Tag Archives: Northampton

Time for the book hoarders to let go

I’D just spent far too much of my Saturday cleaning out Jemima the Hamster’s two stinky cages when a load of heavy books landed on me.

I was not impressed. Closer inspection of the large bookcase in the boys’ room showed they’d wrecked it – mostly by shoving oversized books horizontally on top of already overstuffed, now broken shelves. It was like a precarious book-based giant game of Jenga.

Needless to say, the elder boys and I spent far too much of Sunday trying to fix the shelves and sort the books. It was way overdue. We hadn’t got rid of any books for 14 years and yet they rarely returned to any of them once they got past the bedtime story age.

But once they started sorting, I could sense they weren’t going to give them up easily. Rather than sorting them into piles – charity shop, recycling and back-in-the-bookcase – they both settled down and started to read. They might be barely into their teens but the room stank of nostalgia: “Aw, do you remember this one?” “Ah, there’s my ‘Where the Wild Things Are.” “No, it’s not yours, that was bought for me, I remember being read it. . . look, here’s where I ripped it. . .” and so on.

At one point the entire family was in the room, either having a long-forgotten bedtime story read to them, fighting over an out-of-date football annual or simply trying to sneak some of the tattier, drawn-in volumes out to the bin.

So I’ve inadvertently come across a way to get your children interested in reading: tip the contents of a small library all over their bedroom floor and then threaten to chuck it all out again. Which reminds me, I think there may have been overdue library books in those piles somewhere . . .

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Club Penguin’s back in the house

SOME years ago, when he was about seven, Our Dougie begged to be allowed to go on a new interactive webchat site called Club Penguin.

Back then it was a fairly scary prospect: letting your kids on internet ‘chatrooms’ and social networking sites (it was all MySpace, Friends Reunited and Bebo – Facebook was the underdog). MMORPGs (massive multiplayer online role playing games) were just role playing games.

We had a home computer, but didn’t let the kids go on it much and certainly not without us sitting on their shoulder.

Then Club Penguin came along, a site which let 6-14 year-olds wander around a virtual snowy world as a Penguin, have a pet called a Puffle, take part in games to win virtual coins and meet ‘friends’. It was this latter part which jolted parents out of their comfort zone – after all, couldn’t any old perv’ say they were a ten-year-old and ‘groom’ your child?

No, said the site’s creators, who had developed the program precisely to offer a ‘safe’ online environment for their own children. It has real-time moderators, blocks on offensive language and any words which may give away any personal location information about themselves.  So far, so popular – Club Penguin membership shot up to 30million by 2007 and was bought out by the Disney Company.

Doug loved it. He wasn’t allowed to buy membership at first because quite frankly, I thought he’d get bored of it. But his school friends were on it too, and none of them seemed particularly bothered about meeting new penguins, they just liked the novelty of speaking to each other in real time via speech bubbles on their computer screens. 

After a while Doug saved his pocket money to buy membership (monthly, if I remember rightly, again, the boredom factor). This meant he could access more ‘shops’ and furnish his igloo home.

But eventually he did get bored. His older brother got busted for lying about his age to get a Facebook account, so he didn’t even bother trying and still hasn’t got an account (waiting to turn 13 this year).

Doug’s interest in online chat switched briefly to bad grammar and spelling via Microsoft Messenger, then more recently to actually talking to his mates while hooked up to a headset playing online multiplayer games on the Xbox.

This in itself is a terrifying thing. Anyone can play Xbox and talk online, unless of course they only choose the option to play with people they already know. I have walked in before to hear weird accents coming from the TV when the boys are playing online, but they turn the volume down and ignore the background chatter, preferring the banter with their own schoolfriends.

Several years on since those early Club Penguin days, times have changed for us all (and the game was hilariously parodied in Three Lions).

Jed hardly walks two steps without his mobile bleeping a new Facebook notification, Dougie spends Saturday mornings playing shoot ’em ups while chatting away to his comrades on the headset, then goes off to actually play them face-to-face in rugby matches. Even Bloke and I are never far away from our Twitter accounts.

So now it’s little Bill’s turn.

We spent several minutes on the phone with his friend’s mum the other night negotiating a meeting place in a Dojo courtyard in some part of Club Penguin world. At the grand old age of eight he wants a Club Penguin account, costing £3.95 for a month, £19.95 for six months or £29.95 for 12 months. We’ve been there, done that, so for now, he can make do with the free version.

Sometimes I find myself thanking my lucky stars I’ve been through the online revolution with the three boys first – I suspect if she were the eldest Bonnie would have been far more stubborn and devious about it.

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Disney dolls dumped already

YOU may remember our three-year-old daughter Bonnie had just one request for Father Christmas: Disney Dolls.

