to see him change colour at the very thought....

The bus is already there when we get to the car park.... so I have to let him off sharpish so he can catch up with his mates whilst I park. I can catch up. I have time to embarrass him.

Except when I do get to catch up I can't find him.  And I can't find any of his pals either; wee Cam and Stu are not there. Forrie I know had dropped out, but where were Mark and Malc?

And The Cherub??

The car park is just full of swarms of youth. Not all of whom have hoodies, but y'know... they're all Big Kids.  Great big hulking teenagers, with great deep voices and matching attitude.  And that's the boys.  The girls??
Frankly the girls scare me even more.  The Cherub should not be heading off with twenty or so FHM supermodels.

But wait, one of the big tall lads is waving at me and giving me a thumbs up. It's not... wee Cam.....? But before the summer wee Cam was wee enough to be officially smaller than me. Now "Wee" Cam looks like he's not far short of six feet. So the blonde haired guy behind him is... Stuie??? Even wee Stu's filled out enough to at least look like he could carry a rucksack.
Well that's my baby - the one with the ginger blonde hair.  The one with the broad shoulders and big shy smile.  He's one of the  big kids now.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. They told me stuff, and I knew they were right.

I mean obviously you grow older.
Obviously things change.
Obviously at some point I was going to have to face the empty nest syndrome.



I just didn't think it was going to be like so soon. Nobody said it would be the 2nd August this year FFS!

Tonight the Cherub has gone off to stay with a pal for a couple of days.
Tonight for the first time in 17 years, (count them!) I got home to an empty house.
Check it. No dogs, no kids, nobody.

Nobody!

I used to quite like the idea of having a place to myself.  Things change.






Heh heh... I might have an empty nest, but I still got the photos....





Newsflash.  For anyone worried about the ongoing situation at work.  Penny has been selected for jury service. The ongoing joke at work is it could be worse.  She could be sentencing the poor bugger.

Yes, that's right Scottish Schools this week are announcing the results of the Maths and English GCSE Prelims.

At Last! Although I know it's entirely possible that you are among the other 99.99% of the world who remains unaffected.

{Sigh}

Lets have a re-cap.

In December The cherub turned in the most abysmal exam results of his admittedly short, secondary school career. Without even the distinction of being bottom of the class - he managed to be second from the bottom.

Relegation from Credit Maths to General GCSE was on the cards.
In fact with two weeks to the exam it was a pretty sure bet.

At the same time, Global Warming manifested itself in the coldest December since records began. For the best part of two weeks, the Cherub and I were stuck at home.

Never look a gift horse in the mouth.

Together over the course of those two weeks we:
FACED DOWN our fear of indices and root values
GOT TO GRIPS with the parabolic function
WRESTLED with factors
and NAILED factorisation.

No fraction, surd or equation remained UNSIMPLIFIED
No angle remained uncalculated. Hell, armed with sine, cos and tan no radius, area or diameter remained UNINVESTIGATED..
No subject of FORMULA remained unchanged
We spoke the language of VARIATION.

The quadratic equation was OURS.

So, as I was saying, the results of the prelims are in.
The Cherub has miraculously graduated to the top quartile in the class.

I'm taking a bow here.

That's right. The Cherub has flown. Strolled off casual as you like, no glance back, straight through security at Edinburgh International Airport.
On his own..

He has gone to see family in Dublin.

I get to stay home with the Nedster.

There's something wrong with this deal..









And it's not just that his passport photo dates back to 2006...

The Cherub's been fine.
Really.
Yep, it took us all by surprise too. What with him being so close to his dad and all.
But, give or take the odd teary moment watching a sad film. Fine.
No really. FINE. Nothing to talk about. No Need.
FINE.

Too fine. I thought.

And I was right. Because the results from his prelims are just starting to trickle in - and they are looking BAD.
Not "need to try harder this Summer" bad
Not "well at least it's a pass" bad.
Not even a "what the hell happened?" bad
No, for the first time in his life, my child has turned in an earth shattering, phenomenal, unbelievable "What? You're kidding? Is that some kind of school record? BAD.

