The List

I'm the poor sod who organises relievers for our school, Nuova Lazio High School, in New Zealand.
I don't mean I arrange who pees where, I mean I attempt to co-ordinate demand for a person to cover a class where a teacher is absent with the personnel available.

Last year I focused purely on the people aspect and ignored the financial side, but seeing as we blew out our budget to the tune of $100,000 (we had $35,000 originally budgeted) I have to be more careful this year.

Most staff don't take days off without a very good reason, but some have a tendency to use any excuse to get out of teaching for a day. We're beginning to tighten up on people, and are now expecting to see doctor's certificates after 3 days off sick.

As I've mentioned before, in Scotland, where I trained and taught for 5 years, it was expected that ALL personal appointments, for whatever reason, would be outside normal teaching hours. Time-off was simply not granted.  All courses were also arranged to fall in the holidays, weekends and teacher-only days.

I have to go for a blood test next week, as part of my annual checkup, but I'll make sure that the appointment time does not interfere with my teaching duties.

I have a list of possible relievers I can use, some I have recruited, some I've inherited, and I try to match up their personalities and skills to the requirements of the classes needing cover.  Here is a list of many of our relieving teachers.  Names have been changed to protect identities.

Bead Man:  An ex-man of religion, knows exactly how he wants the pupils (and teachers) to behave.  He has a great attitude, and a lot of heart, but sometimes prefers to sit at his desk writing screeds of notes about the pupil's behaviour rather than actually teaching the set lesson.

Doctor Death:  Lives near me and has a PhD, demands to be referred to as Doctor ******* by pupils and staff.  Doesn't like our kids, refers to them (often to their faces) as scum, does not have good interpersonal skills. Always wears her sparkling white lab coat.  I only contact her as an absolute last resort.

Bouncy Aussie:  Just taken a year off to have another baby, coming back onto the active list next month.  She's not highly qualified, but actually attempts to teach the lessons given to her, and keeps the kids under good control. She knows most of them and their families, and she gets a lot of respect form the pupils, which helps a lot.

Scottish Auntie:  Been a reliever since the European landings.  Knows about 80% of the kids and their mums and dads and grannies and aunts and uncles and has taught most of them.  Little problems with the kids, sometimes veers away from the given lesson.  Health not so great at the moment, retirement appearing on the horizon.

Jolly Dancer: Only recently qualified, but my only question is why nobody has given her a permanent job. She's efficient, focused, polite to all, and has a great control over the kids, who respect her.  She carefully teaches what is given to her, and sometimes adds suitable extension work herself.  She lives a bit far away, and because of her skills she is much in demand by other local schools.  I use her every chance I get.

English Refugee:  Great qualifications, he can teach PE, Science, Maths and History, which makes him great for relieving.  He lives only 10 minutes from school, so he's a good choice for a last minute requirement.  Gets on well with kids and staff, does not put up with any sort of shit form the kids, who seem warily respectful.  Teaches most of the material given.

Young Beardie:  Newly qualified, has been on semi-continuous relief for the last 3 weeks.  He's getting better, and has developed good relationships with the kids.  He's also on the short list for a permanent job, being decided next week.  He takes some classes which are a bit challenging, and if he can cope with them, he wont have any problems in the future.

Beginning Teacher Armour.  Normal wear in Nuova Lazio High

There are more, but enough for now.

Just as an aside to all people connected to Nuova Lazio High.

We finished the proof reading of the reports last night.  Everyone was told to print out their report comments for our perusal, and all did.

Except:

1 PE Teacher:  Understandable; a close family member is really unwell, and she has a lot on her mind.

1 Maths teacher: Understandable; he's been off sick for two weeks, and his wife is also unwell.

Head of Art::  Two for one here.  Not only didn't print out the comments, did the Form Teacher comments in the wrong place.  Semi-Understandable; All Art teachers are a bit weird.  As are Drama and Music teachers.

Ringo:  Unacceptable.  No comments printed out.  Great impression for the staff from one of our leaders.

Says it all really.

Lost It

I lost my temper yesterday.