Indeed, the Big Man came up with the goods and came down the chimney not only with Rapunzel, but Snow White, Aurora (Sleeping Beauty to you) and Pocahontas too. These ladies join Jasmine (from Aladdin) and Cinderella in Bonnie’s growing gang of plastic pals.

Needless to say, she played with them for about 20 minutes on Christmas Day. Since then they’ve lost half their outfits (at least one plastic shoe has been vacuumed) and been left in a heap on her bedroom floor, while she’s been swanning about like royalty in a Rapunzel dressing-up outfit, bought by her very own Fairy Godmother, which she refuses to take off.

I had intended to sanction Disney princesses, seeing as their only role seems to be to find a husband and wear nice frocks, but, like not allowing dummies and refusing an epidural, that idea went out of the window after about an hour.

I did add Pocahontas to the mix but couldn’t find Mulan anywhere. Should we be worried about giving our daughters princess dolls, or is it just a harmless phase of girl development? (See Lisa Simpson Vs Malibu Stacy)

Anyway, at least my Barbie ban is still intact. For now. . .

 

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Son’s £70 phone bill an expensive lesson learned all round

IT’S a different world these days, isn’t it, when bills no longer plop through the letterbox, but drop soundlessly into your email inbox.

But in the same way that you’d put those envelopes to one side to open later, when you have more time, you ignore the inbox reminder.

If it looks on first glance roughly about the same as last month, do you need to look any closer?

The utility companies – those unavoidable gas, electric, phone, mobile, TV, credit card and water firms – are onto a winner aren’t they? We’re too distracted to check the bill, too busy to pay the bills individually, manually. We click the direct debit box and off our money goes into the ether.

But on one odd occasion between Christmas and New Year, the figure on the phone/TV/broadband company bill caught my eye: It was more than twice as much as usual.

All right, so we may have watched an ‘on demand’ film with the kids over the holiday, but we use pre-paid mobile minutes to call each other, so why is the home-phone part of the bill SEVENTY POUNDS rather than the usual six or seven? Have we been hacked? Has the phone company made a terrible mistake?

No, it was a much simpler, old-fashioned explanation: We have a teenager in the house.

My children find it hard to believe that we were teenagers once, when PC stood for Police Constable not personal computer, mail came through the letterbox and a mobile was a thing you hung above a baby’s cot.

But like today, being on the phone was one of the major ignition points for a family row. You were far more conspicuous of course, being stuck in the hallway or front room, tied into a conversation everyone in the house could hear because the one phone in the house had a cord that stretched about as far as your arm.

But I used that phone at any and every opportunity. I can even remember our phone number, back in 1982. It wasn’t hard: 203. Yep. Three digits to freedom from my family.

And I got into trouble for running up phone bills – although I can say with all certainty they weren’t anything like £70. Nonetheless, it would be me getting berated by Dad for being on the phone all the time.

And now, of course, I’m saying the same thing to my own offspring:

“Why are you on the phone, you just saw *insert name here* five minutes ago?”

“Who is ringing who? I thought you said you had no credit?”

“Why don’t you text? Or use Facebook? Or Messenger? Here, use my phone. . .” (OK, I made that last part up).

How on earth did our mostly-monosyllabic First Born manage to ring up seventy quid’s worth of calls IN A MONTH!

Yes, so I did tell him it was OK to use the home phone to call landlines at evenings or weekends as long as he hung up after 59 minutes, because it’s free to ring at that time if you don’t exceed an hour. But he ‘forgot’ the ‘landline’ part and has been ringing his girlfriend/mates ON THEIR MOBILES for up to 59 minutes at a time. (The itemised bill also showed he’d been calling at midnight, when he’s supposed to be tucked up in bed asleep, but that’s another issue).

Needless to say, we hit the roof, and he voluntarily coughed-up his £45 Christmas money to pay for his mistake. (Cruel, cruel parents). Landlines only from now on, and no midnight calls. Lesson painfully learned.

Don’t tell him, but we’re going to give him the money back in return for a series of tedious chores . . .

Happy New Year kids!

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Resolutions suck

RESOLUTIONS that last about four days, diets, detox, exercise plans, gym membership. Yeah, yeah, New Year, New You and all that.

We can scoff, and resolve not to make them, but I bet you’ve thought “I’ll start that in the New Year. . .” at least once in recent weeks.

My regular, but short-lived, January plans include eating less, shouting at the kids less, spending less, getting less irritated about stupid little things and exercising more and being more organised.

It doesn’t last. I know it won’t this time either but it won’t stop me. After all, finding fewer things to feel guilty about doesn’t ever seem to enter my head when January comes around.

Happy New Year fellow resolvers! May your bodies be healthy and your minds be free of guilt in 2012. Or until February, at least.