As one of his teachers said (and why is always the older teachers who seem to notice these things?), "it's as if the jet lag's worn off lately".

Yes it has been quiet around here recently, what with.. well what with whatever it was I was busy with lately.
Dog walking
Cheesemaking
Jivamukti Yoga
Court appearances
(Only one of those is true by the way ...)

The days are shortening, and rain and leaves are pelting down, and the one bright spot The Cherub and I have decided on is the pre-ordering of Halo Reach. So it is with Great Excitement that we got a notice to go and collect a packet at the post office.
It needed signed for....

Guess what?




Maybe she just realised I wasn't going to give up ...

We have been invited to the Hospice's Children's Day! Or rather the Cherub has. Yes, the hospice has a memorial day each year, when they commemorate those who have passed through their doors, and onwards, leaving kids behind.

A fun event indeed.

I've checked that (i) there will be other teenagers there, and (ii) that yes, it was parent they lost**
And I've thought hard about this. On the one hand, why upset the the Cherub? Why not let him carry on as he is? not mentioning his dad, avoiding places they went together, and pretending it hasn't happened.... W himself specifically did not want me dragging the kid to visit his grave. Well sorry W, you didn't get a grave...

So we're off for a morning of making of commemorative picture frames, sand memory bottles and dream catchers.

Before leaving we have to choose a picture of W that the Cherub can use. This is the start of the tears. Is this a good thing? Is this a bad thing? Hell's teeth, how am I supposed to know??? I'm on my own here.. I'm ad libbing you know. But the Cherub is emphatic that he doesn't want to remember his dad as "this old wheezing guy.. one of the NHS's failures..."
I reassure him that we're going to find a photo of him looking like the good-looking, cool guy he really was..
And that's just the start of it.

The event is being run by Wee Mary. Remember Wee Mary? The Social Worker that W hated? The one he walked out of meetings with??? The one.. well the one that I personally can't see the point of either....except well I had more time to suffer fools than he had.

Dealing with the living as opposed to the terminally ill, Wee Mary is in her element. As a dog, Ned is Not Admitted. Wee Mary has to put up with animals when they belong to patients; without this compassion problem, She can Make Her Own Rules.
As late arrivals the Cherub and I need to sit in our allotted seats, i.e. not the ones we were already sitting in. Can we make sure we are wearing our name badges, can we hurry and finish as we are starting the next activity; no the Cherub cannot have a second piece of shortbread..

Throughout the morning I am having trouble with the constant old lady fussiness of the woman. We are chemical opposites and there's nothing I can do about it. And yet, and yet, and yet, how else better to remember W's spirit? If he's here, he's feeling my exasperation.

Again the Cherub has his own unique take on the situation, "Maybe if we didn't have to be different all the time, we wouldn't have such bad luck"

Well he can talk the talk that boy - but he can't walk the wal. Check out his memory jar with the message "You never could beat me at Timesplitters LOL"


**Obviously a granny or grandpa can be no fun to lose either, but sorry, it's not the same as a parent.

So how is the Cherub doing?
No idea. Really. I'm his mum and I HAVE NO IDEA.
But then I have no idea how he's supposed to be either. If this is "A Journey" as so many would have us believe, the best that can be said is that it's certainly a journey without maps.

He was close to his dad. It was W who looked after him each day after school, and W who took him to badminton, football, rugby matches.
His dad was also much better than me at playing on the XBox. But so far he hasn't cried much.

He was crying quietly as he held his dad's hand on the last couple of days, but trying not to let W see. The night his dad died, he cried just a little bit. At the funeral he didn't cry at all. But then I don't know if he should. He is 13 years old, and most adults prefer to do their crying in private.

On the night his dad died, he sat up with myself and Sparkle till about one in the morning. Then we sat up in his bed reading old picture books and Dr Seuss. He was sleeping when his dad's body was carried out. Luckily. Because they had trouble getting the stretcher through the hall.

