Monthly Archives: April 2012

Why a scar on a girl’s face is different to a boy’s

OUR boys are always nursing some injury or another – stop! Don’t ring social services, they are boys, and they play sport.

I wouldn’t want to generalise and say boys get more scrapes than girls, but having three sons one after another it seemed from the moment they could walk they were scraping knees and elbows. While we’ve been lucky enough so far (*touches wood) to avoid any broken bones, Jed has a large scar on his elbow plus one on his eyelid, Dougie has several on his knees, plus one on his eye, and Billy Whizz seems to be attempting at every opportunity to get a scar of his own.

But while the boisterous boys will expend their energy on the rugby pitch, their self-appointed princess of a sister has her own daredevil streak and is constantly trying to climb things that shouldn’t be climbed or stand on tall objects.

However it was rugby that gave her a major cut recently, not playing it yet, but falling flat on her face while we were watching Dougie play. For some reason she didn’t put her hands out to stop herself and ended up with a cut on her nose and a grazed chin and lip.

While I was obviously concerned, I found myself fussing about potential scarring, and guilty that I was more worried about our daughter having a scar than I’d been about our sons. Boys can wear scars and scabs with pride. Girls get neurotic and self-conscious about them. Especially when they are right in the middle of your nose.

She’s not bothered, although when I said she mustn’t pick at it or she’d get a scar on her nose, she was instantly concerned. I’d forgotten that to a four-year old, Scar is the baddie in the Lion King . .

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Are we being ripped off if VAT-free ‘children’s’ clothing only goes up to age 12?

WHEN your children are babies, or pre-school, it feels like they cost more money than you could ever earn.

Nappies, special food, prams, cots, car seats, milk, clothes that they grow out of in a week and then perhaps nursery fees that cripple the family budget – even though childcare staff are among some of the lowest paid workers.

You know that when they come out of nappies, or start school, the bills should reduce, shouldn’t they?

School uniform is an expensive business, even when you don’t have to buy for three (or in our case, four from September). But at least we are told children’s clothes aren’t subject to 20 per cent VAT.

But what constitutes children’s clothes? Under 14, apparently.

Our eldest is 14, his brother just about to turn 13. Still children, right?

Not when it comes to clothing I’m afraid. My kids aren’t enormous, pretty average in height, but the eldest both measure in at size 14-15. Many of their friends their age have been six-foot tall for some time already, and they aren’t even 15 yet. Their parents will already have been doing what we are now having to do: buy them clothes and shoes intended for adults.

Jed and Doug in cheaper attire

The choice of clothes for boys aged 11-16 is very limited. Unlike girls, who seem to have racks of options, few clothing stores seem to cater for teen boys, which seems bonkers to me when they are more fashion conscious than ever before. They are also having frequent growth spurts not seen since they were newborns, and seem to need new trousers and shoes every other fortnight.

Why are the retailers so terrible at catering for them? Surprisingly, Next is rubbish for boys over 10, as are M&S, BHS, TK Maxx, John Lewis, Matalan, Debenhams, Primark, New Look and the supermarkets.

H&M are one of the few places I don’t have a fight on my hands when shopping, but they aren’t well stocked or cheap. As for shoes, they both have bigger feet than me and I have to now pay adult prices for adult-sized shoes (although half-decent children’s shoes are sometimes more expensive than adults’ anyway).

Adult clothes don’t quite fit either. The legs are too long, the tops too baggy, but it’s all we can get.

So who is getting the benefit of this zero VAT? Someone’s missing a trick.

Our kids have always had to put up with hand-me-downs, except Jed as the eldest, but even he has to wear second-hand now. Don’t tell him, but I’ve found that I’ve shrunk so many items of Bloke’s clothes they now fit his sons.

Thankfully, for the kids, he’s not quite got to the elasticated trouser and cardigan stage yet.

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Interesting graphic about girls and science

Girls in STEM
Created by: EngineeringDegree.net

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Fifty things for kids to do? Don’t try this at home

THERE was a report (tenuous press release) this week about the ‘bucket list’ of 50 things children should do before they are 12, which included making mud pies, flying kites and collecting frogspawn. My lot, despite being townies, have ticked off most of the things on the list (except perhaps hunting fossils and ‘geocaching.’)

They take great pleasure in getting as mucky as possible at the allotment, have to camp every year, get let loose in parks and gardens at every opportunity and love beach exploring at their grandparents.

I mentioned to the kids that there were many things I did as a child that I certainly wouldn’t want them doing before they were 40, let alone 12. Then I couldn’t actually tell them for fear it would give them ideas.

