Healthy Eating and How it is Killing me. (Subtitled: Get Gordon Brown Out of Office!)

You know, I know exactly how some of my American friends must have felt about having that idiot George Bush in the Oval Office. We've have the same problem over here at the moment with that idiot Gordon Brown - or more precisely the Labour Party. After a while you just want to bop them on the head with a large frying pan or squash a gigantic custard pie in their face.

I know, I know - I've ranted before about the government and the trend for political correctness, the expenses scandal and the deteriorating education system. But come on, I haven't even touched the surface have I? What about the "illegal" war in Iraq or the unexplained death of Dr David Kelly?

But now something has really got me mad. So mad I'm about to explode. (And it may not be a pretty sight.)

Yes, I've had yet another irritating letter from school.

Okay, so this latest letter is about a"Healthy Eating" policy which the school plans to introduce. The letter states that children should not have crisps, chocolate coated biscuits, sweets of any kind and products such as sausage rolls, corned meat and pies should only be given on occasion.

Yeah, right. Dream on Mr Brown - you've never had any pork pies have you? And lets not even mention the charming Mr Prescott shall we??

And if that preaching isn't annoying enough, the letter also recommends some alternatives which include:

Cake (What and no choccy biscuits???)
Rice
Couscous
Noddles
Potatoes
Lentils
Chickpeas
Hummus
Falafel.
Oh, and oily fish, such as salmon, every three weeks.

Right. Stuff every British kid really enjoys, especially cold. Or even slightly warm on a hot day with no fridge. Lovely.

Hmm... I'm just not sure if Master Jacob will look forward to his lunch of chickpea fritters and cold noddles. And of course there's no knowing what Master Ben would do with some hummus but let's just say that the school won't ever be short of adhesive. And as for Master Sam well he prefers to walk round to the local Tescos to buy some lunch rather than have a school dinner - since salt was prohibited.

So anyway, I've drafted a letter. Here goes;

Dear Sirs,

In reference to your letter regarding Healthy School Dinners in which the opening paragraph states the school “should address the issue” of children filling up on sweets and crisps purchased on the way to school, I believe it is unfair to penalize the majority of parents by restricting the dietary choices of children/parents because of the actions of “a small number of pupils.”

If this is indeed a problem caused by out of school activity I do not see how it can be actively policed. In all likelihood, children will still continue to purchase the offending items and consume them on their way to school and/or in secret with the same net result. Personally, I believe what children do out of school hours is a matter for parental responsibility and unless the school wishes to ask local retailers to prohibit sales (which I feel will hardly be welcome) I cannot see how this policy can be satisfactorily implemented. Indeed, it is possible that the introduction of such a dictatorial dietary regime may only become a source of antagonism with the majority of responsible parents who themselves attended school with a bag of crisps and a chocolate biscuit in their lunch bags with no ill effect.

My son occasionally buys sweets and drinks on the way to school. I do not object to this. In fact, I believe it is actually a positive thing for him in developing his own individuality and maturing without me constantly supervising him. Further, it necessitates him becoming more consciously aware of what he can and cannot eat in the light of his peanut allergy. I always question him if items remain in his lunchbox and, if need be, I take the appropriate action. This usually entails giving something he likes to eat rather than imposing my own choices on him or checking his pockets for stray bonbons.

I appreciate the school’s concern over this matter which no doubt has its origins in the government inspired directives to contend with the current problem of childhood obesity. However, I believe, trying to implement a regime in this manner is actually quite insulting to the majority of parents. It is quite one thing to be offered advice but to have our children’s meals inspected and regimented smacks of George Orwell’s 1984.