I mean really.  I could feel the veins throbbing on my temples, the slightly engorged and bulging eyeballs, the tightening of the chest and upper arm muscles,the throaty snarl of defiance.

But it was where and when I lost it that surprised me.
It might surprise you.

I didn't lose it when I found that some clean-minded person had wiped off all the details of the relief cover I had written on the staffroom whiteboard.

I didn't lose it when I was told, just as school was starting, that a teacher would not be available for that day, nor the rest of the week, and to find and get a relief teacher in.  In 15 minutes.

Juggling can be fun

I didn't lose it when I was told just as I was leaving to teach my first class that two teachers who were supposed to be going on a training course would no longer be going, and I had to juggle the relievers around, and phone two more, telling them that their services would not be required that day.

I didn't even lose it when I was given some relief material for a relieving teacher that didn't contain any student rolls or photos.

I didn't lose it when as I was teaching (and in the middle of quite a complex explanation on the IF function formula creation and use)  my academic Year 11 class, and I was given 3 troublesome kids from the class next door to look after and settle down.

Not naughty like these silly young ladies

Or even like this silly young thing

More like this disturbed young man

I didn't lose it when one of my previously lovely Year 11 girls referred disparagingly to the 3 "naughty" students as discards and retards; but I came close.

I didn't lose it when one of my female colleagues started gushing on and on about one of the Royal Parasites arriving in NZ, and then she started on the Royal Wedding.  I didn't lose it, but I did feel very sick.

I didn't lose it when one of my colleagues, male this time, whined to me that he couldn't get his reports to print.  I left my own work to help him out.  Then I discovered the reason he couldn't print was that he had "borrowed" another teachers logon.  He was using a school computer, on our network, with another person's logon to our network.  And he couldn't understand why "things looked different" and why he "Can't print as normal", and why when he swiped his ID card to release the printing it didn't offer him the choice of his department.  He looked like he blamed me for not "fixing" it when I explained (patiently I thought) that in Windows based computers, printing is controlled by the Operating System, and it really does matter which logon is being used.  I could tell that he really didn't believe me, and that it really wasn't his fault, and that I should have "fixed" it by now.  I might just have snarled a tiny bit at this point, and immediately felt guilty as he looked at me like a newly kicked dog.

I didn't lose it when colleagues asked me to change their computer systems so they could enter some report comments.  4 hours before the bloody deadline.

I lost it when I discovered that many of my colleagues had disregarded my instructions on how to enter their comments for their form classes.  They had typed them into the wrong text box in our system.  Doesn't sound like much, but I'll be damned if I'll give up more of my already short spare time to fix their bloody mistake. 

Very, very ANGRY

They can fix it themselves

It's Over

Two post in one today.
The first part is all about the our industrial action.
The second is on the Dangers of Flower Arranging

Seemingly the industrial dispute that we are having with the MOE (the ministry, not the teacher) is over.
We heard the news late yesterday, just before I came home from Nuova Lazio High.
The details of the settlement have not been released to the press, and the PPTA (our union) haven't told us what they've accepted.

Except.

We have been told that the settlement will only effect Secondary teachers, and that it will not effect Primary School Teachers.  This is a bit unusual, as some years ago the clever Primary School Teachers (PST) managed to set up a contractual link between their pay rates and ours, effectively making them the same.  Although many Secondary School Teachers (SST) disagreed with this arrangement, arguing that the SST have to attend University for at least one more year, and gain 1 additional qualification, so therefore need more financial compensation, there was no real groundswell of opinion from the SST to dissolve the financial link, as it gave the two unions working together some real clout.

Until last month.

Just as we were starting to increase our industrial action, we heard that the PST had settled directly with the government for 2.75% plus a $300 one-off payment.  This was a bit less than we wanted, and there was no mention of class sizes, one of our main concern.
The relationship between the pay of PST and SST is not reciprocal.  Our pay is not linked contractually with theirs, so the bastards had really undercut our negotiations, reducing the combined pressure on the government.  The crafty PST probably thought that they had got a reasonable deal, and anyway, if the SST managed to get a better deal (while putting our own jobs at risk, and while it was costing us lost pay due to strikes etc) then they'd get any extra money we managed to lever out of the government because of the pay linkage between us.
I believe that our union, the PPTA were a bit miffed about this perceived betrayal, and there are a few areas of our pay and conditions, unique to SST that they could negotiate about, without having a knock-on effect on the PST pay.
So, if it's true that we got the settlement we wanted (about 4%), the PST will not be happy.