However, for your eyes only, (look away kids, and my Mum and Dad) here’s a few things you won’t see on a children’s must-do list:

Make a ‘death slide’ over a fast running stream while trespassing on an angry farmer’s land;

Search the ashtrays in the cars in the village garage for used fag butts – and then dare each other to smoke them,

Remove half bottles of dad’s homebrewed wine and top it up with water, replacing the corks with a hammer,

Accept rides from older teenagers on motorbikes, even if it is ‘just across a field,’ or

Lie under jumps while your horsey friends – on their horses – jump over you.

It’s a wonder most of us with free-range childhoods are still here to tell the tale.

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How my garden was obliterated in less than three seconds

IT has taken eight years to develop my shady, urban, child-infested back garden, but it took less than three seconds to destroy it.

At around 1.30am on Sunday, I was woken by what felt like the house shaking. Or was it just a dream? My nocturnal other-half came to bed a few minutes later.

“The wall in the back garden has collapsed,” he muttered, before rolling over and attempting to go to sleep.

That wasn’t going to happen. I was wide awake. I went to peer out of the children’s bedroom window to see what he was talking about. It was too dark.

Downstairs to the window nearest the garden. All I could see was a sheet of the climber hydrangea petiolaris, hanging forlornly in a sheet, not clinging to much at all.

As I peered I could see . . .well, not the garden anymore. Just a sheet of bricks. It was an extraordinary sight. Like an instant patio.

. . . after

To be honest, I cried. Yes, I know it’s just a garden and the fact it happened in the night meant everyone is still alive (it would have killed anyone in the garden, it fell so fast), but after recent nocturnal misadventures, like the car getting squashed and finding a strange drunk man asleep in the dining room, it just feels like we are cursed by bad luck.

Self pity? Yeah, but it took me eight years to build that garden. I write about it as a garden journalist. So no, I don’t feel very laid back about it at all.

The wall was too tall. A Victorian garden wall, bordering the large garden of our neighbouring house’s garden really, all the way around their’s, just one border on ours. It had stood for over 120 years, and yet collapsed in one devastating sheet of bricks, covering the right hand garden border and our entire lawn. A lawn the kids had been playing on just 36 hours earlier.

The following morning it felt unreal to see it. Huge amounts of brickdust covered all the plants and the neighbours’ outside lights, strung presumably on their side, where the ground is a foot or so higher than on ours. Like a horticultural Becher’s Brook.

I couldn’t even start to organise what to do next, as sons needed taking to rugby matches and general life needed to go on as normal.

Bloke spoke to the neighbours the next day. Discussions, apparently, that involved talking to our respective insurance companies. I rang them, they said they’d get back to us. They did, only to tell us the wall wasn’t covered because nothing had hit it, “like a car or something.” Unsurprisingly, getting cross and emailing them the photos didn’t make any difference.

Since then it’s been raining solidly, and each morning when I get up and look out of the window at the missing garden, a little part of my soul wizens. Under all those bricks, somewhere, along with all the other crushed plants, is a snowdrop named ‘Bonnie Scott’, named after my daughter.

What to do next? I can hardly face it.

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Losing the plot over lost property

DO you remember Bagpuss? And how he lived in a magic shop full of lost things? There must be somewhere out there piled high with my children’s belongings.

I don’t know if your offspring are similarly absent-minded, or whether it’s a second-child thing, but over the last 12 months alone, our almost-13-year-old-old son has managed to ‘mislay’ three coats, two pairs of shorts, a mobile phone, school shirts, two pairs of school trousers, a tie, trainers, his watch, a memory stick, three keys, a rucksack, countless woolly hats and gloves, several socks (mostly expensive sports-related ones) and my complete trust in his common sense.

This is not a new mystic ability of his, the vanishing trick. Just about every parents’ evening we’ve attended has involved the sentence: “Dougie does tend to leave things behind quite a lot . . .”

I certainly don’t think he does it intentionally, or simply doesn’t understand the value of things. He’s also not the only one to have lost things – but he is worryingly consistent at it. We were temporarily concerned that maybe he was getting bullied and having things stolen from him, but that wasn’t the case. He just forgets.

He absolutely hates being told off about it, and is always mortified at having to own up to the latest ‘lost’ item and he knows it upsets us. He gets really frustrated and angry with himself and then the following day forgets something else and then is worried to admit it’s gone. He says he gets distracted by the next thing he’s meant to be doing and forgets to pick things up.