In my opinion, these potential directives take no account of the fact that many parents are trying to balance work and family life and need to produce simple, nourishing and yet ultimately attractive meals that their child will consume. I’m sure most busy mums do not have the time or energy to produce little tubs of couscous and fresh noodles on a daily basis. Whilst I have every admiration for mothers with such noble sentiments I’m afraid most of us ordinary folks live in the real world and not the world of celebrity chefs and stir fried vegetables and risottos. (Although I’m sure such delicacies are every child’s dream; especially when left cold for 3 hours and drizzled with olive oil.) Most educated parents will provide the mainstay of their child’s dietary requirements in the evening meal and the packed lunch acts as a supplementary meal consisting of a mixture of healthy and tempting products they know their child will eat and keep them energised until the evening.

With regard to the proposed menus I would also like to suggest that some of the recommendations are questionable. For example, my son has a simple chocolate coated digestive biscuit daily (in which I see no harm as he extremely fit and healthy) and I would suggest that such a biscuit has less calories, sugar and fat than a slice of cake – even the homemade ones which (and this may come as a surprise to you) I will not be baking on a regular basis. However, I am happy to produce my homemade flapjack if this is acceptable. (Please note that it contains outrageous amounts of golden syrup, butter and brown sugar heavily disguised in some healthy looking oats.)

In summary, I believe a child’s eating habits are a matter of concern for parents alone. Further, given the wide variety of children’s dietary requirements, fetishes and food phobias it is presumptuous to implement a regime which takes no account of individual likes and dislikes. If the school wishes to raise the matter of poor eating habits with parents who maybe unaware of their child’s behaviour or perhaps even uneducated in what constitutes “healthy” than that is perfectly acceptable. However, the school essentially has no authority over this matter and in a free and democratic society that is just the way it should remain.


Yours sincerely


Jane Turley


Now I should add that I also rewrote the school motto from;

"Our aim is to create a happy school where every member feels valued and able to achieve personal excellence."

to;

“Our aim is to create an unhappy school where every member feels hungry and able to achieve personal starvation."

But on second thoughts (and the good Mrs A reigning me in) I decided maybe that was pushing my luck too far; I can just about get away with the rest as they already think I'm a complete nutter.

Still, I feel better for having a rant. It's a therapeutic. And you know what? Now I feel like some cheese and onion crisps and a chocolate biscuit. I think I'll draft out a letter to Mr Brown advising him on his eating habits while I munch. In fact, I may even go so far as to ask him about his lunch receipts; I hope he hasn't been eating any crisps.

Oh, and a final note when I feel the need to chill out I play some music. Today I choose this... enjoy!

Boredom, magazines and Jennifer Anniston

Blimey, I'm having a couple of funny days. Have you ever had a day when you've got absolutely stacks do but just can't settle to it? When you are fundamentally bored out of your mind?

Yep, I had one of those yesterday and I can tell I'm gonna have another today. I've read blogs, news headlines, looked at threads on Blog Catalog, surfed the net looking for that elusive something that's going to fire me up. No can do. Nothing is happening in my brain. It's in that "Almost Dead" mode. You know the one where you can look at an anagram for 2 hours work out that 14 letters spell Geoffrey Boycott but not work out that the remaining three letters I R S spell SIR. Yep, I did that yesterday. And then Mrs A, Mrs S and I from the Book Club and our respective partners lost the village quiz by one point. One sodding point.

Look, how can you have SIR Geoffrey Boycott but not have Sir Paul McCartney and Sir Alec Guiness? Those conniving quiz masters were just trying to throw me off the scent. I say, if you gonna have people's titles then you got be consistent MRS ******Quizmaster.

Not that I'm sour of course. No way. Really, I don't mind not getting the prize of a big chocolate Easter egg. Who wants one of those anyway? It's just chocolate right?

In fact I like losing. Love it. Which is probably just as well as Master Ben's footie team lost 3-2 yesterday because they were in that "I'm not sure if I want to run this morning mode." Gez, I hate lethargy (except when it's my lethargy of course when it's perfectly acceptable) especially when it causes you to lose when you should have won. Yeah, last week Master Ben's team won 10-1 cos they were AWAKE, yesterday they lost because they were ASLEEP.

All credit to Master Ben who looked marginally more awake then some of the others. Enough for him not to be chained to his bed for a week with no food and water anyhow. Just.

