Dear New Followers…

…thank you so much for following The Laughing Housewife. I really do appreciate it. However, I closed this blog in July 2021, so I won’t be sending out any more posts. You are more than welcome to browse my back catalogue, as I’m leaving it up for my old regulars to find my new blog, Poetry Fluff.

Poetry Fluff is basically this blog’s silliness in rhyme, and is aimed at people who don’t usually read poetry. Please do give it a try!

If poetry is not your thing, however, thanks again for following me here, and sorry that we never got to know each other.

Photo by Tino Schmidt on Pexels.com

Ahoy there!

I was going for ships that pass in the night but it looks more like that ship has sailed 😉

7 Surprising Side Effects of Shaving My Head

When I decided to shave my head to raise funds to buy PPE for NHS staff, I expected nothing except some teasing and to feel too nervous to check the mirror for a while. What I did not expect were the following:

1. Extra Available Cash

During my first shower after the shave I realised that it was going to be much quicker than usual, having no hair to wash, condition, and comb through, thereby saving on electricity and water; the shampoo would last for a year; and who needed conditioner any more? Not me. Furthermore, my hairdryer is gathering dust, saving more electricity. 

The Hub fully supported my naked bonce, not least because a passing thought/joke to frighten him took on a life of its own:

TB: If we’re going to be in lockdown, I think I’ll shave my head.

Hub: If that’s the case, then you should do it for charity.

TB: … …

TB: … …

TB: …um, I’ll think about it…

Hub: [To himself] Tee hee hee. I am and always will be the Master Prankster here.

2. Confidence

I expected to feel like a fool: I knew that this was never going to be my best look but I was prepared to endure it for a good cause. I suspected people might think I was a right-wing thug, or I’d had a really bad case of nits.

But there was something about letting go of my inhibitions enough to cut off my not-so-crowning glory that sheered off my vanity at the same time. It helped that I have the long-time love of a good man (when he’s not calling my bluff) and the knowledge that I would be mostly indoors for three months, but still…hair is an important part of identity, and dramatically changing that identity changes us.

I once had a genuine identity crisis when I learned I was two inches taller than I had believed myself to be for thirty-one years, because how I saw myself had fundamentally changed, even though outwardly, nothing had changed. This time, however, the outward had changed, and I didn’t care that it was unflattering: it freed me of the burden of pretending that I can fight off the ravages of childbearing and chocolate, and I JUST DIDN’T CARE. 

3. No More Menopause Shower Hair

Nobody told me before I started the change that my hair was going to fall out from time to time. I spent many months secretly irritated with Alex because he left so much hair in the drain – secretly, because he was only home between semesters and I wanted him to want to return home every time and fulminating glances across the bannister would have been counterproductive. Then he moved out for good and the hair was still there and then I read a list of menopause symptoms which included hair loss.

Well! If you’ve never seen an indignant menopausal woman before, I assume you’re still alive. WHY did nobody ever mention this to me before?

Anyway, first shower after The Shave, I bent down to *shudder alert* pull out the disgusting gunk…and there was none!

I was tempted to keep my head blank for this reason alone.

4. People Think I’m Brave

Thank you, but I’m not. I’m simply not brave, at all.

Brave is going to work knowing you could become infected and die, but you are a key worker and people rely on you.

Brave is accepting that you cannot attend your child’s funeral because you have to protect your other children.

So thank you, everyone, for your kind thoughts, but brave is not having a severe haircut in your kitchen, no matter how unattractive it looks.

5. Blogging

This was the biggest surprise of all. As you know, I hadn’t blogged in over a year, but I naturally thought of my blog to publicise the fundraising for Masks For NHS Heroes. Then I had to write a post with the video of the shave. But then, however, during that shower – I do my best work in showers – I thought of this post about the unexpected aftermath of having a disrobed skull. Then I left it in the draft folder for six months because I was dealing with other health issues, but here I am, three weeks and three posts back into blogging, and in danger of making it a habit.

In jammies, dressing gown, and very warm hat.

6. A Texture Fetish

Not naughty in any way, just the constant need to rub a hand over my naked head – for comfort, I guess. The first day, I rubbed because it felt so strange. The next day, because it had already grown a tiny bit, enough to feel like I was rubbing velvet. Then there was the contrast of cold, smooth hands on a lumpy scalp; the velcro action when I pulled off a woolly hat after my walk (it feels like there’s some truth to the notion that heat escapes through the top of the head, because for a while there I had to don a hat or scarf outdoors and in).