Tough.

The Dangers of Flower Arranging



My beloved, being mostly retired has rather a lot of spare time on her hands.  She occupies herself with two or three activities.
She goes to, and helps instruct a couple of Tai Chi classes in Upper Hutt, one of them in our local Orangomarie Marae (A Maori meeting house for any non-kiwis reading this).

She recently joined a new club.  The Ikebana International.  A flower arranging society, based on Japanese principles of a subtle simplicity.  My beloved is quite good at this art, and she did a bit in Scotland before we emigrated to NZ, so when she joined the local Ikebana chapter, she immediately arranged to acquire all the needed equipment, as we had left most of it in a bin in Fife. 
One particular piece gave her some trouble in finding, so as most women do when requiring a problem solved, she asked her man to "Find and Fix"
The thing she was looking for was a flower stem holder, like a small pincushion, and pictured below.

Ikebana Flower "Frog" Pincushion

I managed to get one and she's been using it quite happily for the last few months.

I wash and normally dry our dinner dishes.  It's part of our normal routine.  My beloved cooks tasty meals, and I tidy up.  One of the things involved is washing out the kitchen sink at the end, and if by some chance the windows above the sink are dirty or grease spattered, I give them a wipe.
I noticed one of the windows was particularly grease-splattered, so I added extra cleaner to the cloth and gave it a wipe.  It was a bit stubborn, so I pressed harder as I pushed down.  My hand slipped and bashed down onto the windowsill.

The windowsill where my beloved had left the pictured pincushion to dry after use.

It stuck right into my wrist, and when by reflex I jerked my hand away, it remained stuck in my wrist.

I may have uttered a few expletives, and staggered through to the room where by beloved and son were sitting, watching TV, gripping my wrist in a tourniquet-like grip.

I might even have screamed something about "Your death trap didn't work this time, you demented murderous Jezebel", but that might have been my imagination.

My beloved and my offspring seemed to think that seeing their husband and father standing with a brass and steel pincushion embedded in his wrist as quite humorous, because they giggled.
Then they helped me remove the instrument of torture from my person.

Blood gushed onto the carpet.

Well actually it dripped onto the carpet.

Alright, it slowly oozed from the circular pattern of holes on my wrist, but it felt a lot worse.

My beloved, once she had finished giggling, painted on some Iodine based antiseptic and as I moaned with the pain she even kissed it better.

Women have no sympathy for an injured bloke.  We just learn to suffer in peace.  I did however work out a schedule of low plaintive moans and groans over the next few hours to extract the maximum sympathy form my beloved, to add to the ledger of moral superiority for later use.
I might as well have been moaning at a brick wall.
I did not get any sympathy.

Blokes suffer in silence

Life isn't always fair.

We've Changed

OK, I listened to the whining complaints, and I've counted the votes.
Apparently many people didn't like the colour effects I was using, so in compliance with modern appeasement techniques (Hey, it worked for the National Party) I've changed.

Hope you like it.  Because I don't like change, and I really don't want to alter the look of the blog again.

Change was also supposed to happen at Nuova Lazio High.

At the start of the year, we were told that we would be expected to comply with a staff dress code.  Fair enough, if the kids have to wear school uniform, then the staff should have the sense to be fair, and dress accordingly.
Mind you, if we dressed according to our social and financial status as teachers, then we'd end up looking like a gang of dispossessed refugees who had just survived a natural disaster.

But we should be setting some standards, but I think the powers-that-be forgot about the whole idea.  Based on the character of each Faculty in the school, I've decided to make some exemplars (in best modern pedagogical style) for the use of our staff.

The Art Department (Including Music and Drama)

The Senior Management

The Maths Department

The Science Department

The English Department

Social Studies

Physical Education
(No change here)

Technology Department

or possibly these

Computing Department

Have a nice day.
I'm off to set relief.