Anyway I'm in one of those moods. I don't feel like writing my novel (which I've been working hard on lately) or reading a book or even a magazine. Although why I should read a magazine when they're all full of adverts (does anyone with a half a brain take notice of them?) recipes (no need for those obviously), regurgated advice about how to lose weight (again no need there I know all that stuff inside out) or rekindle your marriage by dressing up as a nurse/tart/ nun. (Delete as appropriate.) I mean, womens' magazines are just well.... how do I put this delicately? Ummmm......

Crap?

Yep, that's the word. And if I ever see another picture of Jennifer Anniston I will blow my brains out.

Who writes this garbage anyway? Yep, I can just see the editorial team sitting round their big impressive table, strewn with takeaway coffee cups, free samples and bulging Filofaxes...

"Darhhhhlings, we must make a decision on next week's cover! I'm sooo stressed about the deadline. Hilary Clinton's not available for the cover shoot, neither is Judy Dench or Anita Roddick."

"Anita Roddick is dead, Zara."

"Oh is she? Why didn't you tell me, Babs? I would've sent flowers!"
"Oh Sorry. I didn't think you want to know."

"Okay, scratch The Body Shop from the Christmas card list. I didn't like that cherry flavoured lip gloss anyway."

" Actually, I have a good idea, Zara. Let's go retro. We could do a cover with Marie Curie, Golda Meir or Emily Pankhurst on the front. How great would that be?!"

"Ohh....Retro, Great idea, Babs. I can see the cover now..all swirls and circles. Psychedelic colours. Yummy! Who's this Marie Curie then? A 60's fashioner designer? Maybe we could find a piccy of her in a miniskirt and boots? Fabbbbulous!"
"Um....no. Marie Curie was a scientist."

"You mean, she had her own cosmetics and perfumery range? Oh how absolutely fabbbbulous! So revolutionary back then! Maybe we could do a centre spread featuring all those lovely red lipsticks from the 60s? Ohh...I'm seeing vibrant reds here, maybe some paler reds.... even some pinkish reds ! Ohhh.. fab, fab, fab! Darrhhhling you're a genius! "
"Um.....Zara... um.... actually Marie Curie was a pioneer in the field of radioactivity. She won two Nobel peace prizes in physics and chemistry..... But hey, I can see you're not too smitten with that idea....but I've got an even better idea! Now I don't want to play Devil's advocate but.....but..... but................ have you thought of Jennifer Aniston?"

"Oh genius Babs! Jennifer Aniston! I love it! So refreshingly different and her hair is just fabbbbbulous....."

Is it just me or are women's magazines just utterly boring? Look, just for once I'd like to read something that doesn't involve a celebrity, a makeover or a crochet cardigan. In fact, I'm so fed up with women's magazines I'm drafting my own letter and sending it out en masse;


Dear Editor

Your Magazine is boring. I am not a dimwit. You are.

Regards,

Jane Turley.

Well, can you tell that I'm bored folks? Yep, absolutely mind numbingly bored.

I wish a was a scientist. And I wish I could do anagrams.

Flash Fiction; An Enterprising Story

Just before he jumped Gerald cleared his mind of everything except the image of Claire as he’d last seen her dressed as Mr Spock at a Star Trek convention.

For years Claire had plagued him with her obsession but the look on Leonard Nimoy’s face when she’d asked him to autograph twenty-three books was the breaking point. He’d get his revenge by making her the subject of ridicule as the woman whose husband had killed himself dressed as a wombat.

He’d considered dressing for the big day as a Vulcan just to get his message across but instead he'd randomly chosen a wombat. Claire wouldn't be able to figure out why - no matter how much “logic” she applied. In fact, she'd probably write to Leonard for advice. As usual, he’d reply with a signed photo with the postscript “Live long and prosper” which, for once, would have a certain irony.

Gerald took a final glimpse over the cliff edge, imagining Claire behind him, phaser wedged between his ribs. Then propelling himself forwards, he stretched his arms wide and fell into space.