7. Addition

I realised when I numbered the headings that I actually have only six surprising side effects, not seven.

Samson lost his strength; I lost the ability to math.

Normal Service Will Shortly Be Resumed

Hello, bloggers who used to read me.

I have finished the MA and I’m on my rest month (very much needed), but I intend to begin blogging again, at least once a week.

I say ‘rest month’…it includes a choir concert (in which I sing, not listen in the audience. I say ‘sing’…), a visit from the grandson (his first to our home!), the usual writing groups, sundry poetry readings, poetry workshops, a visit to the Hub (still residing here, but I have to schedule him in), and SLEEP.

In the meantime, I thought I’d repost my favourite-ever photograph, to give you something gross to think about:

When my hair was long, the Hub shoved it through my sleeve and told me I needed to shave my armpits.

My hair is now short but the latter is true. No time to shave ‘pits when you’re on a deadline.

See you in Movember, when I shall not be plucking my moustache hairs, in solidarity with lazy people.

Free, Tree And Dead Again Me

When you were 16, what did you think your life would look like?

M (James Bond) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Like I was a successful actress.

Does it look like that?

No.

Is that a good thing?

It is what it is.  I never had the courage to pursue it so I have nobody to blame but myself.  Regrets are useless so I don’t have any.  What I do have is a happy marriage and two gorgeous sons.  I wouldn’t trade them for anything.

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If you could choose to be a master (or mistress) of any skill in the world, which skill would you pick?

Cooking, so I could hang on to this perfect family I am slowly poisoning.

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“It’s never a good idea to discuss religion or politics with people you don’t really know.” Agree or disagree?

Well, dear WordPress prompter, I’d rather not say because I don’t really know you.

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Write your own eulogy.

Tilly’s death at the hands of irritated WordPress prompters was sudden but inevitable.  She never knew when to quit and they didn’t like her pointing out that she had recently had to write her own obituary and was it personal on their part or had they become FreudPress prompters?

Also, she knew her way around a box of Maltesers, but not a kitchen.

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Blue Bee (Photo credit: bob in swamp)

Most of us have heard the saying, “That’s the best thing since sliced bread!” What do you think is actually the best thing since sliced bread?

The internet.  How else would I have discovered a bunch of people around the world willing to send me stuff out of the blue?

Speaking of which, thank you for the book, Bee Blue.  I’d kiss you but I know how you feel about that.

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Go to the nearest window. Look out for a full minute. Write about what you saw.

A tree.

That’s it.  It’s bigger than our house and blocks the view to everything…no, wait: something’s behind it.  Is that a WordPress prompter with a stick of dynamite in her mask…?

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Describe your relationship with your phone. Is it your lifeline, a buzzing nuisance, or something in between?

I’m sure that once I discover how to turn it on, we’ll be the best of friends.

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A genie has granted your wish to build your perfect space for reading and writing. What’s it like?

Actor portraying blue Genie character in Disney’s Aladdin stage show (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It’s like Robin Williams. Since Aladdin, they all are.

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You have to learn a new skill. Do you prefer to read about it, watch someone else do it, hear someone describe it, or try it yourself?

Why do I need to learn a new skill?  I have my own personal genie.

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Write about anything you’d like. Somewhere in your post, include the sentence, “I heard the car door slam, and immediately looked a the clock.”

I was reading this post when I heard the car door slam, and immediately looked at the clock.  I knew it was the Grammar Police, come to take away the WordPress prompter who had one too few ‘t’s in his at.

I Like Big Prompts And I Cannot Lie

A pregnant woman (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Write page three of your autobiography.

My Mum stood up and said, ‘I don’t remember coughing.’  Then she realised her waters had broken.

[Insert several photographs of an old cottage suite with a damp patch]

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Tell us about a guilty pleasure that you hate to love.

Where do I start?  Not with anything I’ve already told to death:

• Maltesers (make me fat)
• Twilight (makes me stupid)
• Tormenting WordPress prompters (makes them look fathead stupid and may get me kicked off WordPress one day)

I’ll tell you about my latest guilty pleasure, as of this morning:

The Hub bought me a laptop for Christmas.  My back still aches from sitting at the computer way too long, though regular breaks help (thank you, readers, for the tips).  The Hub nagged until I heard him and, as a result, I have spent this morning lying on the couch, under my Vivquilt and laptop, snug against the cold and resenting toilet breaks.  I may never get up again.  That being so, this couch may end up looking like my mother’s.

 

A writer once said, “You are the average of the five people you spend the most time with.” If this is true, which five people would you like to spend your time with?