Finished

We survived, but it was a damn close-run thing.
For some reason known only to our Senior Leadership Team and the MOE (The Ministry, not the due to depart soon Man) there was a Provisionally Registered Teacher Training day yesterday.  This is where our newly qualified teachers, fresh out of teaching college, get some extra Professional Development, hopefully making them more effective practitioners of the pedagogical arts (it also decreases the chances of them running away screaming to somewhere quieter and safer, like Japan)

BUT

We have 6 newly qualified staff.
Plus we have 1 Deputy Principal recovering from surgery
1 vacancy in our permanent staff
2 off on dependency leave (close family very ill)
2 off with 'flu

This meant that I had to find enough relieving teachers to cover about 45 lessons in 1 day.

Tricky

Thank goodness some of our permanent staff volunteered to do extra hours to cover some of the lessons, otherwise it would have meant chaos.  I even had to take ½ of a class myself (Thanks Nick, for helping)


Some of our kids think they are Hard.
Ha!
 Most of them wouldn't last 5 minutes in Sauchihall Street on a Saturday Night


Even with over 12 years of teaching experience, I really struggled with the class I was taking.  There were 5 or 6 nice girls trying desperately to do some work at the back.  2 girls who wanted to do nothing but chat up some boys, 3 or 4 boys who are basically good, but who drift with the rest.  4 or 5 boys who need very tight control, and another group of 4-6 who just need some basic guidelines and restrictions.
There was no way I could rectify 5 weeks of neglect in ½ hour, but I did my best.  I even think I got about 5 minutes of work from some of them.
It's not really their teacher's fault.  He tries very hard, but he is not yet experienced enough to deal with all these difficult kids.

Any non-teachers reading this please note. 

IT ISN'T THE SAME AS WHEN YOU WERE AT SCHOOL.

Modern school children do not automatically respect their teachers, or their parents or their elders or anyone really.  If you doubt the skills needed to maintain interest, keep control, enthuse and capture the pupils' imagination in a modern school, then look at Dr. David Starkey's first class in Jamie Oliver's Dream School on UK Channel 4 or Youtube.
Here we have one of the world's leading historians trying to teach a smallish class.  He wasn't prepared, he talked down to the kids, and treated them with some contempt.  The kids reciprocated.  Chaos.
To be fair, he quickly realised his mistakes, took some expert advice of teacher educators, and greatly improved his teaching and control techniques.

I believe in sharing the pain

But, we should never have had so many staff off at once.  Everyone gets unsettled when we have a lot of relievers in school.  The kids suffer, and we suffer, and what's worse; I suffer.  It's got to stop.

Oh, while I remember, the next bloody so-called professional teacher who leaves me a lesson plan written on the back of an envelope and no bloody pupil roles or photos will discover that apart from finding and co-ordinating relief teachers I also put in the reasons for absence into our computerised pay system.  Ever heard of that delightful phrase "LEAVE WITHOUT PAY?" 
You have been warned.

Biscuits

It was a lovely sunny Sunday morning.  The Tuis were singing in the Kowhai trees at the back and side of the house, and flitting between the Flax plants at the front.  Butterflies were drifting over the (rather unkempt) lawns.  I was on the computer which sits in a corner of the wee room we laughingly call our TV lounge or the snug.

Every morning I awaken before my beloved.  I need to get up at 5:30 on weekdays to get into school in time, and the habit carries over into the weekends, so even though I didn't NEED to get up at 5:30 on Sunday, I still woke automatically, and I knew I wouldn't be getting back to sleep. 
As I always did, I gave my beloved's gently drooling (and slightly snoring) visage a kindly look and got out of bed.  I have found through long and bitter experience NOT to deposit a gentle and loving kiss onto my beloved's visage at 5:30 in the morning, as this causes her to wake up, and as she DOESN'T need to get up so early, this makes her ANNOYED and prone to make tetchy yet light-hearted threats to my person.  So I get up quietly, smile at her and go through to the snug and switch on the computer.  I also make myself a cup of instant coffee, and I sit quietly, exploring cyberspace, checking my emails, looking at the news and of course checking all of my favourite blogs.

