Tag Archives: Northampton

February 13, 2012 · 8:18 am

Are party dresses conditioning girls into impractical clothes for women?

BONNIE has just got to the age when birthday parties are the most exciting thing to EVER happen to a kid, what with all those ball-pits, pass-the-parcels, party dresses and cakes.

Up until the age of three, parties can be a little baffling, but when they reach the grand-old-age of four – as Bonnie will in a week – the socialite is born.

She’s been to two parties in the past two weeks for her best friends Izzy and Alice, which have both led to a dilemma I don’t remember witnessing with the boys: what to wear.

The boys just accepted whatever shirt and trouser or jumper and jean combination I wrestled them into; for Bonnie it seems far more important than that.

She’s been coming home from nursery and putting her summery party dress on just to have tea – and objecting most loudly when sent back up to change.

She seems genuinely conflicted about whether a pretty party frock or Princess dress-up is de-rigueur for a party at someone’s house, or at Wacky Warehouse, or Berzerk.

While I’m trying to coax her into a t-shirt and jeans so she can be more comfortable, she’s wriggling into some multi-layered Rapunzel floor-length ballgown.

I just don’t know where her love of dresses has come from (as you can tell, it ‘ain’t from me). So we’re already compromising: I let her wear her fancy dresses over a pair of leggings and a t-shirt, and wellies if the weather is bad.

At Berzerk last weekend, I bumped into a former colleague and Dad-of-Girls on similar party-marshaling duty. I voiced my concerns about letting her run about the climbing frames and slides in an ankle-length dress, and he laughed. “You’re not used to dealing with girls yet, are you?”

Then he pointed out that just about every girl in the place was dressed in flouncy frocks, with sequined cardies and pretty clasps in their hair. And they were all climbing as high as possible, running as fast as they could, and not caring a jot about having to hitch up their hems to do so.

I guess this is the start of a learned tolerance for impractical clothing that every girl takes into womanhood . . .

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February 12, 2012 · 12:24 pm

Still talking – latest Vlog from our Chron columns

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February 12, 2012 · 11:14 am

Getting kids to wear coats is snow joke

AT the time of writing (February 6), there’s still about four inches of snow outside but we’re assuming school will be open this week.

Nevertheless it may be the ice rather than snow that throws the proverbial cat amongst the (frozen) pigeons. It’s meant to be bitterly cold this week and parents should be prepared.

It seems ridiculous to say but you do see children turning up at school without warm clothing. I don’t care if your children ‘don’t like wearing coats.’  You’re not their friend; you’re their adult, so insist they wear one. And if they refuse, make them walk the last couple of streets to school instead of getting a lift from door to door.

My elder two seem to think that coats are an optional extra when the temperature hovering around the zero mark, but they get dragged back to stick a coat on over their school uniform. No son, your blazer just won’t cut it. I don’t care what other kids do; you’ll secretly thank me for that coat. And yes, I do tell them that they “won’t feel the benefit” if they wear coats indoors.

The younger two are still, thankfully, at an age where they like a warm coat, hat, scarf and gloves, even if we do get through several every winter (only to find them cluttering up the house come the summer). I think I’ve bought at least four hats for Bonnie since November and even putting gloves on the old-fashioned string-through-the-coat-sleeves doesn’t seem to preserve them for long.

Bonnie and her snowman as brothers fight behind

But Bonnie recently announced that the navy blue snowsuit she’d been wearing for a couple of winters was a, far too tight and b, FOR BOYS. (Billy’s hand-me-down)

I did look around the shops for several weeks for an age-four snowsuit – not too puffy – but couldn’t find one. You may get lucky on Freecycle for coats, or by checking the charity shops. Kids can grow out of coats in a season and it can be an expensive business.

Then last week I found the perfect all-in-one at Blacks up at Riverside. It was pink, waterproof, not too bulky, and £20.

When the snow came at the weekend, our lot all layered up in warm coats and hats – even the boys, who know from experience the pain of a snowball hitting a cold ear or a being shoved down the neck.

While Bonnie was happy to join in hurling snowballs with her brothers, she soon got bored and devoted herself to making a tiny snowman, or lying on the ground making snow-angels. Meanwhile the boys’ snowball fight descended into all-out warfare, including fortified walls both at the Racecourse and in our tiny back garden, where they trampled my plants and lawn underfoot.