But instead of his life flashing before him as he imagined would happen, Gerald began to fly, soaring on the crest of the wind like a heavenly seagull.

“Fuck you, Starship Enterprise!” he screamed, riding the currents with childish delight until, with a gentle flop, he lay giggling in the breaking surf.

He’d tell Claire he’d discovered how the transporter worked.

Then he’d go on a mission. Where he’d explore strange new worlds, seek out a new life, a new civilization, and boldly go where he had never been before.

Birthdays, Bras and a whole load of stuff about me.

Do you want the good news or the bad news first folks?

Okay, lets get the bad news over with first;

On Saturday I am 45 years old. Bugger. I could elaborate on that statement but as you know this is a "clean" site. About as "clean" as my bathroom. Ho hum.

Yep, I can feel the Grim Reaper moving closer, rattling his bones, waving his scythe. And I still haven't done any of the things I dreamt about doing when I was the child. Mind you, having designs to pilot the first spacecraft to Venus probably was a little ambitious. As was becoming Miss World. What can I say? As a child my parents didn't believe in having mirrors.

Well I guess I've done the family bit anyway. Although I originally thought I'd have five children, then I gave birth and took a different view on matters. It sort of went like this;

ARGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGH!

So it was only 3 children in the end. All boys. Unfortunately, no girl to pluck the facial hair when I'm old and senile. I guess I'll be lucky if one of the boys goes over my chin with a lawnmower.

You know in my mind I still feel like I was 16. The unfortunate thing is I still act like I'm 16 which means instead of acting with a dignified grace I have these funny moments where I make a total prat of myself. You know those moments were meant to get less as I got older but well I'm not sure things are working quite as they should.

Well the bladder isn't anyway. And the eyesight. And nobody mention the bowels.

Anyway, lets move onto the uplifting stuff.

Support bras.

Wow, are they good. One minute you've saggy boobs and the next minute you look like you're gonna take off into space. Perhaps there's a chance I will get to Venus one day. Who knows what you could do with one of those bras filled with helium. Personally, I reckon with one of those bras and a couple boulders and you easily could take out an entire army.

Did you know one of the world's best selling bras is called "Doreen"? That conjures up an image of crimpolene trousers, curled hair and v neck sweaters doesn't it? Not the sort of marketing that appeals to me. Something like "Nymph,""Slinky," or "Bad Girl" is more up my street. Still, there must be lots of ladies who do need that kind of support. I'm only jealous; the last time I went out with a support bra on it was very hot day, my cotton wool inserts ignited and I had to be doused down by the Fire Brigade.

Anyway, here's even more uplifting news; the other day I realised I've actually been writing this blog for over two years and written over 200 posts. And not once have I written a post without the aid of paracetamol or alcohol. That has got to be achievement. Okay, let's not forget the Jaffa Cakes, chocolate biccys, sandwiches and a various assortment of condiments.....

Now, this writing lark has been great fun and some of you may remember that ages ago I posted a picture of my "working" desk. Here it is just in case you've forgotten;

Umm... not very impressive I know. Now the piccy was in contrast to my idealised desk below which in a (rare) moment of blatant fibbing I actually posted on my blog in the hope that all you folks would believe I was actually super efficient and incredibly charming.

Wow, I even put soft focus on it! I really was up to no good!

Okay so a long time has passed since I posted those piccys. All sorts of things have happened to me yet somehow I've still managed to keep on writing this blog. Have I improved as a writer? Have my organizational skills improved on my quest for publication? Let's take a look at my desk as it stand today;

Uh. Nope. My organisational skills have not improved at all. In fact, I've probably got worse! Now the observant folks amongst you may have noticed that I've actually relocated my desk in front of the window; it gives more light although I can't actually see anything but the tops of a few trees. However, what it has given me is more expansion room for my desk! Can you see how I'm taking over the window sill? And there's now a table to the left and there's even more stuff on that!