It's quite a nice established routine, and it seems to suit everyone.  It gives me something to do while I'm awake very early, and it lets my beloved sleep in peace.

At least it seemed to suit everyone, but this morning became a little different.

As usual on a Sunday, my beloved gets up around 8:30 to have breakfast with me, and to get ready to go to her church.  And as usual, as I sense her presence (we've been married for 34 years, and my nervous system is peculiarly intertwined with hers, so of course I can sense her presence.  Besides, I always hear the toilet flush), I get off the computer and go into the kitchen to make our breakfast.

This morning, however, my finely tunes senses picked up warning signals emanating from my beloved.

• The rigid shoulders
• The expressionless visage
• The slightly flaring nostrils
• The white knuckled grip on her butter knife
• The monosyllabic answers to my simple expressions of love and devotion.

Not a happy lady

As every bloke does in situations like this, I examined my person and my conscience,

Was my fly open?
Had I just farted?
Was I scratching in an offensive area/manner?
Was I home late last night?
Was I drunk last night?
Did I insult one of her friends?
Did I forget to put out the rubbish?
Did I forget to wash and dry the dishes?
Did I forget to do the ironing?
Did I forget to put the iron away?
Did I forget to fold and put away the dried washing?

Nope.  Everything that should have been done had been done. I was wearing a dressing gown, and nothing was showing or had fallen out. No noxious gases had escaped from my vicinity. (well not in the last ½ hour) and I wasn't scratching anything.

I did what the years of experience had taught me.
Nothing.

Do not ask what you have done wrong.  You might get an answer. Or even worse, you might get the question thrust back at you. e.g.  "Don't you know?"
Or even worse, we might start a discussion on the state of our relationship, and /or the duration/frequency/quality of our sex life.  Again.
But such a discussion would be out of character at such a time of the day.  In my experience, our lovely ladies much prefer to start such a discussion when we are at our most vulnerable, in that lovely time just before sleep.  When your body is starting to go limp, completely relaxed, just before the delightful plunge into the deep, dark, warm world of sleep.  That is when they pounce start the discussion.

It soon transpired that the problem was me.
(Quell surprise. I had done something wrong?  Again?)

I had been on the computer in my dressing gown.

OH SHIT  The machine of the devil was back.
OBVIOUSLY the computer was the instrument of disruption.

I tried the usual arguments.
It was no different from reading a book.
It was no different from watching TV
It was a damn sight better than sitting there in the darkness doing absolutely nothing.
Nobody else was up, so what was the problem?


As usual, we came to a compromise. (we do love each other very much.  Mostly)
The compromise was that I wouldn't sit at the computer in my dressing gown.
See.
Simple.
Problem solved.

Now I entered the day on a moral high.  I was the one who had changed, I was the one who had moved my position the most.
That meant that something would be owed back to me.
It was a delightful thought.  I wondered what would be the best.

Maybe yes

An evening (large) glass of whisky (or 2 glasses of wine)
My choice of that evening's TV viewing?
The handcuffs and Velvet whip for later?

Maybe not

Such pleasant wanderings lasted until I made our coffee and snack after my beloved returned from church.  I had found 2 hot cross buns in the fridge, and I popped them under the grill to lightly toast.  I also popped 6 Hobnobs onto the grill beside them.  We had recently opened a packet and found them to be a bit soft and soggy, even though the sell-by date was months away. 

It worked, the Hobnobs (after cooling) were returned to their optimal crunchy state.
I put the rest of the packet under the grill at a low heat to crunch-up as well.
Then my beloved asked me if I would mind dropping in to see one of her aged friends who was having a problem with her cordless phone.

Excellent, another method of adding to my credit in the ledger of our life.
Hmmm. I wonder if the credit balance would now stretch to 2 glass of malt whisky?
Nipped down to see her friend (about 2 km away, so I took my truck).  Blast she wasn't in.  Back home.
Strange smell as I came back into our house from the garage.  Strange sounds as well.  What on earth was that high pitched beeping?
The smoke alarm?
Upstairs in the kitchen?

THE BISCUITS. 