And since then, you know, he keeps on going. We've looked out a picture of his dad for his room. We avoid watching TV programmes which remind us of W - Family Guy, The Wire (W had just got addicted, but never got to series 4). The Cherub is resolute in NOT wanting to go visit his dad's old flat. But equally upset if he hears of photos and things being given away.

I don't know how much of this "being OK" is a front, and how much is his still being in shock at what happened.

This week he's been laid up on the sofa. He has a temperature, no appetite, and no interest in anything other than old DVDs and telly.

I think it's finally caught up with him.

Like every other S2 kid in Scotland, the Cherub is being taught a European language - presumably all the better to make new friends abroad when our wee nayshun state finally devolves from the union.
Luckily the Cherub's other language is French; having managed to work my way through a first level degree course, I can help with the revision.

His next class conversation will be about his family (what is it about Q'Ferry High and their obsession with families?? chiz). He has noted down some phrases which will be useful. He has been memorising them.

Ned is a dog Ned est un chien
I live in Cheesetown. J'habite Cheeseville
My father is dead. Mon pere est mort
I have an uncle and granny in New Zealand J'ai un oncle et grandmere en Nouvelle-Zelande.
My mother is boring....Ma mere est WHAT???? What am I? WHAT???
Shrugs, "Couldn't think of any other word..."

Couldn't think of any other word? What about gorgeous, funny, talkative, sweet, smart? Huh? How can you describe your mum, her that can beat you at Mario Kart, her that can tell the difference between Dr Dre and G Unit, her that drives the wee Penelope Pitstop car as fast as possible BORING?????

Another shrug [he thinks he can get away with this....] Well I didn't have long to think...

But it's too late, High Dugeon has been reached. I am not my mother's daughter for nothing...
Cheeses, I'm still lukewarm gossip around here after moving to Glasgow with the Dybbuk!!! Then heading back three years later !!

I'm enjoying this immensely actually. Pots and pans are rattling as I get the dinner together.

Could have mentioned I am POOR BUT HAPPY
Could have said I have travelled widely
Could even have said I AM A GREAT SINGER
Heh heh yeah RIGHT
Could have said I am super fabby wonderful stylish...
Pffttt
But BORING. BORING...??
OK OK you're not boring! Look.
Ma mere est dramatique

Drama queen? Yeah. Good one. I'll settle for drama queen.

I know, I know. As any pedant will point out, the school year runs from August to June - well at least for those pedants talking about schools north of the border it does.
But I have a new diary to update, and, assuming that I will be back working sometime, I've been putting in all the school holiday dates.
School holidays...
All 72 of them. Ignoring weekends.
72 days holiday a year.

This is the first year I've been looking to cover all those holidays by myself. The Cherub's dad would always have had him at least half the time.

Right up to the last holiday - the October break, W was still having holidays with the Cherub. Camping at Easter, France in June, Dublin in August..and, well, for the October break we all stayed put at home, so to speak..

Devil's in the little stuff. The ongoing, everyday, little stuff.
How good is a holiday without your dad?

The cherub has french homework to do. He has to write a short paragraph about his family.
Great.
In the past year the cherub has lost, through no fault of his own, one stepfather, one stepbrother, grandparents in law and, of course, his dad. This should be an interesting exercise....

He's getting me to check it over.
He has written {and I'm very kindly translating for you all here..}
"There are three people in my family. My mother, Ned and me. Ned is a dog. He is big but kind."

"OK that's a start toots, but "gentile" means kind, I think you mean Ned is a big softy..
Sighs. Well the teacher said it was OK.
"OK. My bad. .. What about your dad? You could add your dad just died last month."
Nah. If I wrote about cancer they'd know I'd been on Google translate.

The cherub never fails to surprise. Yesterday he announced he was CAN'T WAIT for Christmas.

Yep, here I am worrying how he's going to get on without the annual visit to Edinburgh Winterland with his dad, or the annual Christmas Day footy match after present opening. Dur, I forgot he's focused on the possibility of getting a PSP, or WWE SMACKDOWN 2010, or Skate 2. School holidays and disco might also have something to do with it too; maybe not even in that order... a Blonde Girl has been figuring in texts lately.