It feels like we’ve tried everything: nametags in everything, checklists, alarms – nothing seems to work.  We really don’t want to keep ‘punishing’ him over his absent-mindedness, but in the heat of the moment, I’m fairly liberal with my withdrawal of pocket money, Xbox privileges and later bedtimes. I’ve even made him buy replacements with his own money.

It’s hard, because if you simply ignore it and replace the items without consequences it feels like he won’t learn to be responsible for himself, and that’s not a great thing for a teenager.

Yet if he continually gets told off, he’ll be too worried to tell us, and will lie about it, which will make everything worse – and harder to retrieve that bag left on the bus, or coat in the cinema.

I read an interesting blog about an adult who simply couldn’t keep track of their belongings. They’d been constantly told off about it by their frustrated parents as a child, but despite stress and upset, still forgot. And as an adult, that meant leaving expensive coats, car fuel caps, handbags, wallets, laptops, work documents and house keys.

The only way she coped was by training herself not to put things down randomly: everything had to have a place she would notice on leaving. And that included wrapping handbag handles around her leg in restaurants, putting keys straight into pockets and jackets across her lap, not on chairs or coathooks.

I try to train our forgetful boy to keep everything in a rucksack, and that a removed coat or hoodie goes in the bag straight away. He went to the cinema with friends last weekend, and had already walked into town, had a burger and walked halfway home before he remembered he’d left his rucksack somewhere. I made him walk back to the cinema each day, and ask at the police station.

It’s still missing .  . .

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From daily to weekly – Northampton Chronicle & Echo among five regional papers to end daily printing

DESPITE knowing for a few months that Northampton’s daily newspaper, the Chronicle & Echo, was about to reduce from six-days-a-week publication to just one, I felt immensely sad yesterday when the news was finally broken to staff and readers.

I have such mixed feelings about the end of daily print publishing I barely know where to start this post. And some might remind me, a vested interest, as I still work – as a freelance weekly columnist – for the paper which employed me full-time as a journalist for 13 years.

My other-half also writes a weekly column for them and is still employed full-time by the paper’s owners, Johnston Press.

And in addition to all that, I now work as a journalism lecturer at the University of Northampton, teaching the traditional trade in a (*shudders*) “platform neutral” format (news and feature reporting for print, broadcast and online).

As expected, the outcry over the loss of six-day printing has been loud and clear.

When was the last time you bought a local newspaper? Actually bought one, rather than picking one up for free or reading it online?

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The Family! in an Adventure to the Cinema to see Pirates! in an Adventure with Scientists

AN altogether more expensive trip this holiday was to the cinema, to see Aardman Animation’s new film The Pirates! in an Adventure With Scientists.

This film shows off the stop-motion comedy skills of the geniuses behind Wallace and Gromit, as they take nice-but-dim Pirate Captain (Hugh Grant) on an adventure that kept the attention of our entire family, aged 4 to 43. (Bonnie had to sit on my knee due to Vue’s lack of booster seats, which saw her disappear, bum-first, engulfed by the flip-up seats).

It’s obvious from the off that our ‘hero’, aided by ‘Number Two’ (Martin Freeman), Pirate with Gout (Brendan Gleeson), Albino Pirate (Russell Tovey) and Surprisingly Curvaceous Pirate (Ashley Jensen) are a merry if inept crew who stand no chance of winning the Pirate of the Year Award. After being humiliated by better brigands Black Bellamy, Peg-Leg Hastings and Cutlass Liz (Salma Hayek), Pirate Captain vows to plunder on, only to meet up with geeky failure Charles Darwin (David Tennant) in his pre-beard days.

Darwin, like the audience, spots that Pirate Captain’s beloved parrot Polly is actually a Dodo, long believed extinct.

 

Pirate Captain

The Captain and crew return to London with Darwin and his silent ‘Man-panzee’ Mr Bobo (who uses cue cards and Gromit’s trademark eye-rolling) to try and win a prize with Polly. But a psychotic Queen Victoria has vowed death to all pirates, and has plans for PC’s dodo discovery.

There’s so much to look at that there’s little doubt this will be a film you need to see over and again for the visual puns. It’s a return to form for Aardman, with sequels in the pipeline, thanks to author Gideon Defoe’s series of Pirates! books.

It’s a great family film if you fancy a trip to the cinema, but a word of warning – sneak in your own snacks. The ticket price for six of us at Vue was £30, before we’d even ‘treated ourselves’ to popcorn and drinks, which took the price up to over £65!