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Sorry for (Not) Party Rocking

HOW many Christmas parties have you been to this year fellow parents? One? None? The latter for me. And New Year’s Eve means staying in, watching telly.

And the truth is, I really don’t mind. No, really.

All those years I spent pre-kids getting neurotic about parties, the number of invites, what to wear, spending ages getting ‘ready’, only to drink too much and look like my face had partially melted by the wee small hours.

Then the inevitable drunken rows (not necessarily me, but you’ll see them on every High Street), the bucket by the bed, the hangover that lasted until teatime (when you finally got up).

Nah, I don’t miss it.

But I am aware that in a couple of years it will be my elder sons out on the town, and there’s not a lot we can do about it but educate them, hope they don’t get into trouble, and be prepared to let them in at 4am when they’ve forgotten their keys.

To those of you who are already living with older teens, I wish you a peaceful New Year’s Eve . . .

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Adventures in muck making: testing starts of new HotBin

I’ve just loaded my base layer into my new HotBin. Unusually for a compost bin, it’s sited outside our shady basement backdoor on concrete.

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This new bin doesn’t need sun or a soil base for worms to crawl up. It works on bacterial heat.
But the real revelation is that it claims to compost cooked foods, including meat. Therefore seriously reducing your weekly waste while producing compost for your plants.
Here’s the clincher: it says it will produce useable compost in 30-90 days. That’s about a year faster than my bog-standard compost heap.
The HotBin in also manufactured in Northampton, my home town, so I’m particularly hopeful it works.
The base layer is just 30cm deep of your own compost (a bag from the

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garden centre will do). Then when it reaches over 25 degrees (thermometer in the lid) you can start adding all food waste, with a handful of wood chips for bulk.

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I’ll keep you up to date with how our six-person family copes.

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Christmas cake, no recipe, no marzipan, home-made

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Balls to #nigella and #lorraine. It might look rubbish but home-made made by me and a three-year-old

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Down the Rabbit Hole at Alice in Wonderland, Royal & Derngate, Northampton

MY daughter and I don’t get as much time together since she started nursery, but we took an afternoon out last week to take in a show.

Your daughters might be of an age where you can go for a nice meal or a coffee beforehand, do a bit of shopping perhaps, then spend a civilised evening at the theatre.

For me and Bonnie, it was a packet of jelly tots and a Fruit Shoot in the car park at lunchtime, before being dragged down a make-believe burrow by a rabbit impersonating Frank Spencer and a grown woman dressed as a little girl.

This was Down the Rabbit Hole (DTRH, to save my word-count), the latest interactive show for the under-fives at Royal & Derngate’s Underground, a ‘companion piece’ to the Alice in Wonderland show running in the Royal.

I’ve been to several of these pre-school shows before, including the excellent Where’s the Bear, Knit-wits, Wish-wash, Flathampton and What Makes us Tick?

But if you haven’t, be warned: you need flexible joints and knee pads. There’s a lot of crouching and sitting on the floor.

What makes these productions unique is that you have a small bunch of toddlers following actors dressed in funny clothes around a ‘set’ of rooms, being given little tasks and having their own conversations with the characters.

It’s a recipe for disaster really, but somehow they keep the whole thing just about together. It’s proper storytelling.

In DTRH, the ‘audience’ of kids and parents/grandparents meet the White Rabbit in the foyer, where he’s looking for ‘Mary-Ann’ and switching in and out of a Frank Spencer impersonation (one for the olds).

Then we meet Alice, the aforementioned grown-up lady dressed as a little girl, in a style to make Grayson Perry jealous (one for the arty types).

We (the audience) end up following Alice, who is following the Rabbit, down a series of small doors and tunnels, strangely decorated with oversized rabbit bottoms. Like moose-heads on the walls of a baronial dining room.

We arrive in a small room where a picnic table hangs from the ceiling adorned with upside-down cups and teapots. We’re met this time (*whispers*, same actor), by The Mad Hatter, who sits us on cushions, sings us a silly song, treats us to tea and disappears, to be replaced by the Duchess, Mr Punch and the Pig Baby.

The latter gets passed around to be rocked by the sitting toddlers, sometimes cuddled to make it snort or pushed away in bewilderment and/or fear. (*whispers* it’s a rubber pig-shaped dog chew)

Then we make jam tarts for the Queen’s party from play-dough and meet an odd caterpillar which looks like a fluffy scarf accidentally put through the tumble dryer.

There’s a clever distraction as the children see the tiny door from the famous Drink-Me/Eat-Me scene, when Alice gets them to collectively drink from a bowl using oversized straws. “It’s just blackcurrant squash Mum!” piped up one relieved boy.