Ran into the kitchen just as my beloved was depositing a large tray of smoking charcoal discs onto our front deck.
"DO YOU KNOW HOW CLOSE WE CAME TO HAVING A FIRE?" she said
"Yes Dear, sorry Dear"
Tidied away all the wreckage and scrubbed out the carbonised grill pan. 
This incident of domestic forgetfulness would wipe out all of my hard earned ledger credits

I suppose that means no whisky or whips tonight.

Blast.

Earthquakes Suck

My beloved had gone a little paranoid after the second Christchurch quake.


Then we had our own little quake last week. It was a 4.3, but it was only 9 km deep, and 10 km north of us. The whole house shook, and went on for about 10 seconds. Nothing got broken or thrown off of a shelf, but it switched my beloved's fears to a higher level.

We keep a disaster box in the garage, containing basic foods and a few essentials, but (even though it was late at night) we (she, actually, dragging me along) went down to the garage and checked through the contents.

Hmm. Not good. I'd forgotten that during a moment of partial weakness some month ago, I'd drunk the ¼ bottle of "medicinal" whisky, and seeing it lying there, empty, in the bottom of the box, brought back a feeling of guilt. But I'm a man, I don't do guilt. (Not for very long anyway)

Men don't do guilt

I do however do whining. "It must have been when I had the 'flu last year", I whined in my best man transferring guilt and blame to a sub-microscopic particle voice.

She just looked at me, and I felt bad.



I felt worse about 1 minute later when she found the empty packs of instant soup.

I got the look. Again.

"It must have been when I forgot my lunch and teas for the late nights at school reports", I whined again.

I now got the look ³, mixed with a mild expression of disgust for my less than manly whining.

I didn't care.

I knew what else was missing from the box.

Would she find it?

"Where are the tins of beans?"She demanded in a voice that many a grizzled Gestapo interrogator would have sold his blood-and-guilt-torn soul (if the demented bastard actually had a soul) for.

Ah Mr Twisted.  We meet again

"Tins Dear?"

"Beans Dear?"

The look became the look ^∞

"Right, first thing tomorrow we will restock our box".

I humbly agreed, thanking the gods of Aoteroa that:


1. She didn't demand that we go down to the supermarket now

2. She didn't demand that I go down to the supermarket now

3. She hadn't seen the many empty sweeties’ bag wrapped up in the old sheets.


So we did go down, and our earthquake box is once again fully prepared.

It has everything a shocked earthquake survivor could want.

Except another ¼bottle of medicinal whisky.

That’s been replaced with ¼ bottle of medicinal brandy.

She knows I hate brandy.

Why did she insist on brandy?


I won't be able to drink the stuff if I'm shocked after an 8.4 quake. Silly woman.


Never mind, I've made sure that I'll have my own medical supply. It's 2 bottles of Laphroig, wrapped in plastic and aluminium foil, buried in the ground under the deck. It pays to be prepared.

Oh, as an added bonus I got a new toy to play with. I had mentioned that we didn't have a radio amongst our equipment, and the only torch was mains rechargeable, which was not good if the main power went off. So we bought a hand cranked rechargeable combination radio and 3 LED torch. And it's got a built in siren alarm. I had hours of fun playing experimenting with the torch. My beloved and my son complained about the repeated use of the siren when I was playing testing the thing.

They took it away from me.

It's back in the earthquake box in the garage.

And now the bloody thing has been sealed up with tape. "To keep the nasty beasties out"

I really don't know why she looked at me when she said that.

I really don't.

Who?  Me?

Power Tools

An odd thing happened yesterday when I came home from Nuova Lazio High.
But before I explain. let me digress a little.

I like power tools
No, I am in error.

 

I LOVE power tools.  Like most men I just adore the feelings of:

• efficiency
• speed (at least finishing the job quicker so we can get back to TV and Beer)
• Noise (controlled by us)
• Danger (limited and controlled)

Even apparently simple jobs are much more fun when done using a power tool.
Screwing in a woodscrew? Use an electric screwdriver.
Want a nail in a piece of wood? You could use a hammer, but a Nail Gun is much more amusing.  (Especially if you manage to get your hands on one of those "Special" nail guns that uses explosive cartridges to punch masonry nails through reinforced concrete.  Wow)
We guys appreciate the feeling of superiority over the Universe that these tools give us. 
We may be spineless wimps at home or at work, but give us a Chainsaw and every tree is a potential victim.
It's very satisfying.