I think I should point out that I have lots of my tissues on my desk at the moment as I have a horrendous cold...it has nothing to do with my cat. (As mentioned in my last post.) And that big mess to the left ...well I keep a porcelain tray there now in which I keep business cards, scraps of paper with telephone numbers on etc etc. You know stuff which you're supposed to file away. Which I don't. Anyway it looks kinda messy there because sometimes I get a little frustrated when I can't find things and then things get.....even messier. It's a problem I know, and so is the language. But hey, during the day I'm by myself so there's no need to worry about the occasional verbal faux-pas...

Anyway, moving on from my desk, I thought it would be nice at this moment in time, so close to my b-day, to celebrate by accepting a lovely award from Usha at Agelessbonding. I am now officially a Creative Blogger! My thanks to Usha for her kind words and for her continued support of My Witty Ways.

Now a condition of this award is to tell you 7 facts about me. Now that's pretty difficult as I think I told you a lot of intimate stuff here and well pretty much everywhere else in this blog. Cos well, I'm just a ego manic and if I hadn't been born to sweet lovely parents I'd probably would have taken over the world by now -Hitler only had a teeney weeny moustache and I have a whole beard.

You know, having big dreams can be a bit of a problem sometimes. In fact, I'm always dreaming about those big Toblerone bars but Mr T is so mean he never lets me get one. Although I was kinda sneaky last year when the manufacturers made a limited edition one for Father's Day; I bought one and gave it to Master Sam to give it to Mr T as a gift! And if you think that's sneaky you should know that Mr T doesn't actually like Toblerone. Hey, how was the kid supposed to know? He was just trying to be a good son. (Well that's what I told Mr T anyway.)

So 7 things about me. That you don't already know. Hmm.

1. I love nuts. Brazil nuts, peanuts, walnuts, hazelnuts, the lot. As I child I used to pick hazelnuts of a tree in my grandparent's garden. They were still green and inedible then but I was still fascinated by the concept of something hidden inside. These days I rarely have nuts in the house as Master Jacob is allergic to peanuts. This is in spite of my following all the advice when pregnant about not eating nuts, not using creams with nut based oils etc, etc. I even gave up Crunchy Nut Cornflakes! Huh. I miss having nuts at Christmas, sitting by the fire, cracking them open and flicking the shells over the floor.

Or leaving them inside Mr T's pyjamas.

Anyway, the good news is there is a trial underway at Addenbrookes Hospital which has had enormous success in desensitising children to peanuts. In a few years time, should the trial continue to be successful, I'm optimistic we will be able to live without the threat of anaphylactic shock hanging over us all. It will be an enormous relief to be free of the worry and I intend to celebrate by dressing up as a large packet of KP Salted Peanuts and indulging myself in a nut feast of stupendous proportions.

2. I don't know why but for some inexplicable reason I don't want to make love to Andrew Lloyld Webber.

3. Master Benedict makes me laugh so much I find it difficult to discipline him at times. For example he came home a while back and said he was cross with one of the boys in his class who keeps calling him Benadick. So a few days later we're driving home and very casually he says to me "Furkan still keeps calling me Benadick. So I said to him, if you want to call me Benadick I'm going to call you Fuckan."

4. Yesterday I broke my prescription reading glasses. So I'm in Tescos with Master Benadick and see some cheap black reading glasses. Great, I think. They'll do as a replacement for a while. However, I can't see a mirror so I stick them on anyway and ask Master Benadick what he thinks. He looks at me contemplatively, nods affrimatively and says "They're fine." So I get home, pop them on and look in the mirror; I look like a cross between Joe 90 and Nana Mouskouri. Let's just say - making love with Andrew Lloyld Webber is looking more of an option.

5. I am consistently... inconsistent. Yep, you can totally rely on me to never met a deadline, get a letter back to school on time or to fill out a form and return it promptly. I am always messing up things. In fact I once turned up with the entire family for a dental appointment a week early and then followed up the replacement appointment by turning up a week late! If it wasn't for the likes of good old Mrs B at school who constantly reminds me about school letters I would be, to put it simply, up shit creek.

