Tag Archives: school holidays

August 31, 2011 · 8:54 am

Let’s gloss over this decorating disaster

IT was a ridiculous idea. I don’t know what I was thinking. I agreed to the kids helping me paint the hallway.

It was one of the many jobs I’d started before the holidays which I foolishly thought I could continue while the kids were off. Silly, silly woman.

Bored now

They were in old clothes. They had strict instructions. They helped me lay dust sheets, they promised to be careful.

Within about ten minutes there were lumps, yes lumps of white paint on the walls at Bonnie level.

Billy thought it was boring waiting to be allowed to start and painted where there the carpet below was exposed. Thankfully, he didn’t spill a drop but got bored and wandered off.

Jed did well on one wall, but realised rollering makes your arm ache and left a patch unpainted in the highest corner.

Doug sensibly stayed out of the way.

When I called a halt to this débâcle and removed the dust sheets, I found little white toe marks on the green carpet. Bonnie found it much more fun to dunk her bare foot in the tray while no one was looking.

She was certainly the most enthusiastic. After being told that painting would have to wait for another day, she’s spent every bedtime since clasping her hands to her face saying “oh no, we forgot to do the painting again.”

Yes, and we’ll be ‘forgetting’ until you’re all back at school and the painting elf comes and finishes it.

1 Comment

Filed under Parenting

Tagged as , , , ,

August 30, 2011 · 12:51 pm

Tears and tantrums (mostly mine): it’s uniform-buying week

WE’RE meant to be shopping for school uniform. I’m leafing through the endless racks of black trousers in BHS when I realise I’m talking to myself.

Two of the boys are across the shop wrestling over a tape measure while another and his sister have managed to climb on top of a Thomas the Tank Engine toddler ride in which they’ve already lost 50p.

Their coats and bags are strewn across the floor which other shoppers are having to step over. I shout. It’s all rather embarrassing.

One of the boys is ordered into the changing room laden with eight pairs of trousers in differing sizes, some of which are unhelpfully security tagged together in pairs, so when he emerges to show if a pair fits, he’s dragging its twin along like a bedraggled, dusty tail. None of them fit properly.

The shop assistant stares, unhelpfully, as I try to fold them back onto their hangers.

While another son grumpily enters the changing room, daughter decides she’s going to take every adult shoe off the rack and try them on. When this game is stopped she starts the wailing and flopping routine, refusing to walk or be carried.

Son emerges having decided the first pair of trousers he’s tried are fine and throws them into the basket. I look at the label: £16 for one pair. I send him back in with a £7 pair, knowing I’ll be spending most of the year sewing up hems and gussets wrecked by breaktime football. They fit. We buy two pairs. Then two more, cheaper, in M&S.

Here we go again then, one week to go before they’re back at school and the hell of uniform shopping is firmly upon us.

With three offspring in school, two of whom seem to grow every time they leave a room, it’s an expensive time of year – especially if you’ve just reduced your working hours for the holidays. I think this September’s uniform will have cost me over £300. And I’m a make-do-and-hand-me-down-bargain kinda mum.

It’s not just the cost, it’s the stress. I know you’ll tell me it would be a trillion times worse if I had three girls, but let me assure you, traipsing around the shops with bored and grumpy boys isn’t fun either.

I’d hoped that Dougie’s compulsory school uniform would last more than a year. It hasn’t. His blazer has a weird bleach mark across it, his tie is mutilated, his PE kit is either lost or too small. Along with Jed’s new kit, the official stuff is going to cost the best part of £200 when the shop opens this week.

Shirts are easier. Multipacks for boys are between £7-10 and Bill’s yellow polos cost a fiver for three. Job done.

But then there’s the annual trouser hell. Girls seem to have lots of styles and stretchy fabrics. Boys are stuck with flat front or pleated in stiff Teflon coated fabric. Two sizes – skinny or enormous.

Shoe shopping for our boys seems to have a basic formula.

The conversation usually goes:

Them: “I like these.”

Me: “They look like trainers. You aren’t allowed shoes that look like trainers.”

*repeat several times and get home empty-handed.