I’d like to tell you that Bloke and I observed maturely from a distance, but it would be a lie. Not only did we race each other inelegantly down hills on toboggans too small for our grown-up bums, but Bloke was at the heart of Sunday’s long-running snowball skirmish. And much to the disgust of our elder boys, we sneaked out to the Racecourse during Saturday’s late-night snowstorm to join other grown-ups building snowmen and running around like kids. OK, so we might not be the après-ski at Val d’Isere types, but at least we can still enjoy a bit of snow closer to home.

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February 7, 2012 · 12:10 pm

Spymonkey’s Oedipussy review, Royal and Derngate, Northampton, February 2012

YOU can hardly move in Northampton at the moment without spotting a poster for the intriguingly-titled Oedipussy, a comedy about, of all things, an incestuous Greek tragedy.

It’s performed by Spymonkey, an accomplished physical theatre group with faces you vaguely recognise but then aren’t sure if you’re mixing them up with others: Petra Massey of Miranda and Hyperdrive fame reminded me of Tracey Ullman circa her Three of a Kind years, while Toby Park has something of the bewildered Mark Heap about him, Stephan Kreiss is a funnier, German version of Stephen Frost from Whose Line is it Anyway while the hilarious Aitor Basauri is a one-off – a deadpan clown whose physicality and expression carried the whole show. So, is it worth the hype? We’d been promised laughs, our audience trooped in to the smell of fresh paint – last minute set change perhaps? And then the four-strong cast told how their last show had received a poor review. This one was going to make up for it.

Switch then to the story of Oedipus – you should swot-up on Wikipedia if your Greek mythology isn’t up to scratch – where a baby is dispatched to die in the hills to avoid the Oracle’s prediction of son-kills-dad-marries-mum coming true.

Mixing a static set with multiple character and costume changes, the troop tell the ancient tale with tongues firmly in cheeks. The performers literally throw themselves into it, with plenty of laughs coming from the fact these are not fresh young teenagers straight out of theatre school. They’ve had to drag themselves to the gym to get themselves in shape and battle the aging process all in the name of slapstick. I fully believed the lines about being on painkillers to make it through the show night after night. If it had been performed by younger actors, it wouldn’t have been as funny.

There were weaker sections. I liked some of the actor’s soliloquies, particularly Toby Park’s heartfelt description of his high-achieving family, but they sometimes unnecessarily interrupted the frantic flow of the narrative. The first half took a good half hour to fully engage the bemused audience, but once the story was in full flow the pace and energy took most of the observers along for the ride.

I was with a group of 19-22 year old students who just didn’t get a lot of the references – PlayAway, Bond films, Wilson, Keppel & Betty’s sand dance and Morrison shelters flew over their heads. But they did laugh at the strange grown-ups running around in nappies. By contrast, a large percentage of the audience were of pensionable age and they were falling about in the aisles.

There is a flash of full-fronted nudity (hence the warnings on the posters and the advice that it’s not for under-14s) but I’m not sure it serves its purpose for a single, albeit funny, joke.

There’s clever and comic use of props and effects – low-fi gory cascading blood, a 70s sci-fi hint to the costumes, Aitor’s show-stealing lepers, silly and sad songs and hilarious Oracle eyes that just reminded me of Cookie Monster from the Muppets.

Oedipussy is a dazzling show, performed by highly-competent actors who have fully honed their craft. Having reviewed dozens of shows over the years, I was relieved that nothing irritated or bored me about it. I laughed solidly throughout, but could also see others around me just not getting the joke.

It’s undoubtedly bold and bizarre, as is Spymonkey’s way, and you can imagine it going down a storm at Edinburgh’s Fringe. But it’s starting its run in Northampton’s traditional Victorian Royal Theatre, and once you get your head around that, you can sit back and enjoy another piece of innovative theatre Made in Northampton.

Oedipussy runs in Northampton until February 18.

Book your tickets now, go on, via www.royalandderngate.co.uk or on 01604 624811.

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February 2, 2012 · 8:54 am

Kids’ TV is dead. Long live kids’ TV

YOU can usually tell someone’s age by asking them what their favourite children’s TV programme was when they were little.

Rentaghost

The surreal delights of the Clangers, Mr Benn, Rainbow, Rentaghost and The Wombles would label you as a child of the 70s, while Dangermouse, Thundercats and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles would shift you into the 80s.

If Thunderbirds, the Sooty show and Andy Pandy in black and white trigger misty eyed reminiscences, it’s safe to say you are older than me.

Our own children, now ranging from ages 14 to 3, were blessed – and some would say cursed – by the invention of multi-channel TV in the 1990s.

