I consider learning Russian.

Mary Dunwich writes:

My daughter informs me that Uzbekistan is "nearly in Russia". I wonder if my student Uri speaks Russian? Maybe he could help me learn it. I rather fancy learning Russian.

I have wanted to learn Russian ever since I realised that my parents distrusted and disliked the Russians. Perversely, this fostered a fascination in me, a desire to learn all I could about this mysterious and devious foreign types. I loved spy films. Foreigners being devious and exotic (and generally rather sexy), wonderful. I've loved learning foreign languages ever since watching the "Ipcress File". My only regret is that no-one's ever tried to brainwash me. Maybe they already have. How would I know?

Mind you, my parents also had little time for the Germans, the French or the Americans. In fact I think they distrusted pretty much everyone, except the the Canadians, the New Zealanders and the Swiss. What the Swiss have ever done to deserve my parents' approval is anyone's guess. It was a Swiss scientist who proved the great Englishman Newton wrong about the way gravity works. Yes Albert, I am looking at you! I suppose you think it's clever.

Oh dear, I've started talking to my son's incorporeal friends now. I hope I'm not coming down with schizotypy. Perhaps I should go and see those psychologists too.

I'm still sulking about missing out on this Oxford trip, so I'm pretending not to be interested in the research study Harry's taking part in. On the quiet I've been thinking about it quite a lot.
I've looked "schizotypy" up on Wikipedia, the fount and source of all knowledge. It has a lot to say, although in quite long words so I shall have to think about it over a pot of tea and a custard cream.

Mmm....

'Claridge' (who's he then?) says that schizotypy isn't 'psychoticism' (that means being mad, I assume), it's being a person who experiences 'unusual experiences', 'cognitive disorganisation', 'introverted anhedonia' and 'impulsive nonconformity'. What's that all about?

I thoughtfully picked at a blob of dodo-poo which had stuck to my trousers. I'd put my clean pair on but I've forgotten where I put them. No-one's going to see what I'm wearing today anyway, apart from the school run I'm not going anywhere and I don't talk to the other parents when I get there.

I wonder if this 'Claridge' is the person in charge of the Oxford research study?

I shall have to ask Harry all about it when he gets back. As long as the Devil doesn't get overexcited and talk to him all the way through his tests. If he's having a one-sock day I'd get more sense talking to James.

Too much Poe and too much poo

Mary Dunwich quoth:

Once upon a teatime dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over a creepy audiobook from Librivox's online store,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my patio door.
"Aargh!" I shouted, jumping sharply, "What the Hell's that? Tapping, tapping,
Tapping at my patio door!"

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a podgy dodo of the rancid days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, stood and pooed upon my floor.
"Damn!" I swore, "that will take scrubbing! Stoop I must to clean my floor,"
"Lest that stains it evermore."

I've really got to stop listening to all these horror audiobooks, I think they're starting to have an effect on me. Scooping Dodgson up in my arms, I stepped over the pile of dodo-poo and went to tuck him up in his coop for the night.

In which I learn a new word, and fear for James' safety

Mary Dunwich writes:

Question: Why did the dodo cross the road?

Answer: Because my muppet husband forgot to shut the garden gate!

I let Dodgson out to roam about the garden as usual. When I went out to check on him, the gate was open and he was gone. A frantic search later found him over the road in old Mrs Battenburg's front garden. He was roosting in her hardy perennials, trying half-heartedly now and then to reach the crusts on the bird-table (which isn't designed to feed flightless birds).

It took me ten minutes and a lot of bad language to round him up and get him home. Whoever spread the rumour that the dodo was an ungainly bird is a big, fat fibber. They are really surprisingly fast on their toes. Once I flushed him out of the flower bed, he raced around the garden several times at top speed, then zipped back across the road, narrowly avoiding being flattened by a very startled number 27 bus.

All of this put me into a very grumpy mood. I decided to wait until Charlie got home and take it out on him. Some of my troubles were definitely his fault. I was already feeling sorry for myself about missing out on an all-too-rare trip to Oxford, thanks to my son's deceased friend Albert's insistance on a trip to the Oxford Science Museum to check the sums he left on a blackboard on a visit over half a century ago. I really feel that the dead should slow down and get some perspective on their lives. You can't take it with you. Albert seems to be treating death as an extended "Working from Home" day.

