Christmas and Easter have been and gone since last I wrote. Trust me, they have. My various jaunts were all very pleasant (apart from a few bouts of illness which threatened to overwhelm me and another, once resulting in a memorable fainting) and I have had a jolly nice few weeks- no school and much merriment. I am now faced with the unwelcome prospect of completing the second written assignment for my P.G.C.E. That is what I should be doing now. I have recently returned from the library, laden with publications with gripping and exhilarating titles, such as ‘Communication and Learning in Small Groups.’

My written assignment is to be on the subject of Inclusion and Social Learning. Ooohh. Ahhh. This essentially means that I will be looking at how children who have problems interacting with others (such as children with Asperger’s Syndrome, a disorder on the Autistic Spectrum) cope with group work and whether they can benefit from it. Now doesn’t that sound stimulating?

I started off well. I have much relevant material. I have even read some of it. Unfortunately I decided to have a flick through what is essentially a novel, albeit a novel told from the perspective of a child with Asperger’s, attempting to solve the murder of his neighbour’s dog. I suppose it is technically related, as it does give quite an insight as to how those with Asperger’s view the world, but it is something I should have read a few months ago, when planning my research lessons, rather than a week before the essay is due. An extract and then I must crack on-

‘Heaven doesn’t exist. I said there wasn’t another kind of place altogether. Except there might be if you went through a black hole. If Heaven was on the other side of a black hole, dead people would have to be fired into space on rockets to get there, and they aren’t, or people would notice.’(The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time.)

Now there’s logic for you. This passage may also illustrate why I find talking to children with Asperger’s so interesting. They may well see the world differently but still certainly manage to make more sense than a lot of people.

I forgot to say yesterday- another pupil, in the same class, was asked what they would discuss in their essay in relation to the rhyme scheme. The pupil replied that the rhyming was “erotic.” Quite apart from the fact that she had meant to say erratic, the rhyme scheme is very regular in the poem in question (ababb, if you’re interested.) I didn’t laugh out loud but it was difficult.

This, the briefest of entries, will probably be the last that is heard of me, blog-wise, for some time. Tonight I have much work to do, involving devising a fun poetry quiz for the aforementioned year 10s, and then I must pack and wash things and whatnot. I am off, you see, for the majority of the Easter holidays, on a magical mystery tour of the country. Well, it’s not really mysterious. I know exactly where I am going, or at least where I intend to go. Come to think of it, it is unlikely to be magical but you never know. Since it is doubtful I shall have access to a computer for, oooh, over a week, you will have to do without me. Good luck.

As part of their coursework, my year 10s are currently writing a comparative essay on two, Pre-1914, Love poems. The poems they have the good fortune to be scrutinising are ‘Porphyria’s Lover’, by Robert Browning and ‘La Belle Dame Sans Merci’, by John Keats. While going through the plan for this essay, I asked one pupil what he thought the situation was at the beginning of the Keats poem. The boy responded along these lines: “He’s drinking alone in the pub and he wants to know what kind of beer they have.” For those of you unfamiliar with Romantic ballads, here are the opening lines of ‘La Belle Dame Sans Merci.’

“Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?”

When I questioned the lad further as to his reasoning, he illuminated by way of the following: “Well, he’s at the pub, yeah, The Knight’s Arms, alone, and he wants to know what kind of ale they have.” This is at the essay planning stage. They have already been through the poems. At least he got the alone part right. You have to focus on what they know and build from that. That is what I tell myself.

On the way back to my house this evening, I purchased some groceries. Since I had procured enough Diet Coke to kill, or at least maim, a donkey, I utilized a taxi instead of undertaking the two-minute walk back to my place of residence. (I was tired and cold!) The taxi driver, upon arrival at my domicile, declared that the remuneration he required for the use of his carriage was “a couple of quid, love.” I, no doubt distracted by the remnants of the previous day’s victuals lodged in his whiskers, answered “I’m sorry, did you say that was two pounds?” The driver responded by thrusting his nose into the air, presumably in an attempt to imitate the upper-classes, and stating, in an affected tone, that “Two Poy-unds would be just charming.” Then, resuming his prior, vulgar intonation, he continued “Well, love, that’s a coupla quid in normal peoples’ language.” As those who are acquainted with me will no doubt vouch, I am not aristocratic, especially in respect to my accent. I alighted, not a little perplexed and considerably taken-aback.