Our eldest two boys were the original Cbeebies generation; the first to enjoy Teletubbies when it was causing a national kerfuffle, and Bob the Builder when he was still made of clay and flirting with Wendy (Sunflower Valley and CGI ruined it).

And while Billy had Balamory and Bonnie enjoyed the strange delights of In the Night Garden and Waybuloo, it seems some fear decent programming for children may become a thing of the past.

Russell T Davies, the man credited for rescuing Dr Who from TV purgatory and restoring it to prime-time family viewing, is warning that children’s programmes are on life-support.

In an interview with the Observer, Davies said: “I am passionate about children’s television, but it is, as ever, an endangered species, under threat.

“The most shocking thing I have seen is that, apparently unnoticed, five years ago ITV dropped children’s programmes. There is now the complete absence of children’s programmes made by ITV on CITV.”

When we were growing up there was always a snobbery about ITV, which I’m not sure has diminished much in 40 years.

While I always did prefer Magpie over the goody-two-shoes Blue Peter, and liked Press Gang more than Grange Hill, I can’t say I’d automatically associate ITV with great children’s shows.

It’s probably also worth pointing out that the undoubtedly talented Mr Davies is working on another children’s TV show for the BBC – Aliens Vs Wizards – about a teenage wizard and his scientist friend trying to stop aliens who intend to destroy the earth. And while his ability to spin a good script is undeniable, he did also write for Chucklevision.

Certainly as budgets get hit, children’s TV isn’t going to get as much dosh thrown at it as perhaps it deserves. It’s probably cheaper to import some overdubbed cartoons, or Disney-style tosh about overconfident teens than it is to make a decent home-grown programme.  Deadly 60, the hugely popular and intentionally hilarious wildlife show, must cost a fortune, as its bonkers presenter Steve Backshall travels the world looking for creatures that can kill you.

But I agree with RTD about TV networks not seeing the bigger picture with children’s productions, and that by categorising a show as ‘just for kids’ is failing to recognise both the writing talent and the potential cash-cow. After all, he made a lot of money for the Beeb from Dr Who and its Sarah Jane spin-offs.

Now I’d like to see Horrible Histories, the very best thing on TV, moved to prime-time BBC at, ooh, 7pm every night? Even its repeats would be far more intelligent and entertaining than what is currently offered in that slot.

Until the BBC complies with my demands, you can go to the CBBC website http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/cbbc/episode/b011qlwb/Horrible_Histories_Series_3_Episode_2/ and catch up with Series 3 of Horrible Histories. You don’t need to have the kids around. Put your headphones in and enjoy. It’s more educational and humorous than any half hour you’d spend on Facebook.

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February 1, 2012 · 8:32 am

How do you tell a three-year-old that they won’t come back as a Zombie?

SO, we’re driving home from school and, as you do, I’m giving Billy some advice about why he shouldn’t do something or other, because he could end up hurt, or worse, dead.

It’s a fairly typical parenting technique intended to deter an eight-year-old’s curiosity, hopefully triggering some kind of safety reminder before they stick their fingers in a plug socket or eat 12 packs of Monster Munch in one go.

Then three-year-old Bonnie pipes up: “If you die, you just come back as a zombie anyway.”

Trying not to slam on the brakes, I tell her that zombies are not real, only pretend, and if you die, well, you die. (Not terribly tactful, admittedly).

“Well then, I’d just come back as alive again,” she counters.

“No darling, in real life you don’t come back if you die . . .” I started to argue, before realising it was not the time to throw more “No, dead is definitely dead” arguments at my toddler. I changed the subject to something less complicated, like particle physics.

But where has she got this idea of Zombies and ‘coming back to life’ from?

Obviously she’s been paying more attention to her brothers playing computer games at the weekends than we (bad parents) had realised.

Even more reasons to marshal their viewing habits and keep TVs and video games out of bedrooms. It’s not only those playing who get affected.

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January 30, 2012 · 9:33 pm

An experiment we may regret: Watch “His & Hers: Firemen and rugby” on YouTube

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January 25, 2012 · 9:03 am

The phone call you dread . . . “There’s been an accident . . .”

IT’S a phone call any parent would dread – “Now don’t panic, but [insert your child’s name here] has had an accident and we’ve called an ambulance . . .”

This happened to us for the first time this weekend.

It was the usual Sunday morning of rugby – which can either mean everyone at their home ground training or scattered around the county at different games.

Bloke had left early to take Billy to Corby for an under-eights game, I’d dropped Dougie at one club for an under-13s home game, while Jed cadged a lift with a team-mate to another town ground for an under-14s match.