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A quid a kid for train to London – worth it for a wander

IS it just me, or do you feel a pressure to be some kind of entertainment impresario during the school holidays?

After the usual day or two of general slobbing about, I seem to be required to have sorted a daily schedule of Things To Do, and to be frank, I don’t really know why I bother.

We don’t ever tend to jet off on any kind ‘proper’ holiday at Easter, and usually will fit in a visit to the grandparents ‘oop North’ if possible. But that fell through last week when the 15-year-old family camper broke down and needed parts that couldn’t be delivered until after the bank holiday.

So, what to do instead?

You might avoid London in the holidays, what with the massive cost of the tourist attractions and the inevitable extra queuing due to Easter.

But it’s actually quite good fun and value for money if you just get on a train and go for a wander.

We had to get to Waterloo last week for a short appointment, and then had the rest of the day to mooch about.

Don’t be conned by the ridiculous train fares quoted online. Instead, buy from the ticket desk people at – in our case – Northampton rail station, who seem to know the cheapest way to get you around. As long as you avoid trains that get into London before 9.59am, or back home between 4.45pm-7pm, you can get an adult and four children to London and back, including unlimited bus and tube travel around London, for £31.40.

That’s £28.40 for me, a QUID EACH for Jed, 14, Doug, 12 and Billy, 8, and four-year-old Bonnie travelled completely free. The petrol, parking and congestion charge would have been considerably more if we’d driven.

If you do fancy a trip to London this week, don’t head for the usual attractions without a fist full of vouchers (you’ll find them everywhere online, particularly on transport and tourism sites, but check their ‘valid from’ dates).

Or give up the queuing and go bus hopping instead. This is a favourite with the kids, who aren’t keen on being dragged around the tube network and much prefer the view from the top deck of a London double decker. With a travelcard you can pick up any route, and if you have a smartphone you can get apps that show you where the buses go to and from wherever you happen to be.

I bribe my kids, using the power of sweets, to spot ‘interesting’ things. They spotted Ghandi’s statue, while another saw a plaque about a zeppelin crash. Poor Bonnie, desperate to join in, just kept shouting and pointing: “There’s a house! And there’s a another house!”

As long as the weather is good and you have plenty of food and drink bribes, you can also wander on foot and see lots too. We walked miles along the river Thames, from Blackfriars Bridge past the OXO Tower, along by all the SouthBank theatres, past County Hall and the London Eye, over Westminster Bridge to the Houses of Parliament, then jumped on a bus up Whitehall (as little legs were getting tired). A great view past Downing Street, on to Trafalgar Square, then another bus up to Piccadilly Circus and then Oxford Street, where we browsed in John Lewis, used their loos and went to have tea and cake in a cheapish café.

Next time we’re going to do the river in the opposite direction, past Tate Modern and the Globe Theatre, and then nip up to Stratford to see the Olympic Park before the summer action (which we don’t have tickets for).

We were dawdling by the end, heading on the tube back to Euston to get an M&S sandwich for the train home (after the 7pm peak). We got back just after 8pm, exhausted, entertained, and for once, not feeling ripped off.

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Hotbin update

Remember that Hotbin I had delivered at New Year? see here
It’s currently operating at 90 degrees and scoffing just about every thing I can chuck in it.
After a rather slow start, mostly because I thought you had to get the temperature up before putting much in, I took the advice of the manufacturer and started filling it with kitchen waste in earnest.
This happened to coincide with our council deciding to give us all a food waste bin (although our area still has to put out black bin bags, go figure).
So instead of our food waste sitting stinking up the yard, we have been putting about two small worktop binfulls of food waste in the hotbin every couple of days. A load of grass clippings about a fortnight ago also helped, and I’m told chicken pellets also speed things up.
The bin simply devours it. I haven’t actually managed to get it more than half full because each day the level drops. When you consider there are six of us in the house, that’s a lot of food waste.
As well as veg peelings I’ve just started putting cooked food in, and haven’t quite been brave enough to put bones in yet. Maybe this week.
My biggest mistake was to keep looking at the thermometer on the lid, which never rises above 30. Meanwhile, inside the temperature, using the extra thermometer provided, is far hotter, and today showed 95 degrees!
It’s a little smelly, only when you lift the lid and no more than a normal compost heap.
Unlike a normal heap, which just piles up and takes a year or more to break down, and needs a mix of material, the HotBin is right outside the kitchen door, on concrete, in a shady corner. But it’s doing an awesome job.

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