"What do you mean by taking the boys to Oxford and leaving me behind?" I demanded as soon as Charlie's foot came through the front door that evening.

"I'm taking Harry to Magdalen College to see the psychology professor," answered Charlie, wearily sitting on the stairs to take off his boots. "They are doing a study on schizotypy, and Harry volunteered to take some tests. You know he won't drive because the Devil keeps telling him to watch his speed and it puts him off."

"Schizotypy? Is that a new word for schizophrenia?" I asked. It's political correctness gone mad, I thought.

"No, schizotypy is a whole range of eccentric behaviours. Schizophrenia just sits on the far end of the spectrum," answered my husband, taking his Dalek lunchbox out of his council briefcase. "We're all schizotypes to some extent or another. Harry's just more extreme than most."

"Are you saying I'm mad?" I asked indignantly. Sometimes you have to work quite hard to pick a fight with Charlie.

Charlie looked at my uncombed hair (I've lost my brush and Minnie's stolen my comb), my unmatched socks and my trousers grass-stained from the dodo-hunt, raised an eyebrow but refused to comment.

I pondered this new idea. Me, a little bit schizophrenic? Surely not. Great-Aunt Fanny, maybe. She was convinced that her neighbour Mr Figgin was a KGB agent sent to spy on her, and that all his junk mail was coded messages from Moscow. Cousin Bertie refuses to wear underpants and talks to the wallpaper. And James.....James is just really creative, okay?

Didn't Albert Einstein's son have schizophrenia? Perhaps there's a fine line between creativity, genius and madness.

"Mmm.....There's still no need to take the boys with you," I grumbled, still reluctant to give up the idea of a fight.

"I thought I might introduce James to the psychologists and see if they want him to sit the schizotypy test," answered Charlie. "You've got to admit, dear, he's not exactly normal. I'd like to know what the professor makes of him."

"I resent that! My boy is completely normal! He's just been misunderstood by people who don't understand how intelligent he really is!" I thundered. "Besides, I wouldn't trust him not to let Albert take the test for him. Having a dead genius sit the test might skew the statistics. Er."

My ears stopped to listen to what my mouth was saying. Maybe channelling the spirit of a dead scientist and travelling back in time is a bit bizarre, even by the standards of an Oxford don. I just hope James doesn't show the professor his dodo. They might want to keep him for further study and not let him come home again. Or the dodo either.

I miss out on an outing

Mary Dunwich writes:

It snowed yesterday. What was that about? It's not supposed to snow in England in November. It must be global warming. Maybe the Gulf Stream has changed course and is plunging Britain into another ice age.

I was cleaning out the dodo and worrying about the weather when my son shambled out to join me. He looked excited and unusually focussed for a Sunday morning.

"We're going to Oxford next Saturday!" He announced. "Harry is taking part in a research study at the University. Dad's going to drive him there. We're all having a day out in Oxford."

"Ah, good!" I answered, emptying my bucket of dodo poo onto the compost heap. It makes a fantastic activator, I'm thinking about selling it on eBay. "I want to go back to that fantastic bookshop that's bigger on the inside than the outside".

I'm a big fan of Blackwells' bookshop. They order Tolkien books in German for me without getting flustered or telling me I should get out more.

"Erm....I don't think there'll be room for you as well," answered James, thoughtfully poking at a worm with my compost-poking stick.

"Why not? Who's going?" I asked, as I started to spread the straw around the floor of Dodgson's coop. Why is it, when the kids get a pet, it's always Mum who ends up cleaning it out?

"Erm....Dad offered to take us to the Oxford Natural History museum with Dodgson," said James. "Dad thinks a real, live dodo is too important to keep to ourselves. He says we should share him with the wider scientific community."

Hmm. I suspect the Werewolf's just got tired of buying bales of straw and economy-size packs of pigeon food. Either that or he's got the wind up about the Endangered Species legislation and doesn't want to risk going to gaol for keeping a proverbially endangered wild animal as a pet. Chicken!

