It’s not fair!

As some of you know, I’m into cricket - and so I’ve read every word about the Australian cheating shenanigans. But this post is not about who did what and whose idea it was and who else knew. (In the absence of evidence it’s not for me to speculate.)

Instead I want to think about the reactions - here in the UK, and in Australia (I’ve no idea what the papers are saying in South Africa, where this happened, or in India, which holds so many of cricket’s purse-strings). 

The hot air and column-inches that have been devoted to this episode is extraordinary - and, in my opinion, encouraging. The outcry has reflected a united - appalled - reaction. A few years ago there was anger when some players were charged with spot-fixing, even match-fixing, but I don’t recall seeing such unequivocal outrage at behaviour on a cricket pitch. I’ve read no one who even whispers a suggestion that cheating might be, somehow, ok.

I know, there have been reminders that the line between this outright cheating and attempts to change the condition of the ball can be blurred. But this episode falls so far wide of that line it cannot be defended.

It reminds me of the cry of every child - ‘It’s not fair!’ It’s not fair that other children are better at football or spelling or just allowed to go to bed later. As they grow older it’s the tenet that underpins some adolescent angst - it’s not fair that everyone else has perfect skin or parents who can afford driving lessons the second they turn seventeen. Children and young people have to wrestle with the basic unfairness of living. 

Yet their parents and teachers persist a telling them that there are some level playing fields that give everyone an equal opportunity. We know it’s complicated, but we still want our children and young people to believe that ‘fair play’ benefits everyone. It’s a tenet that underpins so much of our moral thinking.

Cricket isn’t the only sport to tackle the issue, of course. But there is something about the blatant rule-breaking of this episode that prompts childish outrage. We still long for life to be fair - for all of us. 

And not only on the cricket pitch.

Children Matter.

This post is late this week.

I'll not apologise, for my days have been full of grandchildren - preparing for their visit, managing the fun while they were here, and collapsing in a heap once they'd gone. But there should never be apologies for children.

You'll have to imagine the wonderfulness of my weekend. You only need to know that I have the most intelligent, beautiful, creative, athletic and loving grandchildren in the world.

Having established that, I want to take it one step further. Because, in spite of the position my own grandchildren have in the general scheme of things, I would suggest that all children should take priority.

For instance, when a family is eating together in a restaurant, children's meals should arrive first. Adults understand waiting, that their turn with come, that they will not be overlooked. They also know that it's easier to chop up a child's sausages when the table isn't laden with their own food, vegetables, and a bottle of wine.

For instance, anyone with a biggish buggy, or a double, has as much right to linger in the aisles of supermarkets, or stroll down the street, as anyone else. How else are parents meant to do their shopping? They shouldn't have to apologise to anyone, simply because they need to bring their children out in public.

Why does it matter so much? I know I worked in Child Protection, and so I spent my working life thinking of the child's point of view. So it's hardly surprising that's a habit I don't want to break.

But it's more than that. It's more than the cliche about children being our future and so we need to invest in them. It's more than recognising that if they aren't educated etc they'll not do the work we need them to do in order to fund our pensions.

It's about children bringing energy, and surprise, and curiosity. They remind us that earwigs, and sunflowers, and bits of stick all have a place in the world. They examine a ladybird with the same attention as a jeweller might give a diamond. They shush (though rarely for long) just to watch a squirrel run up a tree. They ask endless questions, for their world is new and different and wonderful.

Sometimes I watch the men and women in suits and think that what they really need is a dose of children. It is children who remind us that the world need not be driven by money. That the life cycle of the snail can be as absorbing as a need for speed. That rules are fine when they provide a framework but not when followed without question.

In short, I think some adults need a bit of a kick up the bum, and children - given the opportunity - can be so good at that!

Setting a bad example to the children?

Thank you for your lovely thoughtful comments on my returning-to-Nepal quandary, outlined in my last post. While I'm thinking about that - here is another, far less serious, dilemma.