There have been some successes. A speculative TKMaxx run stocked us with rucksacks, coats and shoes for Jed. Dougie is still shoeless and Billy’s, bought at Easter, may have to last a little longer.

If you witness me having a nervous breakdown in a shoe shop later this week, keep walking, there’s nothing to see. . .

2 Comments

Filed under Parenting

Tagged as , , , , , , , , , , , ,

August 26, 2011 · 8:15 am

No pocket money for my kids, they’re better off than me

DON’T talk about pocket money in earshot of my children, because they don’t get any.

Yes, you read correctly. That mean woman doesn’t give her children any pocket money.

Well, they don’t get any traditional, set-day, hold-out-your-hand-if-you’ve-been-good pocket money.

Last week a press release issued by a bank (I’m not going to give them more publicity) turned into a news story. Despite the recession and the ridiculous hike in the cost of living, children have apparently seen a rise in their pocket money.

Oh, and consistent with the unequal grown up world, boys get more cash than girls.

The figures show a third-from-bottom ranking for the East Midlands, with an average £5.62 a week.

The national average for 12-year-olds is £6.60 with a whopping 8p increase on that for being 13.

We used to give pocket money, briefly, when Jed and Dougie were aged around four and five. It was around £1 each.

We did it to encourage them to learn about money, about how you need to save for things you want, rather than nag your parents every time you saw a new toy/chocolate bar/balloon/ball/comic. Chores had to be done and behaviour good to earn that weekly hand-out. It could also be withheld.

It soon became clear that a) the boys weren’t very good at remembering they were due pocket money b) we weren’t very good at remembering to give it to them. Piggy banks became stuffed with IOUs.

It sounds a lot to me, and I know what would happen if I stood and doled out £5.62 a week into each of my kids’ waiting palms.

Jed and Dougie would race to the Co-op, spend it on sweets and then fight over them.

Billy would squirrel his away in one of his many piggy banks then nag daily about going somewhere to spend it all on Star Wars cards.

Meanwhile, Bonnie just thinks money is something to post between floorboards.

Unlike our parents’ generation, for whom household money talk happened away from little ears, we have always been candid with our offspring about cash, especially the fact we never seem to have much.

We’ve tried to be honest: there are things you need and the things you want. We taught them that if you want something you need to save.

They’ve all got junior bank accounts holding varying sums: the two littlest have healthy statements because their birthday and Christmas money has been saved over the years and I hold their bank books.

However the two elder boys were sent their own cash-point cards once they turned 12. This means they’ve all but emptied their accounts getting out a tenner here and there for sweets and pop, so I’ve taken guardianship of the cards.

Eldest now has a paper round which pays less than a fiver a week, but at least he’s earning.

While I might be mean old Ma, they are given ‘pocket money’ by relatives and friends. Both sets of grandparents sneak little envelopes of cash to the kids, as do fairy godmothers and child-free friends.

Embarrassingly, even strangers have given our kids pocket money.

Once, while waiting on the corner of Billing Road and Cheyne Walk, Billy, then aged 6, was reading aloud the faded inscription on the Edward VII memorial. An elderly gentleman, clearly delighted at this effort, tried to give Billy a pound coin, then realised it was a bit of an odd thing to do, and tried to give it to me to ‘reward’ him instead.

Similarly, at a recent concert, Billy was unself-consciously dancing his socks off, and a nearby security lady was so impressed she told him he should dance for a living and handed him yet more “pocket money.” Confusing messages: Don’t accept gifts from strangers/Money should be earned.

Without pocket money, the boys have become very good at negotiating deals between each other. They sell their used computer games on eBay and pool their takings to buy newer games, or computer game credits.

They also save up and contribute towards any expensive school or sporting trips that they know we just wouldn’t be able to afford otherwise, due to there being four kids in the family.

Now I don’t give pocket money each week, but that doesn’t mean they don’t get anything.

The older two got mobile phones when they turned 12, but not on contract. I pay £10 a month for each to have phone credit, and when it’s gone, it’s gone.