Rugby is Bloke’s domain; I opt out of rugby when possible, in theory because I’m the taxi-driver for everything else, but in reality there’s usually a massive pile of washing to clear before the next heap of filthy kit arrives beside the machine.

Bonnie and I had just got home from a supermarket run. Then my mobile rang; an unrecognised number. It was our friend and fellow rugby mum, Kim.

“Now don’t panic, but can you get down here right away? It’s all fine, but Jed’s had an accident, and he’s OK, but we’ve called an ambulance . . .”

The old cliché of your blood running cold is truly accurate.

Within about four minutes I’d got Bonnie back into her shoes and coat, out to the car and strapped into her seat, and we were racing across Northampton.

Of course every light turned red as we got to it. Every slow driver pulled out in front of us, giving extra time for my mind to race.

He wasn’t knocked unconscious; we’d established that much on the phone. But what had happened? How badly injured was he? They said they weren’t moving him . . . did that mean a neck injury? What if we missed the ambulance going the other way to hospital? What if we didn’t get there in time? In time for what? How bad was it going to be?

I considered putting my hazard lights on, running red lights, overtaking, but I needed to get to him in one piece. And I had Bonnie in the car too. Don’t be stupid Hilary, just get there. Get to him.

Then it occurred to me to ring Bloke. What should I say? He was even further away. And what about Doug, who would need picking up from elsewhere?

When we got to the Casuals RFC ground in Bedford Road, there was no ambulance, but fellow parents were waiting to show me where Jed was. I parked – badly – passed a bewildered Bonnie over to Kim’s brilliantly responsible teenage daughter, and started running to the farthest corner of the fields where I could just make out a shape on the floor surrounded by adults.

At this point my adrenaline ran out and utter, disgusting, chubby unfitness took over. I got halfway across the muddy second pitch and couldn’t breathe, let alone run. I turned to see the ambulance coming in the gates and got to Jed just before it did.

He was on the wet pitch where he’d fallen, covered in coats, tops – anything anyone could donate to keep him warm – in shock and some pain, with his excellent coach holding his head still. Everyone was clearly concerned.

He’s a scrum-half. He’d been in a heavy tackle, fallen sideways and landed heavily on his back. After the impact his legs had gone numb with pins-and-needles, and his back was agony. He’d been told in no uncertain terms, quite rightly, not to move.

The two ambulance women quickly established he didn’t have a neck injury, and got him onto a stretcher and into the ambulance where he was given gas and air for the pain.

Everyone at the club had rallied around, taking care of Bonnie, kit bags and the car while I went in the ambulance.

Meanwhile Bloke had arrived back in Northampton, gone to fetch Dougie, and was on his way to retrieve Bonnie and everything else before coming to the hospital.

In A&E, we were admitted quickly. Jed had to part with the gas and air, which he’d clearly become attached to, and had been given strong painkillers instead. He wasn’t talking much, mostly from shock.

We were seen quickly by a nurse, then a doctor, and the diagnosis was that he probably hadn’t broken any bones, but had possibly torn muscles in his lower back. They seemed most relieved he hadn’t broken any ribs.

We were dispatched within an hour of arriving with three sets of strong painkillers and advice not to play sport until he recovered fully.

 

Jed before Sunday's drama. And no those aren't his rugby boots.

Jed felt relief, shock, and utter disappointment that he hadn’t been able to play the match and probably wouldn’t be playing for a while either. He was also embarrassed about the whole ‘taken off in an ambulance’ thing. Word had quickly spread and his phone was pinging all day with concerned messages from his friends.

Meanwhile I felt, and still feel, massive, overwhelming relief that it hadn’t been worse. A boy I’d grown up with had died in his teens playing school rugby in a freak accident. Plenty of other people suffer life-changing sports injuries and thank goodness Jed wasn’t one of them . . . this time.

Part of me is screaming: don’t ever let any of them on a rugby pitch again! But I know I can’t, and shouldn’t, stop them, any more than we can stop them ever crossing the road or getting in a car. Normal life carries risks.

Huge massive thanks to all at Casuals RFU who went out of their way to help and to the ambulance and hospital staff who mop up these kinds of sports injuries every weekend.

And by the way . . . they all lost their matches too.

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January 24, 2012 · 8:21 am

Don’t let bad sleeping habits lie

“SHE just won’t sleep, and I’m so tired I just let her come into bed with me,” a friend confided in us last week. “I feel like I’ve failed.”