Some years ago we lived in a little house with parking spaces in a courtyard at the front. It was a lovely little house, with lovely neighbours ...

... Except for the couple who lived at the end of the row. Well, they didn't actually live there. They visited some weekends, but much of the time the house stayed empty. Even so they seemed to think that they owned their parking spaces - so if they should turn up and find anyone with visitors had allowed them to park in their space they had a hissy fit.

To be fair, they had a hissy fit at everything. A child in the front garden with a ball was enough to screw their faces up till they looked like dogs' bottoms.

We never knew their names. We knew them as 'the Miseries.' Even when they were here, surrounded by these wonderful Wiltshire Downs, they grumbled. I'm afraid we laughed at them behind their backs, they made themselves look so ridiculous. 

There was a little passageway beside their garden - leading to the back of the row of houses. There was nothing but a little wire fence between the gardens, so it was easy to see the rather bland, pristine arrangement of their little plot.

Now one year we had a surfeit of sunflower seeds ... I can't remember why ... nor whose idea it was to plant them in the Miseries' garden ... though it was easy enough to slink round there at sundown. The planting involved a lot of rather childish giggling and possibly wasn't a great example to my children (who must have been in their early teens at the time). Or was it? Surely it's okay to respond to people who are terminally grumpy by planting sunflowers in their garden?

So - it is vandalism? Or a justifiable response to people who had a serious deficit in the humour department?

Do you take your kids to art galleries?

As you know, I've been in Madrid - and I spent much of the time in the art galleries. Some of the world's most precious paintings were there - so I spent hours gazing at some magnificent pieces.

I shared much of the space with other tourists, of course. And with children.

I've been to the National Gallery and watched families try to introduce children to paintings. Some looked obediently; a minority actually stared for a couple of minutes and then needed a wee. I recall taking my own children - we didn't last long. Within minutes one was hungry, another hit her sister, while a fourth asked loudly why that lady has no clothes on ... it was my idea of dreadful and I rarely tried again.

But here, in Madrid, I saw groups of schoolchildren and they were enthralled. Even little ones - they can't have been much more than four - were sitting and listening as a curator talked about the picture and asked what they could see, and then helped them to look again and look again until every brush-stroke had been thought about. And then they were off to another painting.

I suspect that the tinies only looked at three or four pictures, and the more difficult pieces were left for older children. But even adolescents (except for a couple of lads who wanted only to gawp at the nudes) were engrossed - and able to engage with pieces that I found difficult to look at or understand. Having been taken to art galleries since they were small they understood the discipline needed to look, and think, and notice what an artist was trying to achieve and how he or she did it.

And so I have thought again. Maybe my failure to engage my children with art was due to my own incompetence at talking about the pictures and helping them to look closely at them. I can no longer blame their immaturity.

Shall I try again, with grandchildren? And you - do you take children to art galleries?

Where are you now?

Today, I'm over on Authors Electric, waxing seriously about why writing matters. (Check it out here, if you're having a serious day.)

But, you say, I could have wittered frivolously on this blog, just to entertain you. Why not? Because the sun is shining. I'd rather be outside than hunched over my computer. And I'm not even going to apologise!!

And next week ... I'll be playing with children. Which is even more important than sunshine and serious writing and reading and talking about the weather or what I'm having for tea or even books. I'll be paddling and pushing swings and being a gaolie. I shall crawl around the floor and make towers and read stories.

I'll be back here, when I've recovered!!

Not all men are tossers, though some are.

I know I said I wouldn't write about Child Protection and the work that I did - and I meant it.

But the recent conviction of Rolf Harris has raised so many issues I thought I'd float a few of them here.

He presented as hugely likeable - and I'm sure that all those who never saw his 'darker side' had great fun with him. He was musical and talented and could make people laugh. Some blokes are good at that. Nothing can ever excuse the way he used his talents to abuse young women and children.

Some blokes are good at other stuff. They build things or make things or write things or dig their gardens or milk cows. They play music and read books and fall asleep in front of the telly. They cook the tea and play with their kids and read the newspaper and play on their computers. They are generally good blokes.