Then they get ‘tuck’ money when they go to various clubs and activities. That’s usually about a £1 each a couple of times a week. Or comics, which happens about once a month for the smaller two.

And there are the random, increasingly rare occasions when I’m in a good mood in a shop and they ask sweetly for sweeties. Add it all up and they probably do get about a fiver each, maybe just not every week on the same day.

Kids might be getting a rise in pocket money, but they are getting hit by inflation even more than us. Children’s typical purchases include sweets and chocolates, which have seen a 24 per cent price hike. Games consoles are up by 27 per cent, while mobile phones have increased by 10.4 per cent.

And children are affected too by cuts: many parents have reduced the amount of pocket money, or stopped it all together, while children’s bank accounts have some of the worst interest rates. Poor kids. . .

3 Comments

Filed under Parenting

Tagged as , , , , ,

August 25, 2011 · 8:15 am

Why we can’t allow Delapre Abbey to become history

Front of house

WHEN I first started working in Northampton 14 years ago, I can clearly remember a reporter more long in the tooth than me giving clear instructions about correct pronunciation:

Cogenhoe was Cook-know, Duston has a silent ‘T’ and Delapre is Dela-pree, not some fancy French Dela-‘pray.’

delapre abbey walled gardens

I went on to write various articles about Delapre Abbey, including seeing the last boxfuls of the County Record Office being removed after the late Joan Wake had campaigned to move Northamptonshire’s history to the site 40 years before.

I covered horse trials there. I returned a few times as the abandoned house and gardens slowly fell into disrepair, but until last week, I hadn’t been for years.

Huge tree trunk

Bored with the endless rows over money, and procrastination about the anti-traveller bund, I, like many Northamptonians, had simply driven past on the London Road, no longer able to see the park and house through the trees.

What a pleasant surprise. Not only is this the most enormous public space for the families of Northampton to enjoy – with acres of fields and woods – the walled gardens and tea rooms are a hidden delight.

Billy not impressed by Lady with Kittens by Walter Richie, Delapre Abbey

Bonnie, aged three, Billy, seven, and I arrived quite late in the afternoon. The older boys had stayed at home, now at the age where “walking and looking at stuff” is of no interest.

We missed the entrance to the tearooms (after I ignored Billy pointing and telling me the correct way to go), and found ourselves wandering the perimeter of the house and finding semi-formal shrub gardens and amazing trees.

At the top entrance to the walled inner gardens, we found not only a huge thatched game larder, but a mixture of flower beds laid out in a classic council park style, a topiary hedge, herbaceous borders and historic sculptures that deserve far more recognition and visitors.

And all this is available thanks to the incredible work of volunteers, the Friends of Delapre Abbey. (See www.delapreabbey.org)

While Bill and Bonn ran around the gardens and rolled down the lawns, I was looking at the brick art of Walter Richie. Lady with Kittens, a frieze in the wall between the two Victorian glasshouses, one restored, one awaiting funds.

Billy screwed up his face at it: “You can see her boobs.”

The Lovers by Walter Richie

Hidden in the corner is the upright brick column of The Lovers, while most prominent is the famous Woman with a Fish by Frank Dobson. This was once in the town centre, but apparently caused outrage and was frequently vandalised, but now sits in her own little garden. “You can see her boobs too,” muttered Billy.

The tea rooms, open daily 10am-5pm, serve home made snacks and cakes, and we sat outside with lemon cake and ice-creams, wondering why we hadn’t come before.

Back out in the fields fronting the house, the kids were delighted by the ‘giant park bench’, and Bonnie met her first horse. A girl had been galloping across the park but came over so Bonnie could have a pat and tickle the horse’s hairy nose. The boys at the same age wouldn’t have been so brave. I’ll let Bloke deal with future fruitless pleas for ponies.

Apparently work starts soon on recreating an original water feature which hopefully will further Delapre’s cause as a place of genuinely interesting and beautiful history for people to enjoy for generations to come.

Delapre's biggest bench

Ignore the usual nay-sayers who say the money should be spent on town-centre loos instead. Delapre undoubtedly needs huge amounts of money to be invested to get visitors from further afield, but it can, and must, work. Wrest Park in Bedfordshire was similarly neglected but since English Heritage became involved just five years ago, it has opened as a major attraction.

