This sheet was designed by my then head of the Service for Special Educational Needs a couple of decades ago. I still find it one of my quickest routes to supporting students to self analyse which aspects of writing they find most challenging. From this we make some decisions on priorities in the initial draft. We stop trying to juggle them all at the same time. It gives them back control. They can succeed on their own terms. Thank you Alvin!

I've just received a round robin email containing this photo. I just love it. Does anybody know where it is?

My mum told me about the whippy stick. Her mum, my Nan, took it each day when she walked the two sisters to school. My mum loved school. No whippy stick for her. My Aunty disliked school right from the start. It was a four mile walk from their Devonshire farm to school in the village. My Nan walked behind my Aunty, and if she tried to turn back home, or even if she dawdled, the whippy stick on the back of her legs reminded her that truancy was not an option.
What a change in a life time.

"I hate ironing. I'm just no good at it." How many mums mutter this weekly? The reason given - "It's boring."

Yet those same mums will insist on having 'learning' homework for their sons and daughters who are struggling with print. "They have to learn to spell, and the only way is to go over them over and over again."

Rather like ironing.

Imagine somebody turning up on your doorstep with an enormous pile of white shirts. "I hear you're not very good at ironing? Well, I've brought you some to practise on."

That's what so much 'extra literacy homework' feels like. Boring. Totally uninspiring. A waste of time.

I adopt a different approach to my students who struggle with print.

First find something they enjoy and feel that they are good at.
Second build a shared enjoyment.
Then use that common pleasure to gradually and carefully show the value of print.

For example; for the mum who 'hates ironing',  the mum who is 'no good at it'.

Imagine somebody turning up on your doorstep with a gorgeous piece of colourful material. "With your wonderful figure and deep blue eyes, you would look stunning in this. Shall I help you to make a dress? First we need to cut it out. Next we need to stitch the seams. Oh, now we need to iron the seams. I'll show you the easiest way to do this.

Before your reluctant ironer knows where she is, she's wielding the iron voluntarily and learning better ways of ironing from her visitor.

 Pamela's latest interest is 'mindfulness'. I looked it up. I found this:

Mindfulness ...

• Is simply about paying attention and coming into the present moment. This means that you can begin to experience your life with exquisite vividness.

I thought of my own mild brain injury. That summed up what the recovery period felt like. Cognition had taken a back seat.  I had no history, no future, I lived precisely in the moment. It was amazing. At times almost euphoric in intensity. Until the outside world crashed in. I remember the phone call "Judy, I have been speaking to Daphne. We feel it is best if we don't combine lifts any more. The boys have had two late marks. We will take them to school ourselves."

Now; the feeling was not euphoric. It was desolation. "Please please don't take this away from me too".

Taking and fetching the boys to and from school was my only responsibility in this cocooned state.

I think Henry, after his catastrophic brain hemorrhage is in the same period of recovery. His cognition was for many many months almost non existent. His brain, probably for its own recovery of stamina, is practising mindfulness for him. He exists 'in the minute'. He will eat the grapes I take him with such enthusiasm. It's very pleasing as a visitor to see such exquisite enjoyment of such a simple pleasure. Remember his music therapy comment "I can't believe I'm so good at this". Then the world comes crashing in.

He tells me his new grand daughter's second name is "Mary". It triggers a more distant memory. Cognition takes over from mindfulness, which is a good sign for brain function recovery, but a painful recognition of incapacity. He looks me in the eye and asks me the same question he has asked on my visits for the last year "Am I right in thinking that my Mary has died?"

His Mary. The one he cared for unstintingly throughout her decline into dementia. Probably 10 years of increasing responsibility for her daily life. She died shortly after his brain hemorrhage. He was then without mindfulness or cognition. Only now is cognition competing with mindfulness.

His love for Mary needs a cognitive framework.

Funny how people without brain injury are trying to go in the opposite direction. They are learning to abandon cognition and experience the 'here and now' more intensely.

Funny old world!

I think the new Portage website is clear colourful and informative. After a lot of work and cooperation, it now provides information on all aspects of the work of the National Portage Association.
I am sure that people all over the world who have had contact with the Portage principles will find this a valuable site. I hope that soon the International Portage Association will follow suit with a site of their own.
Do go and have a look.