• Jesus (to be good, kind, tolerant and loving)
• The Hub (to be confident and attractive)
• Tory Boy (to be smart and funny)
• Spud (to be smart and funny) (no favouritism from this mother)
• The head of Mars Confectionery (to be Malteser available at all times)

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What question do you hate to be asked?  Why?

What exactly is in this dish I’m eating?

‘Don’t ask; don’t tell’ is my motto.

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Describe your last attempt to learn something that did not come easily to you.

How to turn off my phone.  It did not end well, for the phone or my finger.  Spud showed me an acceptable compromise: how to put it on ‘Silent’.  If only the Hub had such a button.

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Explore the room you’re in as if you’re seeing it for the first time. Pretend you know nothing. What do you see? Who is the person who lives there?

I see a stain on the couch; it must be my mother’s house.

 

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Water, Water Everywhere

If there were a real Fountain of Youth, would you drink the water?

Bottled water fills an aisle in a supermarket (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

No.  One should drink bottled water in foreign climes, or risk the two bob bits.

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You’re having a nightmare, and have to choose between three doors. Pick one, and tell us about what you find on the other side.

A WordPress Prompter holding a glass of foreign water with my name on it.

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What’s your ideal Saturday morning?

Filling up plastic bottles with our good Manchester tap water.

Are you doing those things this morning?

No.

Why not?

It’s Sunday.

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Write a letter to your mom. Tell her something you’ve always wanted to say, but haven’t been able to. 

Dear Mum,

I hope you are comfortable as a pile of ash in a wooden box in the ground in Widnes.

I told you not to drink the water.

Love, Tilly x

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What is your worst quality?

Using my dead mother as a comedy prop.

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Tell us about a time when you had to choose between two options, and you picked the unpopular choice.

I could have chosen not to use my beloved dead mother as a comedy prop for a WordPress prompt post, but I just couldn’t help myself.

I am my dead father’s daughter.

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If you were asked to spend a year living in a different location, where would you choose? 

In the States, under an assumed name after I was hounded out of Britain by outraged mothers who mistook my affectionate ribbing of my mother for a disrespectful poke.

Why the States?

They sell bottled water.

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My True Love Is An Idiot

Love ? I love love love you. (Photo credit: @Doug88888)

 

Dear Judge,

 

I know I killed my True Love in a fit of rage but I think, once you hear my tale, you will have to acknowledge that I was provoked beyond what any reasonable person could stand.

 

Things started off well.  On the first day of Christmas, my True Love sent me a partridge in a pear tree.  A little weird, I thought, but I let that pass.  To be honest, as the first day of Christmas is Christmas Day, I’d have preferred a turkey.

 

On the second day he sent me two turtle doves.  Romantic, because I believe they mate for life, so I could see the symbolism.  But he also sent me another partridge in a pear tree.  Why?

 

Next day it was three French hens (or should I say, trois French hens?  My little joke, Judge.  I still had a sense of humour at that point) – plus two more doves and another partridge in a pear tree.

 

twelve days of christmas (Photo credit: wiccked)

 

On the fourth day I was afraid to open the door to the postman.  I was right to be afraid: ten birds arrived that morning, four of which were colly birds.  Is there anyone on the planet who knows what a colly  bird is?  I think my True Love made that one up, or he meant calling birds and the shop saw a chance to finally offload the 36 colly birds they had lying around in the storeroom which they had ordered by accident.

 

Probably guessing from my enraged texts and emails that by now I was a little miffed, he had the good sense to send me five gold rings on day five of Christmasgate.  I was mollified enough to think it would be okay to accept day six’s gift.  Boy, was I ever wrong!  Six – count them: one-two-three-four-five-SIX – geese-a-laying.  The eggs would have been acceptable but I couldn’t get near them.  Do you know how protective geese are of their eggs?  I still have the bill marks on my legs.  And it’s not nice to be hissed at by 42 geese (yes, 42; because he sent me six more geese who wouldn’t share every day for the next six days); it’s like being in a really bad pantomime in the comfort of my own home, though there’s not much comfort with 184 birds running around, making a racket and pooping like there’s no tomorrow.  Which there wasn’t for those I managed to store in my freezer…  Not to mention the 42 goslings under my feet, imprinting on me.  It made shopping impossible.

 

You did read that right, Judge: 184 birds is what my True Love sent to me.  226, if you count the babies.