In the meantime, take your family, your dogs, your children, and go and enjoy our own secret garden.

1 Comment

Filed under Parenting

Tagged as , , , , , ,

August 21, 2011 · 8:49 am

Riots in Northampton or kidults wanting some drama?

AS parts of the country were razed by rioting, we should be grateful in Northampton that most of the trouble in our county was restricted to a bunch of prats on the Wellingborough Road and ridiculous rumours spread by bored teenagers.

Only the older kids and I watched events in London unfold on TV, and the following day, a baffled Billy watched the breakfast news and asked us solemnly if we had heard: bad people somewhere had been smashing stuff up.

How do you explain the riots to a seven-year-old when most of the grown-ups don’t seem to know what on earth just happened?

As Day 2 went on, we were seeing rumours appear on Facebook and Twitter about how things were ‘kicking off’ closer to home in Northampton. We soon realised the sources were 14-year-old girls living in rural villages, desperate for some drama.

Later that day we were heading to the sunny Racecourse, to play on the swings, when a group of about six teen boys with scarves covering their faces and baseball caps started to congregate near the play area, swaggering, shouting on their phones about how they were going to join together their ‘flocks.’ Six turned into eight, then 12, and before long about 18 youths, fired-up by testosterone and each other, were blocking the entrance to the park.

They weren’t breaking the law, but the atmosphere was hardly relaxed. They were playing at being what they’d seen on TV.

As we walked home, we saw a police car arrive and within moments the would-be-looters were gone, hopefully home to have their tea and watch telly with their mums.

They might not like it now, but those lads should be grateful that they do live in boring old Northampton. I know I am.

Leave a comment

Filed under Parenting

Tagged as , , ,

August 12, 2011 · 8:46 am

Who’s for the chop?

WE don’t spend much on haircuts in our house, as you can probably tell. I’ve got used to fellow parents on the school gates sniggering as my poor children scurry past.

“Been to the hairdressers have they?” (Translation: Did you subject them to your appalling scissor skills again?”

I did try with hairdressers when the elder boys were smaller. I took a toddler Jed to the hairdressers when his shoulder-length blonde wavy locks made people tell me what a pretty daughter I had.

He liked looking at himself in the mirror and the up-and-down chair, but as soon as the snippety-snip lady came near he dodged about like she was a wasp.

When he turned 13 I took him to a reasonably posh salon where they charged £30 to cut about half-an-inch off. He went bright red and couldn’t speak during the ‘cut’ as the 19-year-old pretty stylist in a vest top kept leaning over him.

Bloke took the boys to the barber’s a few times, but they came back looking like they were from the 1950s.

The clincher was when Bloke started to give up on his once dense curly locks and simply shaved his head once a month. The professionals were charging him a tenner for the privilege, so we invested in a set of clippers. I think they were about £17 from Boots in 2001, so they’ve certainly paid for themselves.

Clippers are brilliant for the home-hairdresser with sons. You simply clip on the right length of guide comb, press a button and start combing towards the crown. It’s quite hard to mess it up. You can change the comb lengths depending on which bit you’re doing.

Mine don’t freak out when the whizzing sound starts, but they have started to moan about the quality of my cuts. Apparently I was OK when they just wanted short hair all over, but now they are getting fussy: they want floppy fringes.

Dougie shorn

You know you’re turning into your mother when the length of a child’s fringe makes you reach for the scissors. Even when it’s not your child and the scissors are kids’ plastic craft ones.

The problem is that floppy fringes are usually sported by boys-becoming-teens, and boys-becoming-teens have greasy hair and spots. Spots made worse by greasy floppy fringes. Argh!

There comes a time when the fringe even irritates them, so they grudgingly allow me to get the scissors out. But apparently I don’t do it right. It’s never straight. Or it’s too straight. Or, as one son came home from school and told me: “My mates say I look like a lesbian.”

Jed’s isn’t too hard to do, as it has a slight curl to it which hides mistakes. Dougie and Billy’s is so straight and thick that when it’s long they look like glam rock kids from the 1970s.