"You can't trust that lot at the Natural History museum!" I objected. "They had a dodo once and look what they did with it! The last known stuffed dodo in history, and those philistines chucked it on the fire just because it looked a bit manky. I wouldn't let them near our little Dodgson." (I've cleaned him out seven times now, I consider I have a part share in him).

"It's got to be done, Mum!" answered James calmly. I hate it when he gets reasonable at me. "We don't know how to care of Dodgson, if he gets sick the vet's bills could be dreadful. Besides, I want to take a picture of the looks on their faces when they see him!"

"Mmmm....." I conceded the point as I refilled Dodgson's food bowl. Still, I wasn't going to give up on a shopping trip without a fight. "So, that's Dad, you, Harry, me and Minnie. We should all fit in the car. Dodgson can go in a dodo box in the boot."

"Stanley and Jay want to come too!" replied James. "It's their school project too! We want to go to the science museum and take pictures of ourselves next to Einstein's blackboard. Albert says he wants to see it again. He has a feeling he made a mistake in the equations and he won't rest easy till he's checked them again."

Great. I have to forego a much-needed outing just because the greatest scientist since Newton is worried he's got his sums wrong. If he has, no-one's noticed it in the last half a century. I really feel that now Albert is.....retired, he should be putting his feet up and not still worrying about his work. You won't catch me tutoring students and cleaning out family pets once I'm dead.

We broaden our minds and reduce our vocabulary

Mary Dunwich writes:

James and his friends have set up a small business! I know this because I have found one of their business cards in James' trouser pocket. It says:

"Bouncing Bunnies Computer Support: all your computer problems fixed. 1 House Point per 15 minutes. Contact James, Jay and Stanley in 6B."

If they are being paid in house points then they must be selling their services to the teaching staff, and raising their popularity with the other kids in their house into the bargain. I'm impressed at their entrepreneurialism. What busy little bees they are!

I have also been a busy bee. I have a second LingQ student now. His name is Uri and he comes from Uzbekistan. He has an impeccable command of the English language, provided he is talking about mining and mineral resources. On any other subject he stammers and dries up. In extreme cases he blames a dodgy Skype connection and hangs up. As my knowledge of mining is even sketchier than my knowledge of cricket, all I can manage to say in our conversations is "Mmm" or "Well, I didn't know that!" It's like listening to James explaining the plot of Doctor Who.

Still, I haven't spent the last four years flirting with Harry the Geek without learning a trick or two for dealing with the socially hesitant. I'll get round Uri, see if I don't. I'll have to think of some interesting questions to ask about Uzbekistan. At present I can think of only one, which is: "Is Uzbekistan a real place?" It sounds exotic and imaginary, like Shangri-La or The Isle of Avalon. If it is real, I have no idea where it can be.

I shall have to set Minnie on the task of finding out about Uzbekistan. Mrs Krumball has been forcing extra geography on my daughter as part of her punishment for her Bonfire Night prank. Astonishingly, Minnie is really enjoying it and has been looking forward to her detentions. She's learned all sorts of things with Mrs Krumball. She has explained to me how it is possible to provide the whole world with electricity by linking the existing power stations to create a world-wide energy grid. That's pretty impressive coming from a seven-year-old.

My ignorance of any event happening beyond my native shores is becoming something of an embarrassment. I know that the world expects the British to be insular, but really, it seems that we are living on a totally different planet from the rest of the world. Even little old ladies living halfway up mountains have more of a grasp of world politics than I do. Well, one little old lady at least. TibetanChick was telling me with great gusto about the impact the new American president was likely to have on Tibetan-Chinese relationships. Considering her limited vocabulary she really can express herself quite graphically. Too graphically for my tastes, I daren't use the speakers during our Skype conversations in case the children are listening.

I'm pleased to say that under my guidance TibetanChick has made some progress with her English. I have convinced her that the "M" word is not acceptable in polite conversation. Or the "N" word. The "B" word is usually used only by working men in moments of great stress. The "V" word I had to look up, the "C" word wasn't even in the dictionary and I think the "Z" word must be in Tibetan. As that's six words she can no longer use in English, I must be the only LingQ tutor to have decreased a student's active vocabulary! I wonder what that's done to her LingQ scores?