 

But he saved the best for last, which I’ll call Day Seven, because it was.  I may have been a little unhinged by this point.  I refused to open the door so the delivery truck left my idiot boyfriend’s ridiculous idea of a love token in my tiny back garden: seven swans-a-swimming.  Seven swans-a-swimming!  You know what that means, don’t you?  An inflatable pool!  In my pocket garden! And not just one inflatable pool, oh no!  SIX inflatable pools, because he sent me the same gift for the next five days, along with eight maids-a-milking, nine ladies dancing (I don’t even watch Strictly), ten lords-a-leaping (I’m interested in politics, yes, but not to the point of inviting the second chamber into my home – and the ornaments those old codgers broke…), eleven pipers piping and twelve drummers drumming, right through my skull.

 

1st Day of Christmas Partridge in A Pear Tree (Photo credit: Cindy97007)

 

By the time I got the injunction against my True Love, it was too late – the neighbours had complained about the smell, the music played at full volume at all hours of the day and night, and the illegal poultry farm I had set up, and I was evicted by the council through the Anti-Social Behavioural law.  I was homeless, penniless (I had spent all my money on bird seed and feeding my guests) and furious – mostly because all swans are owned by the Crown, so my True Love had scuppered the chance of me being on any future Honours List.

 

I admit to seeking out my True Love who, while big on romantic gestures, was a slacker when it came to paying for the upkeep of all those birds or feeding 140 people – though the poultry and the eighty buckets of milk did come in handy there, I’ll accept.

 

I also admit to pelting him with rock hard pears (they were out of season; what was the silly beggar thinking?) and, when that didn’t work, belting him with as many pipes, drums and drumsticks as I could lay my hands on.  But the death stroke was, I’m convinced, administered by the swans, who didn’t like it when, weighed down by 40 gold rings, I fell into one of their pools and almost drowned.

 

So, dear Judge, I think you can see that I acted under extreme provocation while the balance of my mind was disturbed and my feet were in three tons of guano.

 

If you let me off, I will be free to marry one of the drummers, Bill, who has promised to give me only chocolates, toiletries and DVDs as Christmas presents.

 

I throw myself on the mercy of the court.

 

Signed, The Moulting Housewife

 

 

Readers Say The Darndest Things

I don’t know if you read all of the comments on this blog, but they are often better than the posts.  My readers are a funny lot.

Yesterday, Charlie from Read Between The Minds left a You Tube clip for me to watch.  

I’ve never heard of Art Linkletter, who had a show called Kids Say The Darndest Things.  Spud, however, was on a British version called Michael Barrymore’s Kids Say The Funniest Things.  Sadly, there’s no tape of it: the show was recorded in February, along with a whole series, but never shown because there was a terrible scandal that summer, when a man died at Barrymore’s home.  The scandal ended Barrymore’s career.

The clip Charlie left is from 1959.  I cried with laughter.  

I’ll tell you my two favourite quotes after the video, because I don’t want to spoil it for you.

I loved the little girl who said that ‘Adam and Eve had a whole mess o’ babies,’ because she’s just the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

And I love the logic of the little boy who told us that God’s punishment on Eve for causing all the trouble was to make her ‘a housewife.’  Out of the mouths of babes…

Thanks for a huge laugh, Charlie.

 

Top Ten Scariest Receptionists

Nice Reception people at DICE in Stockholm (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Show me a person who doesn’t fear receptionists and I’ll show you the person who runs the organisation and employs receptionists specifically to keep us plebs out.

The law of averages dictates that at least one of my readers is bound to be a receptionist of some sort so I acknowledge in advance that you are absolutely not one of the following monsters who ruin ordinary lives, being the exception that proves the rule.  Though how an exception proves a rule, I’ve never understood: surely an exception disproves the rule?

Dear Reception Exception, you’re not by any chance gatekeeper to someone who can explain that, are you?

&

10.  Switchboard Operators

Receptionists with delusions of grandeur and real power.  Think your partner is having an affair because you can never get hold of them?  They’re not – they just annoyed the Switchboard Operator who won’t now put calls through.

They come in at Number Ten because mobile phones and email are stripping them of their ability to break up your relationship.

9.  Receptionists Who Work in Government Offices

Your taxes pay their salaries so, effectively, they work for you.

Like they care about that.

8.  Conglomerate Receptionists

Professional, attractive, friendly, helpful.

They are the bait that conglomerates use to hook you.  Be prepared for a thorough fleecing and some mixed metaphors.

7.  Office Administrators

Receptionists with delusions of grandeur.  I’ve been one.  I know whereof I speak.  Ask me for a new pen and see how quickly you lose an eye.