When the summer holidays started Jed gave in and let me cut off the floppy fringe and cut the back short. Dougie refused point-blank to let me anywhere near him, insisting he wanted it done at the hairdressers. So last week in the Weston Favell centre he was sent into Supercuts and a very nice lady gave him a scissor trim. At first he insisted she left his sideburns long, but he looked like a spaniel, so we sent him back and he came out looking more than reasonable.

Secretly I like the boys’ mass of wayward, thick floppy hair. I want them to enjoy it for as long as possible because I dread that it won’t last. You see, there’s always been a claim that baldness is inherited from the mother’s side, and my poor Pa lost his locks at 21.

I know I’m facing the biggest battle with Bonnie. Cutting her fringe is about all I’ve managed so far in three years. And that looks a little wobbly because she’ll sit still for the first snip and then wriggle for the rest. Oh, and don’t try cutting it when they’re asleep, trust me, it doesn’t work. . .

Leave a comment

Filed under Parenting

Tagged as , , , , , , , , , , , ,

August 11, 2011 · 9:47 pm

Northampton’s Lings Forum Cinema is a welcome blast from the past

IT was raining, it was midweek in the school holidays. The kids had been nagging to go to the cinema. We relented, but by the time we got around to checking times, all the kids films at Cineworld and Vue had already started.

There was a solution: Lings Forum Cinema at Weston Favell. Northampton’s hidden treasure.

They were showing Kung Fu Panda 2 at 2.30pm. Off we all trooped.

If you haven’t been I can’t recommend it enough. It’s one screen, with the oldest Pearl and Dean titles I’ve ever seen, (and I saw Star Wars in 1977). It even asked you to turn your pagers off. They should NEVER update it.

You won’t get mugged by the pic ‘n’ mix or popcorn either. Bring your own, or there are vending machines in the gym entrance next door. I understand the evening shows have wine available. How civilised!

All in all it cost just over £18 for all six of us, thanks to a couple of quid off for Bloke’s Trilogy Leisure card. And of course the money goes to this excellent independent cinema which often shows great films the big multiplexes don’t show.

During the holidays, the Kids’ Screen films happen every day except Sunday at 2.30pm, and during August you can see Transformers 3, Horrid Henry, Cars 2 and the Smurfs. It’s £4.30 for adults (£3.80 with leisure card) and £3.60 for kids (£3.30 with LC).

You can’t book over the phone, but there was plenty of room and we had great seats. A perfect solution for a rainy day.

Leave a comment

Filed under Parenting

Tagged as , , , , , , , , , ,

August 5, 2011 · 11:06 am

Camp Bestival 2011 review: Primal Scream, Debbie Harry, Amy tributes and Guardian shoulder bags as far as the eye can see

We’re just back from Camp Bestival 2011. I meant to ‘live blog’ while we were there, but the phone reception at beautiful Lulworth Castle in Dorsetshire-by-Sea is non-existent.
Which means it is a pretty good place to host a load of tech-addled parents and their phone-addicted offspring in the first week of the school holidays.

Hi Di Hi! (reads the massive sign they're leaning on)

We’re seasoned festivalers now. Helped enormously by owning a knackered rusty Mazda Bongo campervan whose seats-which-are-meant-to-collapse-into-a-bed but refused to budge on the evening we arrived. We had severe camper-envy on the distant hill on which the campervans were precariously parked.

Camp Bestival is truly the mother of all family festivals. Created by DJ and Dad Rob Da Bank and his fellow festival-loving music media workers, who have an uncanny ability to book a seamless line-up of classic bands, up-and-coming musical wizards, intelligent speakers and kid-friendly entertainers whose appeal spans generations.

We came prepared. We had a Luggable Loo in the awning and a garden trolley to cart any tired children around during the evening. The campsites had opened on the Thursday this year to allow a more leisurely set-up.

We were ready.

Friday July 29 – Priorities: Food, Carl Barat, Jon Ronson, Labrinth, Blondie.