6. I prefer baths to showers. Showers are great for a quick refreshing cleanse but you just can't wallow. I love to wallow! Preferably for a whole hour although that's usually impossible as one of the cats usually will want to have a dump. And then things just don't smell the same. Instead of the delicate essences of pine, lavender or honey soothing my senses it's the not so delicate fragrance of Eau de la Pussy Botty. Still, I enjoy myself when I'm in the bath and if I'm not reading, talking to my rubber duck or doing whale-like manoeveres, I just simply lie there and daydream. Bliss.

7. I write this blog for my own silly pleasure. I even laugh at my own jokes, which I'm sure many of you have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about at times! So thank you all who comment and also to the many of you who don't for coming back here time and time again - You've made an old girl very happy!

Dreams do come true... Just not the way you think!

Now I'm sorry to bring up this subject again but well let's talk James Bond, 007.

Now I've had a fetish for OO7 since I read all Ian Fleming's books in my early teens. I love thrillers, spy stories and all that secret agent stuff. All that excitement! Wow, I love it! I'm not sure, having imagined myself as a secret agent for the best part of my life, how I've ended up as a dowdy housewife though. Life just isn't fair sometimes.

By the way, If the FBI are reading this please note I'm ready for my mission! (I'm assuming you pay better than MI5- cos we are just so tight in this country it's untrue. And I do get a gun don't I? Cos, you know, with MI5 I'd only get a brolly and a small packet of Jelly Babies. Boy, that is so disappointing....)

Anyway, being the fruitcake that I am I often have these fantasies about making wild, passionate love to James Bond. (Okay, some one step in if I start giving away too much information) Yeah, so anyway I have this fantasy where he's peeling off my clothes, I'm slowly undoing the buttons on his shirt, he pulls out his gun and....

Ummm....okay, okay I'll stop there! (Damn.)

Anyway, you get the idea. A fantasy about having hot rumpy pumpy with a super hot guy. (Gez my hormones are on overdrive at the moment.) So anyway, I want to tell you that my fantasy about Mr Bond actually came true the other day!

Only with my cat Mr Bond and not 007.

Yeah, I was sitting on the sofa chilling out and Mr Bond jumps on to my lap and starts feeling me up. You know that kneeding stuff cats do. First, my tummy, then he moves onto my breasts, then back to my tummy again. Pawing away. Nothing unusual there really. Cats always do that kind of stuff - although I admit I was kinda shocked when he tried to unclasp my bra.

Anyway, there I am thinking the little fellow is gonna settle down for a nice stroking session with good old Mrs T when he starts to make noises. In a manner which could only be described (in hindsight) as "sex talk.".You know folks I think Mr Bond was talking dirty to me! Real fruity stuff too cos well, all of a sudden, poor Mrs T felt a warmth spreading on her jeans......

Gez! That'll teach me to have fantasies! It could only happen to me. I wait all my life for wild sex with a secret agent and I end up getting humped by a cat. Pass me the tissues someone. For the tears folks....not for the other....

Maybe it was my fault. Cos well you see when I adopted the little fella he still had all his body parts. (If you know what I mean) And he was such a sweet guy, no trouble at all and well they looked kinda soft and silky like a black velvet purse. I just didn't have the heart to do it too him....

Yeah, so I rang the vets immediately and took him the next day and had 'em chopped off. I mean I can't put "making whoope with cats" under Hobbies on my CV can I?

Well that should be the end of the story really. But unfortunately for you readers it isn't. You know they say that cats have nine lives? Well I'm kinda thinking it's not nine lives but...nine balls. Yep, I don't know what's going down there but Mr Bond looks like he's still got them to me. Only bigger, better and firmer!

Yes, so the the other day there was this other incident.... Now let's not go into too much detail. I've got my pride you know. Let's just say I changed my jumper and he was looking particularly smug. In fact, very smug. Yep, he jumped off me and starts cleaning himself and then shoots me a look which says "Sooo how was it for you then baby?"