6.  Gym Receptionists

Like Conglomerate Receptionists but with sickeningly gorgeous figures in lycra and the ability to shave money from your bank account for an indefinite period of time.

5.  Job Centre Receptionists

How dare you be unemployed!?  Get out, scum.

4.  Hairdressers’ Receptionists

Slim, beautiful, perfectly coiffed and manicured.

Intimidating in an I-can’t-believe-you’d-dare-visit-this-over-priced-salon-in-no-make-up-and-wearing-that sort of way.

3.  Post Office Counter Staff

So unhelpful and unfriendly, they count as Honorary Receptionists.

Tell me I’m wrong.

2.  School Receptionists

‘Grim’ is their default facial expression setting.

I never met one yet who didn’t terrify me.  Though there was one tiny, skinny, middle-aged woman in my high school years who won points for riding a 750cc motorbike in full leathers and helmet to work.  Total astonishment always trumps fear.

1.  Medical Receptionists

My failure to prevent the Hub’s future pneumonia is a case in point.  They get to be Number One because they hold the power of life and death in their appointment book-wielding hands.

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Related articles

• Clinical Office Front Desk Receptionist (scamfraudalert.org)
• The Doctor’s receptionist (stevesfunnies.com)
• http://www.dailymail.co.uk/health/article-2081457/There-good-reason-GP-receptionists-grumpy.html
• Laughter as brain injury medicine … You don’t look that old (braininjuryselfrehabilitation.com)

Weekly Photo Challenge: Mine

Plus the box on my bedside table and the empty one in the recycling bin.  

Don’t tell me I’m not predictable.

Or environmentally friendly.

Related articles

• http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2012/10/01/weekly-photo-challenge-mine

Name Dropper

Name my Peas (Photo credit: doolloop)

Molly needed to go out at six-thirty this dull Sunday morning, so I found myself watching Sky News.  There was an item about a gun bar in Las Vegas, where tourists can use a shooting range.  I mention it because the owner glories in the name of Genghis Cohen.

Is that not the best name you’ve ever heard?  Surely not his own?  He must have changed it by deed poll.

He is Australian.  I don’t know why that’s relevant; it just is.

INSERT: Checking Zemanta for pictures to illustrate this post, I discovered that Genghis Cohen is not the name of the bar owner, but of the bar.  What can I tell you?  It was 06:42 when I watched it.

INSERT: Is it bizarre that I can get confused about the name but know the exact time I watched the report?

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I’ve blogged about names before so, as it is a Sunday and a special day and I am bleary-eyed because of my cross-legged dog, I have cobbled together bits from four old posts for your delectation.

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Charlie Brown once said:

Charlie Brown (Photo credit: Air Force One)

Sometimes I lie awake at night and I ask, “Why me?” 

Then a voice answers, “Nothing personal, your name just happened to come up.”

You’ve got to ask yourself why a seven-year old boy is asking ‘Why me?’  It’s a little creepy.

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I wrote the next bit in January of this year; quite a few of these couples are no longer together.  Should the Hub and I be worried?

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Bennifer was the name for J-Lo and Ben Affleck; why not Fleckz?

Tom Cruise and Katy Holmes could be Cromes instead of Tomkat.

Zac Efron and Vaness Hudgens are nicknamed Zanessa; Fudge would be much more fun.

Brad and Ange are Brangelina; can you think of a better one?

Miranda Kerr and Orlando Bloom have become Kerrbloom.  I prefer Bloke.

John Mayer got the nickname Johnifer after he dated Jennifer Aniston.  Was she Bran when she was married to Mr Pitt?

Reese and Jake are known as Gyllenspoon.  How about Reek?

Keith Urban and Nicole Kidman are Kurban.  I like Kidur.

I’m Tilly Bud, married to the Hub.

We should be known as Thud; or A Tilly The Hub.

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NEAT (Photo credit: LEVEL !)

My given name is Linda.  Let’s see who skim reads.  It was given to me forty-nine years ago today.   My Mum’s friend had already taken Mum’s first choice of Amanda for her daughter, born a couple of months before me.  I never met that friend…

My name may once have been a diminutive of Belinda, just as I am a diminutive of a regular-sized person.

In Spanish it means pretty.

Before my head swells like a cobra’s, in German it means snake.  Also soft, tender, weak.  The Germans don’t miss a trick.

The Italians say I’m neat.  Thanks, Italy; I think you’re pretty neat, too.