We encountered our first long walk of many long walks from tent to site, found food, the cleanest composting toilets, kept the kids away from the queues for the fairground rides and heard a little of Jon Ronson’s book talk. We tried and failed to find where everyone had got their bright yellow Screamadelica Guardian shoulder-bags.

Castle field view

We split up late afternoon, with me taking the smaller two of our four children back to the tent for a chill-out and food bribes, while Dad and the oldest two watched Labrinth.

Back at camp we could hear ‘Sunshine’ sung across the valley in the blazing hot weather. Lovely.

We packed jumpers and waterproofs into the trolley for the night run, and got a plum spot to watch ABC and then Blondie, who did a fantastic set. We tried to explain to our sons why so many Dads were staring misty-eyed at Debbie Harry: She was hot when your Dad was your age. Sooo hot. And she’s still got it.

We headed home to the van each night knowing we’d missed lots of shows more suited to adults in the comedy tent and the silent disco but we were grateful the kids stayed up happy enough for us to watch the headliners.

Rain on Friday night didn’t dampen anyone’s spirits.

Saturday July 30 – Priorities: Find a Guardian bag, watch House of Pain, Mr Tumble, Mark Ronson, Groove Armada

What a day. A lazy breakfast and then down to see what was going on in the Castle Field.

Somehow we timed it perfectly to catch Dick and Dom getting thousands of children (and adults) to shout “Bogies” as loudly as possible.

"Daddy, they're singing my song"

Then to our three-year-old daughter Bonnie’s delight and bewilderment, the entire crowd sang “My Bonnie lies over the ocean.” Her song.

Perched atop Daddy’s shoulders, she then had a perfect view of the Zingzillas.

Her tiny mind was further blown when non-other than the iconic Mr Tumble took to the stage. And she didn’t bat an eyelid when Keith Allen wandered past with a pair of pants on his head. Best day EVER!

Back to the tent for half of us while the oldest boys were allowed a little free-rein to watch (running late) Miss Dynamite and Gentlemens Dub Club. We heard The Wonderstuff and Eliza Doolittle back up at the Hill.

Back down for a fat burger and chips, in time to feel the ground shake for House of Pain’s ‘Jump Around.’ Into position for Mark Ronson, who opened with Dave of the Zutons for his original rendition of Valerie, in tribute to Amy Winehouse. It was the first of two versions of the song by Ronson, who also included a cover of Winehouse’s awesome, melancholy ‘Back to Black’, performed by Charlie Waller of the Rumble Strips.

It was a scorching set by Ronson and the Business International and guests, including the Bike Song, Somebody to Love Me and Bang Bang Bang. And this wasn’t even the headline act.

We’d been looking forward to Groove Armada but technical hitches (lack of sound and the big screens) led to us getting bored and restless and heading back to camp.

But we did get a couple of bright pink Guardian bags that day. £1.50 for the paper and the bag came free! Bonus!

Sunday, July 31. Priorities: Find the corn on the cob van, walk the Dingly Dell trail, see Sound of Rum, Wretch 32, Katy B, Nero, Primal Scream and the fireworks.

By now, we’re all knackered from so much walking and so many late nights, but somehow all still positive. The kids had made friends with neighbouring kids on each side, and were happily kicking footballs at each other and clambering over better vans than ours.

In the morning run up to the site we spent £2.50 three times on identical copies of the Observer, just because we wanted the new bright green bags, emblazoned with Primal Scream’s anthemic song title ‘Get Your Rocks off.’

We had a wander and settled for lunch in the kids field to be treated to a troop of Indian dancers and acrobats doing daring deeds and telling a sad traditional story of a princess and her suitors.

Pauline Black and The Selector were Ska-ing up the main stage with relish, and we settled into our tried and tested spot to the right of the stage for Wretch 32. Only a short set, including an out-of-character cover of a Script song. He pulled it back with storming versions of Unorthodox and Traktor.

Katy B's in there somewhere, rubbish photo

Newly orange-haired Katy B, who was the breakthrough act at Glastonbury, proved her vocal dexterity with an energetic set including Easy Please Me, Katy on a Mission and Perfect Stranger.