Today is my little sister’s birthday. She is 17. This does mean she will shortly be getting behind the wheel of an automotive vehicle. I would suggest to anyone living or travelling in the area of Essex close to Colchester, that they avoid the lanes and thoroughfares of that county for the foreseeable future. It is also April Fools’ Day. (Miss, miss, pinch, punch, first of the month! Can we play a trick on you?!) And what an apt day for the occasion of her birth it was too. If you think I am being harsh, take note of the following account. On receiving her gym membership, signing up for classes and attending the first one, my sister made the following remark- “Well, I enjoyed it and everything but I really can’t see what it had to do with Pirates.” Can you guess the currently popular exercise program designed to “engage body and mind” my sister had just participated in?

The Passion then… The violence was, you might say, a bit strong - not that I feel deeply opposed to graphic violence or become exceptionally squeamish when viewing such material. The argument behind such explicit scenes – all Sin forgiven, greatest sacrifice, greatest suffering, follows cruelty has to be excessive, etc, etc- is all well and good. It does, however, get a bit dull after a while. (I, not being altogether religious, am more concerned with the film’s aesthetic value, rather than its power to instruct and redeem/corrupt the public.) In addition, this purpose is rather undermined by the cheap, pseudo-poignant sensationalism we have grown to, well, tolerate from Mel Gibson.

If you would rather see the film first, do not read on. Imagine the scene- Jesus, beaten and bloody, bits hanging off, dragging the cross athwart the opening to an alleyway in which his distraught mother is waiting to catch a glimpse of him. She, paralysed with maternal suffering, cannot summon the courage to go to her son and give what words of comfort she can. Jesus, overcome with exhaustion, trips. His head cracks on the harsh stone and flashback! We are now in the presence of Jesus the boy, running along a pathway, with no regard for his personal safety, as children are wont to do. He trips- gasp! Mary, about her usual domestic duties, hears her son’s shout of anguish and rushes to him, ready to bandage his grazed and youthful knees. And we’re back in film present! This mental episode has apparently given Mary the kick up the arse she needed in order to go to her son. She now runs to him, the music building to an emotional and orchestral crescendo. We all feel suitably moved.

Having said all this, it was not as bad as I was expecting. In the man’s defence, (a phrase I am unlikely to use again, so pay attention) producing the whole film in Aramaic and Latin was a stroke of genius. Had the characters been speaking English and, Heaven forbid, (Ohh Blasphemy!) using American accents, the whole thing would have been a farce. The language was extremely pleasant to listen to and, apart from a few incidents like the one mentioned above and the lack of anything actually happening, -half an hour of various cross-dragging, falling, being beaten, more cross dragging- I must say I found it…not enjoyable but...interesting. I resisted the urge, at one point, when a leading character proclaims that Jesus is “not the Messiah” to shout out “he’s a very naughty boy.” How restrained of me. With regard to anti-Semitism, I feel that is a can of worms I best leave alone. All I will say is, the characterisation of Pontius Pilate was a little unexpected.

Now, one more thing with regard to Mel, as he seems to have got off very lightly indeed. I must recount to you certain details from another film affiliated with Mr Gibson. The Patriot is worth watching for one scene. Where I have put ‘worth’ in that sentence, feel free to insert ‘laughing at.’ Mel’s youngest daughter in the above mentioned production, for reasons best known to herself, is struck mute for most of the first part of the film. There follows, towards the end, a moving and tender scene in which the girl speaks again for the first time. Sighs of relief all round. During the proceeding dialogue between Mel and his loquacious offspring, certain details come to light that could put off the more attentive viewer. When the camera is on Mel and the child’s back is to the camera, her golden pigtails are flowing down her back. When the camera is on the girl and Mel’s back is to us, the girl’s pigtails lie on her front. Mr Gibson has been involved in much stirring and controversial cinema and much in which the production team appear to have been a bit lackadaisical in their editing. My, I have been long- winded today.

Oh, I must mention one more thing in relation to The Passion and it invloves Satan. My housemate, James, with whom I shared my Cinema Experience, commented thus at our departure from the theatre- “Well, for me, the transsexual Devil with the shaven Telly Tubby made the whole film.” The boy has a ‘degree’ in Film Studies. How’s that for a review?

And finally- I win! Mr Flossie is mine! I won’t even have to “wrestle the intellectual Property rights away from him with a crowbar”, as a friend of mine suggested. She was feeling a bit ill at the time, though.