You don't want to know my reply.

Anyway, so you see dreams do come true - Just not the way you think!

In Pursuit of Excellence

Today I made a decision. I decided that I can no longer watch Jacob, aged just 11, play tennis anymore. It breaks my heart really that I will be unable to be there with him but the stress of watching him play is becoming too much. This morning whilst we were travelling to a tournament my left arm was actually aching and... well it's not a nice feeling that you might be going to have a heart attack.

It's surprising really. I've been in far more stressful situations, so maybe it's also age, weight, several years of underlying stress all rolled up into one. But I guess there's nothing more traumatic than watching your own child under duress. I've been building up to this for sometime; it's upsetting whenever your child loses but I guess, underneath, I'm even more disappointed at the approach of Lawn Tennis Association.

Tennis in this country is the remit of the wealthy or those with tennis connections, there isn't any room for grass roots players on a limited income like there is in football, rugby or athletics. So unless your lucky enough to have a parent like Andy Murray whose mum was a tennis player and coach there comes a point where continued development becomes unsustainable. Advancement is dependent on one thing - the size of your wallet.

Of course, that's why the UK produces so few tennis players of note. The pool of children available from which to select it is limited to those with lots of cash. It's sad that some children - including my own - will never fulfil their potential as athletes.

So anyhow, today I flipped out. Jacob lost on a tiebreak on a shot he failed to call "out" and the opponent claimed the match. It was seen by 6-8 people maybe more, including the referee. No one, not even the referee, said anything. Except me, of course. Loudly.

That's the way it goes in tennis. Today was an unfortunate incident and it was disheartening that the game ended on a sour note. But what disappoints me more, and I have witnessed it many times over the years, is how a child can cheat, lie and bully another child into submission on court and no one does anything.

I guess it is difficult for the referee as he/she maybe watching over any number of courts. The net result of this (because there are no umpires and linesman) means unless they have actually witnessed the play the cheater always has the advantage because the rules state that if no agreement can be reached on the point in question the score must revert to the one which can both players agree on. So you can get to a vital point, dispute the score to your own advantage and if you argue long enough the player at the other end will always concede because that is the only way of moving the game forward.

Let's not forget the the poor line calling, the racket abuse and the yelling. Believe me, at junior tennis level these days John McEnroe looks like an absolute saint.

There's several reasons for this behaviour; immaturity on behalf of the player, a genuinely unpleasant character and parental behaviour. Personally, in the majority of cases I blame the parents for their child's behaviour. A lot of tennis parents want to win and win at all costs. They don't care how their child behaves so long as their child is the victor. I find it so very demoralizing - I have seen children ( and not just my own) totally destroyed by the behaviour of other children to the extent that there are so upset they can hardly hold their rackets. Their game is so badly affected they cannot play to their best ability and the cheater wins.

Now some would say that if you can't cope with stress on court in those situations you're not mentally strong enough to compete at high levels. I'm not so sure because to my mind that abdicates responsibility for poor behaviour. I've taught my children to pick up their litter, to wash their hands, to say "please" and "thank you" why would I allow my child to have tantrums and cheat on court? It doesn't make sense.

Last year I raised this matter off court with a parent whose child I believed had behaved unacceptably. I queried why they had allowed their child to behave in such a way..especially when it has such a detrimental effect on the other player. The answer I received was that was the standard answer that I now receive from any parent... "the rules state we should not interfere."

I'm sorry I just don't believe that is an acceptable excuse. It strikes me that the parents who use this as their byline are the ones who have the most to gain. Let's face it, any truly responsible parent would correct a child who behaves poorly and cheats. If I saw my children cheating, having tantrums and just generally being offensive on court I would act immediately. It's more important to me that my children grow up to be honourable and considerate human beings than winning any tennis match.