We’d have liked her to do more, and she could have, because dubstep duo Nero were a no-show, having already had their place in the pecking order elevated. Bah, losers.

Their slot was stirlingly taken on by beatboxer extraordinaire, Beardyman (who as far as we could see had no beard). A sublime set, clever lyrics and amazing visuals. Son 2 turned to his Dad and said: “You have to buy his album, so I can nick it off you.”

Then it was the big one. What we’d all been waiting for, either to reminisce about life before kids to the soundtrack of the Screamadelica album in full (us) or see what all this Primal Scream fuss was about (the kids).

What a soaring, hands-in-the-air, Bobby Gillespie rock-god worshipping experience it was. By the time they reached ‘Come Together’ it was as though the whole field could solve all the worlds’ problems just by singing. Incredible. The kids totally got it. Eldest son hasn’t taken off the t-shirt which cost him all his weekend cash.

Settling in for Primal Scream

The evening, and the festival, was topped off by a truly awesome fireworks display from the top of the castle, which had animation projected into it while a booming soundtrack accompanied the visuals.

The kids were still buzzing with excitement by the time we got back to the tent (Bonnie was asleep in the trolley on the way back). Our airbed may have acquired a puncture but we slept well, and when it came time to try to get the seats back into postition to pack the van and drive home, they slid into position effortlessly. Obviously good karma.

Mr Da Bank is, we agreed, a Top Bloke for putting on the best Camp Bestival yet (and we loved the previous ones too). Many thanks to all who came together to make it a festival experience to remember.

No fallow year either: next year’s Camp Bestival is already scheduled for Thursday 26th to Sunday 29th July 2012. Book early!

1 Comment

Filed under Parenting, Reviews

Tagged as , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

August 4, 2011 · 8:52 pm

Ten top tips for camping with kids

BY the time you read this, we should be back from our annual camping trip. For the few days before, I wasn’t in much of a holiday mood.

Getting ready for camping with kids is like mobilising a small army. Or at least involves searching every room in the house and spending a fortune on things you probably already had.

I’ve a few tips for those brave enough to take to the great outdoors during the summer break:

1. Take a high-sided travel cot for babies and an all-in-one snowsuit. It gets cold at night and the cot doubles as a playpen.

2. Buy readybeds for under sevens. (Preferably when they are on offer out of season). These are all in one airbeds and sleeping bags that fold up to the size of a football. It’s easier to persuade them into bed when there’s Tinkerbell or Buzz and Woody on the covers

3. Use ready-made formula milk cartons if camping with a baby. You can freeze them and keep in a coldbox to defrost slowly.

4. Wipes are your salvation against stinkiness. Baby wipes for bodies, antibac wipes for everywhere else. Hand-gel that cleans without water is essential.

5. Pack light, but for all weathers. You’ll need thick coats and woolly hats for night, foldable waterproofs for days. Slip on shoes to nip to the loo, wellies just because. While my sons would happily wear the same clothes to run about in and sleep in too, I insist on at least clean underwear and pyjamas. Shoes off at the door of the tent.

6. Solar fairy lights mark out your tent at night, and we have one of those flagpoles with a fish on top to help us navigate during the day.

7. Wind-up torches are noisy and don’t last long. Gas lamps sold in camping shops are a great investment, but keep out of reach of kids. Headtorches are a great invention. A solar radio will last far longer than your smartphone’s battery.

8. If you’re cooking in camp, do it on a proper stove. A disposable barbecue won’t heat the kettle. Mornings are more manageable with a cup of tea to hand

9. Use bribes, bribes and more bribes. Colouring pads, comics, sweets, crisps – whatever it takes.

10. Be relaxed. Yes, it’s dirty, the food’s cold and you’re missing Eastenders. Get over it, let the kids go feral and crack open the box of cheap wine. You’re on holiday.

Leave a comment

Filed under Parenting

Tagged as , , , , ,

July 28, 2011 · 3:12 pm

Are we there yet?

image

There’s another one buried under all the luggage in the back…

2 Comments

Filed under Parenting

Tagged as , ,