But seriously, the real reason we get all these power tools (if so allowed by our lovely partners) is to make a job easier and/or quicker.
I can chop down a tree with a chainsaw in about 5-10 minutes.  With an axe it would take hours, if I could chop it down at all. And I could do it without raising a sweat.
I can plane a board of wood using a power plane in 2-3 minutes.  Doing it by hand using a wood plane could take up to 15 minutes, and the result would probably not be as good.
Power tools, when properly used, can deliver machine-like accuracy and precision.
A hand cut dovetail joint for a drawer front is rarely as tight a fit or as good looking as a machine cut dovetail.
In my garage at the moment I have the following:
Power Plane
Electric Grinder
Power Sander
Dremmel micro-tool
Electric Jigsaw
Hand held circular saw
Router (¼" collet)
750 Watt Electric Hammer Drill
2 x 18 volt rechargeable battery drills/screwdrivers
A pillar mounted bench drill press
A Sliding Compound Miter Saw
Electric Bench grinder with water cooled carborundum stone

Drill Press

All of these tools have their own specialised application, but occasionally they can be used for other tasks. But they are really good, fast and accurate in performing their own speciality.
We would expect that similar tools would excite similar feelings in our lovely ladies, but it appears not.

Over the years we have had just a couple of power tools for the kitchen. 

An electric knife
A kenwood chef (with all the attachments)
A Braun food processor
A liquidiser
A Braun hand held thingy that creams soup while it's still hot in the pot.

The food processor is a thing of joy. It has all the attachments you could possibly imagine.
It can chop, puree, mix, grate and slice.  All very quickly and efficiently.

So when I came home yesterday to the lovely smell of cooking I was happy.
As we sat down to our evening meal, I was happy.
As I munched at the crunchy potato and sweetcorn Rosti with poached Salmon in a tomato and Basil sauce I was bloody ecstatic.
Then I thought I detected something else in the Rosti, and I asked my beloved
"Is there something else in these Dear?" I enquired. "Cabbage, perhaps?"
"No" She glared.  [Ed. I know that glare is a word normally used for an expression, especially alluding to the eyes, but believe me, my beloved, like many ladies, can speak with a glare]
"Oh", I said, "Just potato then"
"Yes" She replied  "I had to grate over a kilo, and my arm is so tired now"
"Oh", I said (I know it's a bit repetitious, but it's accurate. Any guys in a long-time relationship reading this will understand.  Ladies, we're not being offensive.  We're just looking for peace)
"Thanks for all your hard work sweetheart" I said in tones of appeasement, love and appreciation.  "It's really tasty" (It really was)
"Hmmpph" But she looked moderately happy.

Rosti

As I washed up afterwards (No complaints. If my beloved spends time and effort in making me an exceedingly tasty meal, I'll wash and dry with a smile on my face.  Inside of course, I'm moaning to myself that this is all women's work, and that my Dad would not be happy in seeing me doing the washing and drying.  And Ironing.  And vacuuming) I wondered why my beloved had hand grated a kilo of spuds.  We had a food processor which would have done the job in seconds.  It would also have made the gratings (?Is this a correct word?  Gratings? whatever) finer and consistent, so making it easier to squeeze out the excess moisture before cooking.

I'll never understand women.  Why on earth didn't she use the power tool specifically designed for the job.
Maybe she has a strong martyr complex, and likes to cause herself pain. I just don't know.

All that worries me is all that extra muscular effort.  If my beloved keeps this up, she'll end up all muscular.

Help.  She's going to beat me up. Stop grating spuds.

Getting beaten up by my beloved does not appeal.


By the way. The most absolutely gorgeous Power Tool I have ever seen was a two-stroke powered portable hand drill.  It was almost completely useless, with the weight and vibration. But it was still gorgeous. I haven't met a man yet that didn't desire it.