So I finally flipped out today. It was too much to see Jacob lose that way. I raised my voice..."Call it out. Everyone saw it was out, call it out!" By then the opponent had claimed the match. No one not even the ref would speak out.

Rules are rules you know.

Today, from Jacob's point of view, this was but a minor incident. He has been in situations far worse. For me though it was the finishing line.... just a small cherry on the top of 7 years of observing poor behaviour, fighting to have my children recognised as genuinely gifted grass roots players, making huge financial sacrifices to pay for their coaching, the late nights, exhausting weekends.

And today I let myself down. I too behaved poorly. It was wrong of me. I apologized to the referee. But in my own mind the damage is done.

I guess I'll carry on the training and paying for my kids as long as they want to play tennis and continue to enjoy it. At the moment they do. Even in defeat, Jacob wants to be a tennis coach and Ben....well his coach thinks he has enough talent to become a national player although slowly but surely I know that prospect is slipping away from him.

You see, recent LTA guidelines say that as a performance tennis player Ben should now be doing 14-16 hours of tennis and athletic development a week. (Only 2 hours of that are what as termed "other" sports.) That's an increase from the previous guidelines of approx 9 hours a week. For Jacob the recommended guidelines are now 16-18 hours a week. Up from approx 11 hours a week. Apart from the financial implications this would mean, I'm seriously concerned at how this intense training would affect their mental well being and, yes, their physical well being too. We live in age of the super sportsman, the conquering hero, but part of me now wonders at what cost this is to childhood. What cost to family relationships?

So when you do stop pursuing excellence? Particularly when that excellence has become someone else's dream? I guess I've influenced my boys over the years. In fact, I know I have. It just snowballed with their burgeoning talents. I just saw gifts to be nurtured. I didn't see the harsh realities.

Very possibly, I made a big mistake.

Monday 1st March.

This morning I popped over to my good friend's Usha site Agelessbonding and read the post Two Little Eyes Watching You which echoes everything I feel about the poor behaviour I see on tennis courts. Usha is one of the best bloggers I have ever come across and if you've never been over to her site I sincerely recommend that you do so.

Nightmare on Turley Street

I'm back! Last week was half term so I was tied up as usual. (Those boys can be really brutal.) Anyway, they were due back to school on Monday, so naturally, when the big day arrived I threw back the curtains with an enthusiasm only matched by the discovery of a hidden KitKat in the pantry. However, my delight soon turned to horror at what I saw before me. What did I see? Nope, it wasn't the cat relieving itself on my neighbours plants. (Which is actually quite an appealing scenario.)

It was snow.

Yeah, snow. Again.

Can I just say something?

Please, please God no more snow! Look, I know I've been a naughty girl but please don't punish me with anymore snow! I promise to be a good girl from now on and to be really, really careful when reversing. I will also try to curb my swearing, and I will try my very, very best not to dribble when I see pictures of Andy Roddick.
Anyway folks, I saw snow all over the street so thought it was possible the children would have yet another day off school. Groan. So I went downstairs and got out the paracetamol. Then, just I was opening the second packet, I remembered something exciting... Master Jacob's school, the worst of schools for snow closures, had purchased a snow clearing machine! I duly put the paracetamol back in the medicine cabinet and got out the Celebrations.
You know, I've never actually seen a snow clearing machine - except on an episode of Thomas the Tank Engine. And I don't think Jacob's school grounds are suitable for a steam engine or even a tractor so I started wondering what kind of clearing machine they had purchased. My first thought was this;


Yeah, that looks about right. A couple of spades, a few newly graduated teachers who haven't had their enthusiasm killed by paperwork and you could open the school in a jiffy.

Okay, maybe I'm being a bit cynical, perhaps a spade is a bit too basic. Perhaps the school have opted for something more revolutionary. Something more like this.....


You know that idea rather appeals to me. I always thought the head teacher blows a lot of hot air...

But hey, maybe they've gone for the full works, something a little grander...



Of course, it would have to be mounted on a wheelbarrow. But hey if it does the trick I won't complain!

Roll on Spring!