Memory Sparks and the Dirty Duck

It's funny how memories are sparked. Especially when they're not your memories...

I'm writing a paper (well, getting ready to write a paper) on how primary schools are genedered, and how this is perceived by the students, and so I have been reading through tons of stuff about kids in school. I was reading a case study sort of thing on gender roles, and the researcher was reading stories to kids. In one story, the princess goes to rescue the prince and gets really dirty and has to wear a paper sack, and in the end she tells him he's a lazy bum and skips off into the sunset by herself. For some reason the girl in the paper sack just reminded me of when my big sissy was little (like I said, not exactly my memory. But I have heard the story enough that I have the perfect image in my head...!). You see, she used to like to play this game called Cinderella. And she would be Cinderella and my mom would be the Wicked Step-Mother. And the Wicked Step-Mother would make Cinderella do all sorts of horrible things, like picking up her toys, and worse! Finally, Cinderella would start to get tired of being Cinderella. "Mom, I don't really want to play Cinderella anymore..." I always wonder if Cinderella ever knew she was getting the short end of the stick, especially because she was the one who chose to be Cinderella...! I just have this perfect vision in my mind of Little Mikah with her chubby pink cheeks (the only part of her that was ever more than skin and bones!), in her blue apron, scrubbing the bathrub and vacuuming with a vacuum that is bigger than she is!!

The last trip I went on was lovely lovely. Stratford-upon-Avon. It is straight out of a fairy tale. Cottages with thatched roofs, quirky little inns, gorgeous gardens, not a single person in a rush. I got to see Anne Hathaway's cottage (in which the thatching cost over 70,000 pounds!!!), Shakespeare's wife, and learned all about her promiscuous ways - she was 3 months pregnant when they were married! We also took a little tour around town to see all the houses and inns of other people that Shakespeare knew, as well as where Shakespeared himself was born, and then later lived after he had struck it rich! It was a lovely little history lesson.

Unfortunately, we didn't have much time to explore the rest of the town, because after the tour we were starving, naturally, and so we to eat at the Dirty Duck. The service was horrible. I mean, service here is bad. I've come to accept that. But the Dirty Duck without a doubt holds the record for the worst service in the history of pubs. So. The moral of this story is: if ever you find yourself in Stratford-upon-Avon, never, Never go to the Dirty Duck!

Best of luck!