Then, as if there was any doubt about this EXCITEMENT being GENUINE, this morning he put forward his PLAN for the 23rd December.. yes, bear with me, the 23rd.

On the 24th he won't be able to sleep for excitement. To make sure he gets some rest he's planning a sleepover on the 23rd. He's rounding up some pals for an all-night X Box session.
On the 24th we have to go to his gran's. Being exhausted from his sleepover, he will go to bed EARLY. Miss sitting up with aged relatives, wake up to presents.

Sorted.

Life is good, non?

There's one massively obvious fact, which for some reason I've never heard anyone mention. It is that there's no better person for chatting about your kid with, than THE OTHER PARENT.

Teachers are professionals, they're doing their job, and looking after a hundred other kids too; friends with kids, well there's always a shade of distance, and comparison with their own kids; friends without kids haven't personally been there, and step parents - well shoot me because there will be some exceptions to the rule, but step parents, well they're still one step removed. I know. I've been there.

No, for sharing stories about the kid, the other parent is the best bet. One of the best bits about being reconciled with W before he died, was being able to chat about the cherub. Stuff that drove us both mad (XBox addiction), stories we both found funny(cherub getting both wellies stuck in the mud and falling flat on his face), stuff we both liked about the kid (the jokes, the gentleness).

Well the cherub's just got a 1 in his foundation course English. His essay was the best in his year - despite everything.

And saying W would have been proud is not the same as telling him at all.

The Cherub has always been Mr Sociable. (That would be one thing he's inherited from his father rather than his mother). In the cherub's book if anything's worth doing it's worth doing in company. Even his homework is done with constant phone calls to double check and confer with his mates.

Nothing's changed.

Except we have a problem in that he's not at his dad's at weekends anymore. He's here in CHEESETOWN, when all his pals are in Q'Ferry.

The cherub has, therefore, found his own solution. He imports his pals for sleepovers. We're on his fourth sleep over since his dad died last month. For a decent sleepover you need your pals over by lunchtime on Saturday. You need industrial quantities of pizza, popcorn and FANTA.
Pals will contribute sufficient supplies of chocolate to keep everyone buzzing all through the night.
Activities focus around X Box games. We have such sound politically-incorrect and age-inappropriate games as WWE SMACKDOWN, FIFA 2010, Call of Duty... I know, I know, but we do also have board games and Top Trumps.

Hey it's great therapy.

And here's the news. It is not possible to brood and get maudlin whilst there is an ongoing soundtrack from teenage boys in the next room:

Waark! No! GAYBO's after me
Toss -eh-eh-er
Ah, no man that's SHAN
Come on Toxic! Get him!
Toss -eh-eh-er
GAYBO! He's pure OUT OF ORDER!
No! Nowee!
HAR I Will Prevail! HAR!

Sleepovers also have the great effect of stopping anywhere in the house becoming too, well too shrine like...Straws, bought for W to use when he couldn't raise his head are commandeered for blow football sessions and DRINKS. The iPod docking station W had use of to listen to CDs and radio 4 is taken back and re-tuned.

Even catering is great. I haven't made chocolate croissants since W's last weekend. With a houseful of boys, I've got the energy to do this again.

W would have loved it. He might have been able to get them to settle down before 4am though.

My house has been sporadically filled with people, care assistants, friends to see W, the hospice doctor, W's GP, my friends, neighbours, district nurses (yes, they always travel in pairs...). Last night, for the first time I met the Church of Scotland Minister..... They want to care for, talk to, assess, pray for, administer to. Oh I don't know, for all I know they might just be here for the TEA and SHERRY.
W continues to breathe heavily and raspily through an oxygen mask. Sometimes he moans.

All the time, in the background, upstairs, or in the living room there has been The Cherub. The kid is 13 for heavens sake, and his daddy is dying.