"This is my magic wand. It's broken. 'Cos I left it out in the rain"

. This was the news item that Billy chose when it was his turn to stand in front of his classmates as they sat expectantly on the mat. Other pupils had told us stuff like "I like my cat" and "I went shopping with my Granny". Billy's wand waved around majestically at them. This was his moment of glory, he had waited impatiently for his turn.
 "It's not broken" from Johnny.
 Billy retorted "It is broken. The light on the end can light up when you press this button, see, 'cept it's broken 'cos I left it in the rain". "What rain?" from Eliza. "The rain in my garden" from a rather irritated Billy. "Rain can't break things" from Eliza. "Yes it can, 'cos the light did light and now it is broken  'cos I left it out in the rain". A few more rounds of 'No it can't" and "Yes it can" followed, with various other pupils joining in the debate with comments on whether rain can break things. Eventually, with no prompting from me, Billy introduced the word 'battery'. The debate continued as to how rain can break a battery.

"'Cos my magic wand is full of water, and the battery won't work when it's full of water": Billy had started off his 'news' with short rather stammering sentences. All reticence is now forgotten. He is in full swing of an argument he understands himself, and wants to help his class mates to learn too. He is the teacher. He is teaching his classmates. They are learning the importance of asking the right questions.

I, their teacher, remain silent. Billy is teaching them at a level they can grasp. He is learning how to frame his words in ways they will understand. The magic wand was the catalyst. They are now embarked on a community of enquiry into the relationship between water and light, and how batteries fit into this relationship.

I really liked Samantha's question "Well if it's broken because it's full of water, why don't you just tip the water out?"

Today I met Howard again. He could smile and use appropriate facial expression. He is still handsome. He has no words.
I first met Howard in his home. He was alone, apart from the cat. His wife was at work. He was not. Prior to his diagnosis of dementia, he had been a top engineer. Since diagnosis, he had attended regular social support groups and sat on service user committees.
He was suggested to me as a person who might benefit from a sustained cognitive programme.
I took Organisation of Dots assessment task. First I needed to establish his baseline.
He had lost the ability to join the diagonal of a triangle. I taught him to do it. Again. A mere trifle for an engineer, to be able to join two dots to make a diagonal. For him and for me, an enormous effort resulted in new learning. We had proved something to each other. Howard was still able to learn. He could forge new neural pathways.
It took every ounce of effort on his part, and tremendous determinatioin to succeed. He succeeded.
His words were faltering as he led me to the door. With deliberate and rather formal tone, he said " you are the first person who's actually done anything about ...... " there was a break as he waved his arms in a searching manner ......"this"

What we had done together was not accommodate dementia. We had tackled dementia. We did not win the war, but we did win a battle. And it felt so good.
Sadly, I only worked with Howard once more. My employment changed. I moved on.
Today, I had the chance to tell him that his words to me were the inspiration I needed to train as a trainer in the cognitive programme.
I thanked him. He smiled.

"I can't believe I'm so good at it" Henry said towards the end of his music therapy session.
Henry suffered a catastrophic brain hemorrhage 3 years ago. He was unconscious for many months. As consciousness gradually returned, few shared his daughter's belief that he would walk and talk again. For many many months he lay there, tubes everywhere, no sign of the old Henry who was every body's darling. The Henry who had cared unstintingly for his wife through the trajedy of early dementia.
About a year ago, he was well enough to be able to swallow tiny amounts of food. To his great delight, the tubes came out. He could taste and feel his food again.
Today I watched in amazement as he walked down the corridor of his care home, leaning ever so lightly on the arm of his nurse. No sign of the zimmer today. He walked all the way to the therapy room. Here he played a variety of musical instruments to the sensitive accompaniment of the therapist. He grinned from ear to ear after the three of us all sang a selection of nursery rhymes - practising for when he holds his new baby grand daughter on his knee.
The change in Henry in the last few months has been astonishing.
How can we know which of all the various therapies he receives is the main catalyst?
The truth is, we can't. Not for sure.
How can we know whether the progress to regain cognitive processes would have been speedier if he had followed a course in Feuerstein's Instrumental Enrichment?
We can't.
We can hypothesise.
We can quote carefully documented research.
But in the end, each unique person, with each unique circumstance, produces a unique life experience.
I know though, if I lived nearer to where Henry is being cared for, I would most definitely be taking Organisation of Dots along with me on a regular basis - if only to hear him tell me "I can't believe I'm so good at it".

Intelligence is a static commodity. An IQ test measures it.

That was the basic tenet that Professor Reuven Feuerstein challenged. He taught youth from displacement camps how to take the IQ tests so that their scores increased. He devised his own programme to teach them how to be intelligent. He was a catalyst for change. Their futures changed.

This was how Instrumental Enrichment began, in the late 1940s. His work was, and still is, totally child centred. He believed that the system he was instructed to use by the government of his day did not suit the children in front of him.

He taught the children that they could change. He showed them how to be in charge of their own developing cognitive processes.

And in doing so, he began, ever so slowly, to change a system.