Another visit to the Head

Mary Dunwich writes:

I got called into the Head's office again.

It turns out that Minnie had tried to set off some very loud firecrackers at the school's Bonfire Night festivities. Her plot was foiled (much as the original one was) so she then switched the water for the cocoa with the wee collected by the smallest children for use as compost activator. She was spotted by her teacher, Mrs Krumball, and sentenced to two weeks' detention.

"But she didn't actually set the fireworks off," I protested, somewhat feebly. "She put them in a compost heap. That's practically recycling."

Mrs Lunn, who has had all too much experience in dealing with me, picked up her copy of the School's Health and Safety Policy. "On page 32 it states that explosives are not to be brought onto the school premises for any purpose," she pointed out. "On page 52 it states that urine is to be kept in suitably marked containers and used for educational purposes only. Minnie contravened the Policy when she poured a bucket full into the hot water urn. Incidentally, we will be sending you the bill for having the urn decontaminated."

Curses. This woman is too good. "I suppose I have to attend the course on Managing Positive Behaviour again," I said wearily. "I assure you, I already know how to manage positive behaviour. If I ever see my kids behaving positively, I shall deal with it immediately!"

Mrs Lunn sighed. "With Minnie's record I would be quite justified in suspending her from school," she said. "I'd rather not do that. Mrs Krumball believes that Minnie is actually quite a gifted child."

"Gifted at causing trouble, certainly," I countered. "I've never known a child like her."

"Mrs Krumball thinks Minnie is acting up because she is not sufficiently challenged," said Mrs Lunn. "She thinks that she would benefit from extra school activities. Minnie's a very bright girl."

Mmmm.....I suppose it runs it the family. My son has managed to alter the fabric of reality to make time-travel a possibility, built the world's first time machine and travelled backwards in time.

"I suppose she's James's sister," I answered thoughtfully. "I expect she is pretty bright."

Mrs Lunn coughed. "About James," she said. "Miss Bannock asked me to have a word with you. She wanted me to show you some of his recent work."

She handed me an essay entitled "Why we should not be prejudiced". I read it. "The cheeky little...!" I exclaimed. "He's calling me a Vital Supremacist!"

"Er...quite," said Mrs Lunn. "It seems that he's mixing up fact and fiction again. Mrs Bannock says that in an essay entitled "My Family" he claimed to have a pet dodo. That's all very well for creative writing, but James needs to be made to understand that some pieces of work need to be strictly factual."

"Er..yes..." I said, thinking fast. "Creative writing, quite. I think he's using .....erm, satire....to make a point about respecting diversity. And the dodo represents....er....our need to respect the environment or lose important biodiversity. He's quite good at rhetoric, you know."

"Does he still have imaginary friends?" asked Mrs Lunn, putting on her "I'm hear if you need to talk" look.

"Noooo...." I answered. "I believe his friends are all real at the moment."

"Miss Bannock heard him talking to himself at break. She couldn't be sure, but she thought it sounded like German."

"Practising his lines for a play," I said firmly. "In German. Er."

This sounded feeble even to me. Mrs Lunn leaned forward and turned the "concerned and caring" look up a notch.

"You look tired, Mrs Dunwich," she said. "Is everything all right at home?"

"You wouldn't believe the half of what I have to put up with," I answered with perfect sincerity. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go. I have to talk to a Tibetan about her yak."

I made a speedy exit before Mrs Lunn could put me down for the "Meditation: Getting in Touch with the Real You" course as well. What with having to contend with a dodo, TibetanChick, Albert Einstein's ghost and a sock-stealing Embodiment of Evil, I really don't think I have time to talk to the Real Me as well.

An essay on respecting diversity by James

Why we should not be prejudiced by James Dunwich, 6B

The Americans have elected a black man for president for the first time and everyone thinks this is really important because he is not white and so he knows what it is like to not be white. But he is still a man an he is still an American and he is still alive so he does not know what it is like to be not a man and not an American and not alive. I think this shows prejudice against all the people who are not alive American men.