He's been so good there in the background. Life continues to give this kid No Breaks. Typically for Cherub, at a time when he would be Let Off School, school is on half term break. So he doesn't even get bonus holidays.
Luckily the hospice sent out its best doctor, Dr K, to visit us. Dr K made sure that the Cherub understood that his daddy would be in no pain as he was under a lot of drugs which would make sure he would never wake up. The noises that we would hear were normal and didn't mean that W was in distress.
Dr K stressed to the Cherub that if he found it frightening or upsetting at all, he could let us know, and his daddy would go back to the hospice instead of staying here at home.
The Cherub was reassured that his dad would be having well freaky dreams, but could definitely still hear anyone talking to him.
Without wanting to sound too much like a New Age hippy here, I've made sure the Cherub got Priority Access through to his dad's room, where he has returned a couple of times now to spend some time with his dad talking and just holding his hand. I was re-assured last night when he told me he'd found it comforting being with him.

Apparently W has squeezed the cherub's hand in return.

I am in the spare bedroom having a discussion with Ned about the state of the bed . He knows he's not allowed on the furniture, but our spare bed has mud on the duvet cover and keeps sprouting old dog toys under the pillows.

The Cherub interrupts "You talking me or our pets again?"

"Ned! .....And pets???? Ned's the only pet we have right now"

"Yeah, well Ned's got fleas - so I reckon we have pets"

"Pffftt Ned's had two flea shampoos, got frontline lotion AND we fleabombed the house. Remember???"

"LOL. Ned and his IMMORTAL fleas"

Since I found out about W's cancer, I think It's fair to say that I've never been sure what to tell the cherub.
Advice from the professionals at Maggies and Marie Curie has been the same - tell the truth, be honest, but not brutally honest. Don't hold out false hope, but equally don't tell him bluntly that his dad will be dead before Christmas. Children experience time as being so much longer than adults, and an expected lifespan of 4-10 more months is pretty vague anyway.

So communication with the cherub has been pretty much as follows:-

From dad "You know how I've been having tests lately for this cough I've got? Well they still don't know what the problem is, but it does look like I might need to have an operation. If I do I'm going to need you to help look after me when I come out, make me soup and stuff. And let me win on the x box right?" (November 2008)

From dad "Well they're going to take half my lung out. The good news is that it's going to be my left lung, and because your left lung is all squashed against your heart, it means that it's so much smaller than the right lung. So if you have to lose a lung it's definitely the best one to lose." (December 2008)

From dad "Guess what? they didn't take the lung out at all! They've left a big scar on my back like I've been attacked by Jaws, but they decided it wasn't worth bothering with the lung. So I'll be home sooner" (January 2009)

From dad "Well they've finally found out what's wrong with me. I've got a really rare kind of cancer. It starts in your blood cells, and that's why they took so long to find out. This is good news though, because these doctors are going to be paying special attention to me now" (February 2009)

From mum "Cherub, has your dad told you all about his cancer? Do you have any questions?
Cherub "No" (April 2009)

From mum "Cherub, you know your dad's quite seriously ill don't you? The doctors are doing all that you can, but first of all the operation was no use, then the radiotherapy didn't work, so now this chemotherapy is sort of the last attempt"
Cherub "OK" (May 2009)

From mum "You know you could do a project with your dad this summer, maybe build a blog, or a photo album or something. Would be nice to look back on later"
Cherub "Nah" (June 2009)

From mum "You know Maggies Centre have great people to talk to. There's people there could talk to you about your dad's cancer and how you're feeling about it."
Cherub "Nah" (June 2009)

From dad "What d'ye mean your pals don't know I've got cancer? Do they think I'm just bald because looking after you makes me tear my hair out? Does Andrew think I'm sleeping all the time because I'm some kind of old lazy git?
Cherub shrug (July 2009)

From mum "I think old Jock dog's going to be staying with us permanently now, seeing's how your dad's not going to be able to walk him or anything when he gets out the hospice"
Cherub "OK" (August 2009)

Anyways it looks like our communication is failing spectacularly. Yesterday W, who has been in the hospice for the past fortnight, attached to various tubes, and hobbling 10 yards max, got a text from the cherub checking if he was down the park.....