modern art + children = chaos

It's been a grand two weeks, sure it has. I've been stuck in a wee village school in darkest Siberia (ehm, well Cumbria - but it was bloody freezing). I've had not even an inkling of decent mobile phone coverage (ace), and hardly a minute spare to check my emails (fandabbydozie). In fact, I've been so devoid of contact with the outside world, that I've managed to miss the last two weeks of Dancing on Ice AND Celebrity Big Brother. Although, thinking about it, that's no great loss. I'm pretty sure that even without my presence as an audience Ulrikka was still moping around being grumpy (but strangely likeable), Terry would have been bounding around trying to act cool and re-create the zeitgeist of the Tube era (remember... the time when people actually knew who he was?), and Coolio would have still annoyed the hell out of anyone with even a basic concept of feminism.

And while I'm thinking about it, I'm feeling rather chuffed with myself, having helped construct the WWII display (cue lots of talk about bombs and guns, and some very happy little boys), as well as organise the school artefacts into some semblance of order and create a photo album and literacy materials. Oh, and on that note... why the hell do parents think its perfectly OK to allow 8-year-olds to play Grand Theft Auto, and then wonder why the sweet jesus their adorable little babies are suddenly psychopathically obsessed with weaponry?

So anyway, in an attempt to inject a little culture (other than the stuff wot you get on t'telly) into those enquiring little minds, the school decided a school trip to an art gallery was in order. And not any old art gallery, complete with old paintings and shuffling feet sounds, oh no ... this one was a full on modern art gallery - resplendent and shining in its white walls, glass lifts that go whooosh and bloody loud floors designed to amplify every.single.dainty.footstep.

In all fairness, it was a really rather fun day. If nothing else I thoroughly enjoyed the fact our students managed to destroy not one, but two displays. One nil to the Kids versus Arty Farty Guys. I really really don't think Yoko Ono is going to be too happy to discover one of her precious umbrellas has been squashed into a nice concave non-umbrella shape. Mind you, I don't think the kids really care (other than they got a bit of a telling off and felt very sorry for themselves for about two minutes) and Yoko Ono has never been one for breaking out into cheerful grins, anyway. And so onto a perspex case of poo (yes, really) - which subsequently got overloaded by enquiring little hands and arms, and collapsed. Cue much hilarity. Not.

Thankfully, the little darlings almost all managed to avoid observing the pictures of bums, and a full frontal naked woman. Mind you, I did discover a wayward gaggle of 7-year-old boys giggling hysterically at the sight of aforementioned picture. I managed to stay composed and just said very calmly "Well, it's just art, boys. No need to find it funny." Thank God they didn't find the photo of a woman doing something that should only be kept for very select porn mags. Oh, and a sign on the wall saying 'My mum is fucking ace'. Hardly something I wanted the little Year Two's proudly spelling out phonetically in a huge echoing gallery. Moving swiftly on...

I can only begin to imagine the scenes at home as parents converse with their little angels:

Mum: "So did you have a nice day today?"

7-year-old: "Weeeell, we played with Lego bricks. That was cool. Then we saw a picture of bums and naked ladies!"

Mum (slightly distrubed by this revelation, having thought her little darling was on a day intended to expose hunnykins to a bit of culture unseen in their rural community, rather than some pornographic field trip): "Uhmm... darling...what else did you see?"

7-year-old: "Oooh yeah... an army helicopter, and oh, Timmy and Andy broke a case of poo!"

Of course, all the bizarre and abstract stuff was bound to have some sort of influence, and of course my lunchtime group managed to coin a new arty farty phrase for themselves- the gloriously incomprehensible 'chihuahua lift expansion group'. Lord knows where they thought of it, and how, but I think they may have been secretly consuming either far too many E-numbers, or had a sneaky wee dose of the out-of-date medicines in one of the perspex boxes on the walls.

And so to home, and a sing-song medely of Queen and ABBA hits from the boys in the seat behind me, who did remarkably well on the high notes (well, they are only ten). It sure beats 'The Wheels On The Bus'.