For Those Who’ve Come Across the Seas, We’ve Boundless Plains to Share…. HA HA! KIDDING!

When I was an undergraduate teaching student, I had an incredible lecturer for my Society and Environment unit. (Society and Environment is what we used to call ‘Social Studies’). She was passionate and interested, and someone I felt I could have sat and chatted with for hours. I went by to see her one afternoon after class and she was telling me about a teaching aid she’d developed, and gave me a copy.

I got home and put the DVD into my computer. Continue reading

Happy Birthday! Welcome to Obsolescence!

The other day was my birthday, and I turned 38.

I don’t mind turning 38. I don’t even mind the fact that in two years, I’ll be turning 40. But with that milestone, comes the much-maligned label of ‘middle-aged’. And I hate that.

I don’t actually hate middle age at all. I hate what we’re told it represents: in middle age, you’re no longer ‘cool’. You’re past it. You lack youthful attractiveness; you lack sex appeal. You are less employable. You are less flexible. You are on the downhill slide towards old age (when, if these representations are to be believed, things REALLY turn for the worst)!

But that isn’t my reality. I think this is an awesome age to be. Of course, in some ways, I have embraced what it is to be ‘old’. Examples, you say? Oh, but there are so many…

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It’s Not Really About Marius.

I’m not sure how widely this story spread, but last week, I read on the BBC website that Marius, a healthy 18-month-old male giraffe, was due to be killed via bolt gun at the Copenhagen Zoo.

Unsurprisingly, there was uproar On The Internet (and In The World, as well). Other zoos in different countries offered to take Marius. There was a petition signed by thousands, pleading with the zoo to spare Marius’ life. But the zoo refused, and last Sunday, Marius was killed, and in front of a crowd in which children were present, dissected, and parts of the body fed to lions.

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You’re Doing it Wrong.

In our ex-city, there is a shop which sells Indian food. I can’t even remember the name of it, because I know where it is, so why would I need to know the name of the shop?* The point of this is that the shop sold frozen parathas and chapatis, and they were very tasty. They also sold homemade samosas on Fridays and Saturdays, and, even though it was a drive, sometimes I would deviate from whatever errands I was running, to get a couple for the Handsome Sidekick and myself to have for dinner.

Mmm, samosas.

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