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I have told the next (true) story so many times, I’m sure you all know it; but today I get to do what I like, so here it is again:

When I was a teenager I was friends with a couple called Colin Healing and Faith Willis; they were fairly serious until he asked her to marry him. 

She turned him down because she refused to become Mrs Faith Healing.  

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The name of the Hub’s orthopaedic surgeon when he had his bike accident was Ponky Firer.  Thinking about it, his name probably still is Ponky Firer.  

Yes, it is: I just Googled him.  It’s thanks to him that the Hub has a working wrist; he inserted a metal plate and six screws and, so long as the Hub doesn’t get too close to any strong magnets, he’s fine (if he ignores the arthritis which comes with age and battered bodies.  Ah, age; don’t get me started).

Funny Greek sign at Food store. (Photo credit: SpirosK photography)

Do you have a name story?  Drop it in the comment box.  

Have a great day!  I’m going to.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Dreaming

A bonus joke for you, from Will & Guy:

Bob is walking down a country road when he spots Farmer Harris standing in the middle of a huge field of corn doing absolutely nothing.  Bob, curious to find out what’s happening, walks all the way out to the farmer and asks him, “Excuse me, Farmer Harris, could you tell me what you are you doing?”

“I’m trying to win a Nobel Prize,” the farmer replies.

“A Nobel Prize?” enquires Bob, puzzled. “How?”

“Well, I heard they give the Nobel Prize to people who are out standing in their field.”

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Talking of farmers and their fields, some women dream of being with a man like the farmer who planted a private field in the shape of a heart, to honour his dead wife (read the story here):

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I dream of one day having a tidy house.  Look at the mess the Hub left recently, for me to find and clear up:

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Share this:

You should check this guy out.

Shakespeare, Facebook & Spam

Spud taught me how to download pictures from Facebook!

Shakespeare does the Hokey-Cokey:

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A recent Facebook status written by Spud:

“The thing about quotes on the internet is that you cannot confirm their validity.” – Abraham Lincoln.

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The photographs of my poems from the Bolton Arts Trail post are too small for you to read.  If you are interested, I posted them on my poetry blog.

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And finally:

The name of a spammer in my spam box today – possibly my favourite piece of spam ever:

Home made penis extenders

My mind has never been so boggled. Roll out the chopsticks!

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A Brief Explanation Of English Schools

Cover of School Daze

I wrote a post, School Daze, about Spud’s last days at school (until he goes back for two more years in September).  It was understandably a little confusing for non-Brits, as Janie pointed out, so here’s a brief explanation:

Children start school the year they turn five, in Reception, presumably named because it is the first time they are received into school.  I think it is the equivalent of the American kindergarten, but many schools don’t even have gartens, kinder or otherwise, especially in the inner cities.

Next come Years One and Two, ages six to seven, known as the Infants.

Years Three to Six – eight to eleven – are known as the Juniors.

We have infant schools and junior schools and infant and junior schools, which are known as Primary Schools.

High School follows at eleven, turning twelve, starting in Year Seven, to Year Eleven at sixteen.

It is legal to leave school at sixteen and go out to work or on to College or Sixth Form.  College is not varsity, it is for further studies aged seventeen-eighteen. Colleges – also known as Sixth Form Colleges – are separate institutions which only teach that age group.

Some high schools have sixth forms, but most state schools in Stockport do not have a sixth form.  State schools are public schools, not to be confused with schools known as public schools, which are private schools.

Private schools and grammar schools – which are fee-paying high schools, apart from those grammar schools which are not fee-paying high schools – usually do have a sixth form.

The term, Sixth Form comes from the days when high schools were known as Secondary Schools and had First Year to Fifth Year instead of Year Seven to Year Eleven.

Secondary schools were known at one time as Secondary Moderns or Comprehensive Schools.  Secondary Moderns were not comprehensive in their teaching and Comprehensives were ultra-modern until pupils trashed them.

We now also have Academies, which are privately sponsored state schools, but I don’t want to confuse you so forget about them.  Everyone else does.

Sixth Forms consist of Lower Sixth and Upper Sixth.  Despite there being seven years of secondary schooling (two optional), there is no Seventh form – not even when there was no Year Seven.

The Scots have a different system – and probably the Welsh and Northern Irish, as well.

An important point to remember: the Northern Irish are British as well as Irish, and not just Irish like the Irish.  The English are British and the Welsh are sometimes Welsh and sometimes Welsh and British.  The Scots are a law unto themselves and tend not to worry about British law, preferring Scots law, because we – the English, who are British like the Scots – will never take away their freedom.

I hope this helps.

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