It’s a situation most parents will recognise, but not necessarily under the same circumstances.

That once-contented, angelic baby, who seemed perfectly happy to nap during the day AND sleep at night suddenly decides that night time is party time. Or whiny time. Or cry loudly at the stairgate time.

Maybe they’ve always been restless and demanding at sleep time. Determined not to nod off unless walked around, rocked in a pram, driven around in a car, anything that worked, just for a few hours. Please.

Then just baby settled into a regular sleep routine, their teeth start to break through, and they are grizzly, dribbly, and produce nappies that make your eyes water.

You think it will pass, all this Not Sleeping.

You waver in your reaction.

At first you jump and run to them every time you hear the slightest whimper.

Then, slowly, you (should) try to ignore the first murmurings. Then, if it develops into a full-throated scream, (and you’ve other children trying to sleep), don’t turn the light on, quietly reassure them, put them back into sleeping position and leave the room.

We’ve all sat outside that door, going in and out, listening to wailing that seems to go on forever. And if it’s the middle of the night, sometimes it feels the only way you’ll get any sleep, and therefore sanity, is to let them into your bed.  It’s not a road you want to travel down for long.

Our friend has the added complication of now being on her own. She looks after two under sevens, works part-time and doesn’t have family nearby. It’s fairly understandable that she’s too exhausted to try the recommended ‘ten-day habit-breaker’ – where you spend up to two weeks just putting your child back into bed everytime they wake, refusing them the shared bed they’ve become used to.

It’s a hard thing to do: you shouldn’t get into conversations, just tell them they need to sleep in their bed and keep putting them back in it. It feels cruel, but after a few days of being resolute – you are the grown-up after all – you should find they gradually settle for longer.

Her three-year-old daughter – not her first child – has formed a habit of wailing and getting in with her mum. Her older sister has always slept well, in her own bed, and doesn’t seem to get disturbed by her sibling’s night-time shenanigans.

Whatever the psychological reasoning behind this inability to sleep in her own bed, it’s something their Mum knows has to be sorted out before the habit becomes too hard to break.

We’ve had periods when I’ve ended up sleeping in the spare bed with a grumpy, disobedient, usually poorly toddler, because it’s just been too exhausting to keep intermittently coming in and out.

But we have always had a stairgate over the little ones’ bedroom door, so they couldn’t just wander into our room. Partly to stop them thinking it was alright to do so, and partly because it always scares the bejesus out of me when a toddler appears silently by your bed in the middle of the night.

The exhausted mum-of-two is now going to try to put her daughter to bed by at least 7.30pm each night (somehow bedtimes became irrelevant when she was up all night anyway). I suspect this may help, if she’s resolute and doesn’t let it slide. A routine (wash, teeth, story) is important but not always possible (regularity is the key).

If things don’t improve she’s going to use half-term, when no one has to get up for school or work, to ‘train’ her daughter back into her own bed. It may not be easy, but in the long run, it should mean a better night’s sleep for all involved. I wish her luck.

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January 23, 2012 · 8:12 am

First trip to hairdressers makes Mrs Fidget sit still

IT was my birthday last weekend, and Bonnie and I were politely asked to “go off and do something for a bit” so some last-minute shopping and wrapping could be carried out.

Faced with the prospect of the weekly supermarket shop or a something more interesting, I decided it was time I put my daughter’s unruly locks in the hands of a professional instead of trying to trim her hair myself. (She never kept still, and squeals if she even catches sight of a hairbrush).

I’m not the most ardent attendee of the salon either. I can just about leave the house each morning without complicating affairs by having to ‘style’ my straight locks into anything more than a ponytail. I might stumble along to a different salon once a year for a trim or to have some highlighter foils put in, but that’s about as girly as I get.

Bonnie, approaching her fourth birthday, was delighted when I suggested she let a complete stranger cut her hair.

For the first time in several weeks, she really was as good as gold (she’s been extending those ‘Terrible Twos’ for at least an additional 10 months, the stroppy little madam).

The hairdresser, Emmy, was lovely with her, popped her on a booster with extra piled up towels so she could have her hair washed ‘backwards’ like the grown-up ladies. Not a single gripe from Her Ladyship.

She particularly liked the ‘up and down chair,’ admiring herself in lots of mirrors and having a proper blow-dry.

Add a couple of sweetie bribes and she thought she’d had the best afternoon ever and thankfully had most of my wonky fringe-hackings remedied. I can’t imagine she’s every going to let me near her with scissors again.

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