I have a friend called Albert he is postliving and he is very clever. Mum likes men who are clever but only if they are alive. If they are vitally challenged like Albert she just calls them all ghosts and is not interested. I think it is because she does not know what it is like to be differently existing but she will find out one day and then we will see how she likes it! It isn't nice when everyone is prejudiced against you as Albert knows.

Albert says he knows some postliving Native Americans who want to be president but they aren't allowed even though they are American and they aren't nearly as black as the president but they are not alive.

I want to have some differently existing penfriends now I have a new computer and I can talk to them. Mum just wants me to have boring old living penfriends like Alice in Switzerland. I have told my Mum she is a Vital Supremacist and should be ashamed. She is a member of a place called LingQ and you have to be alive or they don't let you join I think it is shameful.

My Mum thinks she is not prejudiced because she likes men and women and black people and white people and all sorts of foreigners. But she is prejudiced because she does not like postliving people. She calls them dead or ghosts or deceased which is just as bad. She thinks they are creepy and they should go back where they came from and not try to talk with living people at all. She treats them worse than slaves although she does not want them to do anything she just wants them to go away and not bother her. Well if differently alive people started chaining themselves to railings and throwing themselves under the Queen's horse it would just serve everybody right.

Remember, Remember the Fifth of November

Lizzie Higgs-Boson writes:

It is November 5th already! Autumn rolls around again so fast.

I took my children, Stanley and Olivia, to the Primary School for the festivities. (It was too late for little Ivor, so his Dad stayed at home, putting him to bed).

The schoolchildren had made a lovely Guy, very lifelike and completely biodegradeable. The Fire Service have refused to come out to any more school bonfires in Dusty Mouldings, so this year the school has an exciting new twist on the whole "Burning Guy Fawkes in effigy" thing. This year they are composting the Guy instead. They have built a huge compost heap in the corner of the school field and put the Guy on top. It will take about a year for him to rot down, even soaked as he is with wee (which the Reception class, with great gusto, have been collecting). It's not quite the spectacle of a huge bonfire, but the children will be learning important lessons about recycling from it.

We all ate baked potatoes and roasted chestnuts ("Warning! May contain nuts!") , drank hot chocolate and watched the firework display. I thought it was a magnificent show considering the budget the PTA had for it. They can't have paid full retail price for all those fireworks. Someone must have a Cash and Carry card.

Mary didn't come. She objects to Bonfire Night. She says we are celebrating the centuries-long oppression and persecution of members of minority faiths in our country, and that there's no reason to take pride in the memory of a failed regicide and mass-murderer, who the king had tortured and publicly hanged, drawn and quartered.

She did, however, let James and Minnie come with us. Her moral objections don't stand in the way of her children filling themselves with cheap baked potatoes. I made sure first that that rather unnerving young Scottish doctor wouldn't be coming with them. When he showed up on Hallowe'en for the Trick or Treating he hardly said a word, and when he did speak I found him completely incomprehensible. Such a broad Scottish accent, it's surprising the NHS employed him. I don't know how his patients get on with him.

Minnie got into trouble for hiding some rook-scarers in the big compost heap. She was under the impression that they were going to set fire to it. When she realised that all she had done was to get her fireworks all soggy, she tried to switch a bucket of Reception's wee for the water for the hot chocolate. She's going to have a fortnight's detentions for that. Mary won't be happy, she'll have to attend the course on "Managing Positive Behaviour" again.

Meeting interesting people on the internet

Mary Dunwich writes:

My LingQ student has sent me a writing submission to mark! I think it is about yak herding, though it is a little hard to be sure. "TibetanChick" has an English vocabulary of about a hundred and fifty words, at least ten of which are very rude. I think she must have had some contact with the American military at some stage.

Still, her English is a lot more impressive than my Tibetan. Fair play to her for deciding to learn. It just goes to show, there is nothing in the world so dangerous or daunting that a granny somewhere isn't prepared to try it. Go TibetanChick!

James' new computer is certainly an interesting bit of kit. It sprawls over the workbench like an animatronic octopus. I've seen external sound cards, external DVD writers and external speakers before, but this is ridiculous. Most of the components of this computer are external. I'd be surprised if there's anything left inside the casing at all. Many of the components were designed by Harry the Geek, and as they are passive optical components they don't hum and they don't get warm. All they do is emit a faint, eery glow. If H.P. Lovecraft had ever owned a personal computer, it would look like this.

