In a major report this week, former UK ministers and Government advisers are calling for radical changes in the way British pupils are brought up. Figures in the number of children receiving counseling has tripled over the last year. Advisers recommend children of all ages should be given an hour’s happiness lesson every week to nurture their development.
What's the world coming to when children can't find their own happiness? Schools have been charged with being exam factories rather than teaching their pupils in the normal backdrop of life.
This didn't happen in the fifties in Australia. I'm going back to my early years in this post today. The main entertainment consisted of reading comics and listening to the radio.
What's the world coming to when children can't find their own happiness? Schools have been charged with being exam factories rather than teaching their pupils in the normal backdrop of life.
This didn't happen in the fifties in Australia. I'm going back to my early years in this post today. The main entertainment consisted of reading comics and listening to the radio.
Reading comics - museumvictoria.com.au In January 1951, I had reached nine years of age. I looked forward to my double figures years, after which I'd become a teenager. I attended Hawkesburn Primary School, a short walk away from our home in Sussux Street, Prahran. Laughter, games and shouting filled the playground during breaks. I'd take my younger sisters for a long, boring walk to Como Park sometimes on the weekend. Dressed in sweet little dresses with white collars and full skirts, sometimes covered with a coat if it was cold, we'd spread a blanket over the grass, to roll around in play. Nothing much happened there until I caught the glance of some boys nearby. That's when I knew I was growing up. I didn't do very well in the classroom, preferring to gaze outside and dream of my future life, where I'd be a beautiful woman, and maybe a ballerina.
At the age of ten in 1952, I found maths difficult at school. Times tables posed a problem. We had to learn them by route, and would often recite them out loud in class. But I couldn't grasp the answer if asked. However, I loved English and art. As long as I was good at something, I felt happy and at ease with myself.
At the age of ten in 1952, I found maths difficult at school. Times tables posed a problem. We had to learn them by route, and would often recite them out loud in class. But I couldn't grasp the answer if asked. However, I loved English and art. As long as I was good at something, I felt happy and at ease with myself.
Joey - www.heraldsun.com.au By the age of eleven in 1953, I played outside on the street with local children. We rode our bikes or played hop scotch, jumping on one leg between lines of chalk drawn on the pavement. Our arena at the back of the house consisted of the lavatory to the left, a small patch of grass, a giant apricot tree which we'd climb to survey all the adjoining yards, and a shed in one corner. There, we'd mix potions, mainly mud, grass, weeds and water, and try to convince my youngest sister to taste the result. I'm sorry, Robyn.
I took lessons at the Royal Ballet Company in nearby Melbourne. Being tall for my age, always a head above most other students the same age, my career could never develop in that direction because I would be too tall to dance with a partner. Also, my big toe protruded above the other toes, which made standing on point difficult, often resulting in cramp. And so, the beautiful swan bowed gracefully and left the stage at about twelve years.
Sometimes, I'd organize shows in our back yard with chairs set on the path beside the house, all facing the grassed stage. I'd usually recite Little Arabella, which went like this:
Little Arabella had a big umbrella. But one night alas, she left it on the grass. Nine o'clock next day, when she went that way. Blue eyes opened wide, when she saw inside. Little elves with wings, darling little things. Round and fat and jolly. Underneath the brolly.
I'd act it up with all the movements and pronunciations to get the greatest reaction. That's the thing about children—they don't mind repetition. My friends must have heard the poem many times before. We didn't need 'happiness classes.' The world stretched before us with unlimited possibilities.
Did you need happiness classes?
I took lessons at the Royal Ballet Company in nearby Melbourne. Being tall for my age, always a head above most other students the same age, my career could never develop in that direction because I would be too tall to dance with a partner. Also, my big toe protruded above the other toes, which made standing on point difficult, often resulting in cramp. And so, the beautiful swan bowed gracefully and left the stage at about twelve years.
Sometimes, I'd organize shows in our back yard with chairs set on the path beside the house, all facing the grassed stage. I'd usually recite Little Arabella, which went like this:
Little Arabella had a big umbrella. But one night alas, she left it on the grass. Nine o'clock next day, when she went that way. Blue eyes opened wide, when she saw inside. Little elves with wings, darling little things. Round and fat and jolly. Underneath the brolly.
I'd act it up with all the movements and pronunciations to get the greatest reaction. That's the thing about children—they don't mind repetition. My friends must have heard the poem many times before. We didn't need 'happiness classes.' The world stretched before us with unlimited possibilities.
Did you need happiness classes?
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