When the drink’s finished, the door has been replaced by one that’s big enough for an under-five to crawl through, into another ‘land’ where they play croquet through playing cards using flamingo umbrellas and fluffy (toy) hedgehogs.

Eventually we get to meet the weirdly-Geordie Queen, who is dispatched by the cheering toddlers to a chorus of “off to your bed!” (nicer than ‘off with your head’)

The two actors manage to keep the whole thing together in a very enclosed space, and eventually the audience is ejected back into the relative sanity of the theatre bar where they can play with various props and hidden rooms.

Bonnie was completely transfixed, embracing all the ‘pretend’ tea-drinking and conversations. At three-and-three-quarters she’s probably about the ideal age for this. Younger children were either clinging to parents, or ignoring pleas to sit and rolling under curtains.

Bonnie was slightly confused about why this white rabbit, hatter, duchess and queen didn’t appear to look anything like the ones she’d seen on the big stage at the very same theatre just a couple of days earlier. But she loved it nonetheless and has talked non-stop about it to anyone who will listen.

I was slightly disappointed (alright, very stiff from kneeling) because unlike previous ‘underground’ performances, the show didn’t really move beyond one very cramped room.

However, Down the Rabbit Hole is worth the £5 ticket price to see your pre-schoolers engage with the story of Wonderland up-close and interactive – without any help from technology.  It runs until January 8.

ON the subject of Alice In Wonderland, our family went to see the ‘bigger’ show at the Royal. For the only the second time in far too many years of reviewing the Royal’s usually excellent Christmas offering, I was disappointed (the other one was the Ugly Duckling one).

It had an enthusiastic cast, including a Queen of Hearts channeling her best Queenie from Blackadder while dressed like Vivienne Westwood and Lady Gaga’s laundry had been mixed up in the launderette. Hatter was engaging, and the lizard bloke works his socks off. But presented with one of the most magical and familiar stories ever, the plot was ludicrous. Unengaging in most parts, using slapstick more akin to the imported panto next door. That’s not what the Royal’s Christmas show is about. A woman behind me actually fell asleep. A return to the magic and other-worldliness next year please?

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She’s shy around Santa so sent him a letter

THE Girl met Father Christmas this week. And despite being rather chatty and shouty in Real Life, she chose to do her ‘I’m Shy’ act.

The Big Man, and Mrs Christmas, were at Billy’s school fete and had popped in to give out selection boxes or colouring books to a huge queue of excited under 10s.

She watched quietly as other children came out of the grotto beaming, trying to break into the chocolate before the accompanying adult whipped it out of their hands for ‘later.’

Billy, aged 8, went in first, on his own, and we could hear him earnestly reeling off a list of Star Wars related gift ideas.

Our daughter Bonnie, aged 3, is still a little baffled by the whole Christmas thing. She’s aware that when the nights start getting dark, this Father Christmas bloke starts appearing on TV ads and everyone around her starts putting in orders for things they’d like but aren’t usually allowed to have.

Her three brothers use this time of year to start making outrageous statements about things they ‘hope’ Father Christmas will bring, seeing as how they’ve been REALLY good all year. Like laptops and £100 trainers. (Never going to happen boys).

Bonnie has joined in this game, by bringing home things she’s cut out of magazines on the ‘safety scissors’ table at nursery. Including the most ridiculous Princess-themed four-poster bed, complete with pink covers, cushions, teddies, pyjamas and glittery slippers.

She points at the TV ads: “I want that, and that, and that,” she chirps, before joining in the tedious household mantra “I want, never gets. . .”

“Pleeeease?” she adds, hopefully.

But when faced with Santa himself, she went mute. “Talk to Father Christmas darling, he’s asking what you’d like him to bring for Christmas, if you’re a good girl,” I cajoled. She smiled, held her hands to her face, and refused to speak. She took the proffered chocs from Mother Christmas and made a dash for the door. And then wouldn’t stop talking about it.

Once home, she remembered another Christmas-themed clipping she’d brought home, this time with Santa on. It was an advert for the NSPCC’s letter from Father Christmas appeal.

While she got busy drawing up a letter to Father Christmas explaining her real wish list that she’d been ‘too shy’ to reveal, (fairies and flowers and butterflies, on this request), I ordered her a letter from Lapland HQ, which costs just a £5 donation to the NSPCC and Childline. You get a personalised letter (which can be sent to a child anywhere in the world), with added pictures depending on their age, which even mentions their best friend.

I know there are many of these ‘letters’ around but seems a nicer idea to be giving money to a charity which helps less fortunate children than just giving it to a corporation for profit. Because as we know, a lot of people have exploited poor old Father Christmas’s image and generosity to their own ends.

To find out more, visit the NSPCC website at www.nspcc.org.uk and click on the Santa link, text santa to 65599 or call 0854 839 9304.

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