Harry says that his phase-shift photonic transmission system increases the speed of operation of the computer into the realms of Gigahertz, and increases the effective bandwidth of the internet connection to some Terabytes a second. Surely he can't be serious?

Harry also claims he's got Ouija for Windows 6.1 working on it. Apparently it works best with a tweaked version of Windows 98 (or Linux), and with the extra bandwidth you can increase the signal-to-noise ratio to quite reasonable levels. Oh goody. My son is already friendly with one deceased person, and I would prefer him to spend more time amongst the living. Some dead people weren't at all nice. Atilla the Hun, Napoleon, my great-aunt Fanny. I hope the security is sufficient to block out unsolicited messages. I must check the firewall settings before I let him use it.

Harry the Geek comes up with the goods

Mary Dunwich writes:

I noticed this morning that we have a new LingQ member from Mauritius. I wonder if they want their dodo back?

I was pondering on who has the best claim to Dodgson the dodo. James bought him fair and square from a Dutch sailor in the seventeenth century, but unfortunately he didn't think to ask for a receipt.

The Werewolf thinks Dodgson comes under the Endangered Species legislation, which makes it highly illegal for us to be keeping a rare wild animal in a coop in our workshop.

I can't see that an animal that's been extinct for over three hundred years can be considered endangered. It's like putting the Loch Ness Monster on the "species at risk" list.

The Werewolf says that, as Dodgson is alive and well, clearly the Dodo is no longer extinct. There is now a total of one dodo in the world, and that makes him pretty blooming endangered.

I say you would first have to prove that he is a dodo, and as there is very little dodo around (just a dodo foot or something at the Oxford Museum of Natural History) it would be difficult to prove. The court case could drag on for years.

I was just about to look up the UK laws on keeping wild animals on Google when the Werewolf came in, closely followed by Harry the Geek and, by the looks of it, half the stock of Silicon Heaven.

"Did they have everything you wanted?" I asked with interest. Harry has offered to upgrade one of his old computers and give it to James to use for his school work. It's all a bit home-made, but does have the big advantage that he'll let us have it for £30, which is the grand total of my earnings as a LingQ tutor so far.

"Most of it," answered Charlie, putting the vintage computer he was carrying onto the floor. "The Head Anorak was well impressed by Harry. I think he realised he's met his match."

"The wee eijit dinna ken muckle o' phase-shift modulation," said Harry with self-satisfaction.

"Well, who does?" I asked. "Apart from you of course. That's what you did your Master's thesis on, isn't it?"

"Aye," he answered. "Ye can get an exponential increase in bandwidth if ye use passive optical components instead of electronic ones, and use synchronised photon streams. But that wee laddie in the shop had nivver e'en studied at Cambridge. He didna know the furrst thing about it!"

Well, quite. I peered into some of the bags.

"I'm not sure this lot will all fit in James' bedroom," I commented.

"I'm pretty sure it won't," countered Charlie. "It'll have to go in the workshop. I'll rig up an ethernet link while Harry's putting it all together."

"You're going to put out James' computer out in the workshop?" I asked. "Are you sure about this?"

"Do you want to pay £300 for a new computer that will fit in his bedroom?" answered my husband.

Mmm. I would have to work a lot harder at attracting students at LingQ to pay for that kind of technology. At present I only have one student, an elderly lady from Tibet, who chose me as her tutor because she thought that I was a minor member of the Royal family. To earn serious money I would have to act like a serious tutor.

"Well, if you're going to be making a lot of noise drilling I suggest you get started now," I said to Charlie. "Minnie and James have taken Dodgson for walkies in the woods at Sir Isaac's. I don't want a traumatised dodo on my hands. I've told them to be back for one o'clock. Are you staying for lunch, Harry? I'm doing Toad in the Hole and Spotted Dick with custard."

Harry brightened at the thought of a hot meal (I don't think he's at ease with cooker technology). He muttered something about neeps. I'm not comfortable with Scots, but I took this to be a remark about root vegetables. I said I'd see what I could do, and left them both to play.