When I was working there were times when it felt as if all men were total plonkers - or worse. If anyone I didn't know well came near my children I went into fight-mode. Don't you dare pick up her ball for her, nor commiserate with a scraped knee. That sort of thing.

Since I stopped working I've met men of many more shapes and sizes and learned that - yes, some are still plonkers or worse. The Rolf Harrises of this world still lurk around children's playgrounds and in the swimming pools. They still sidle up to children and offer sweets and smiles and make them laugh. Parents must still be vigilant.

But most men aren't like that. Most men work and love and laugh and would need holding back in chains if they thought anyone would harm a child. There are more decent blokes around than tossers, even though the newspapers might have us believe otherwise.

And so, while nothing can ever diminish the harm that Rolf Harris has done, let's not tar all friendly men with his brushes. No one is perfect, but most of us (men and women) are good enough.

Now - that really is my last word on Child Protection. For I really ought to be marketing my vultures.

What would a child do?

I was privileged to work with children for decades. They taught me so much about the limitations of being a grown-up.

This hit me last weekend. Each year our local charities raise money by charging people to visit West Woods - known for their carpets of bluebells. Sunday was sunny - and the woods were full of visitors. But there is plenty of room for everyone, for these bluebells stretch for miles, or so it seems.

For once, I'll give you pictures:

Who wouldn't want to wander here?

Or here?

Just imagine you're six, and seeing this for the first time! That blue that shimmers, sparkles in the sunlight. That smell - though if you breathe too deeply it will make you cough. I was well-behaved enough, at six, to know I shouldn't pick them (though I wanted to) - but even now how I longed to run through them. Or even lie down, to make a bed in them, to have bluebells tickle my nose and whisper spring secrets in my ears.

I didn't, of course. I even took sensible routes to avoid the mud. But sometimes I wish we could shake off our adult expectations. Wouldn't it be wonderful to abandon grown-upness and rediscover bluebells for the first time?

The White Horse Bookshop

I had planned to return with News, but this is far too wonderful to let it go by.

A few weeks ago I wrote about the refurbishment of our lovely independent bookshop. Well, last Saturday was the official reopening.

I don't know about your town - but ours can do 'stuffy' when it comes to celebrations. We call them respectable, of course, but often they're stuffy. Sparkling wine in sparkling glasses. Canapés. Men and women greet each other with air-kisses and agree that this is wonderful darling. Maybe a local worthy to do the opening honours. Such celebrations have their place, of course - but sometimes I think my town needs a bit of a kick up the bum.

And then came the reopening of the White Horse Bookshop. With Jacqueline Wilson. Whose fab idea was it to invite her? For the great and the good of the town were shoved to the margins as the shop filled with children. You could barely hear yourself speak above the hubbub of children's voices - subdued briefly when she walked by them and then resuming forte proportions once she'd gone by.

The official ribbon-cutting done, she sat on a low sofa - low enough to look children in the eye and talk with them. A queue (of sorts) snaked through the shop - she had time and a smile for them all.

Oh how truly wonderful. Nobody could move in the shop for children, and parents, and grandparents. For what can be more important than bringing books and children together?

(Far more important than my News, anyway!!)

What a noisy world we live in!

I should qualify that - here in the UK, even in a market town, silence is rare, and precious. Even if the traffic is quiet, there is wind in the trees, the occasional dog, the radiators ticking, someone passing my house and running her stick along the railings. Mothers dragging their children to school. The slam of car doors. The drone of a passing plane (especially irritating if it's a microlight). Petrol lawn mowers.

Some - such as the passing police car or fisticuffs from lads coming home from the pub - I could live without.

But others can interrupt me any time and I'll stop to listen and smile:

Children playing. I can hear the children at the nearest school if I stop and listen when they are out to play. The cries and laughters from children's playgrounds are the same the world over. I remember waking one morning in Laos to the same joyful cries - and felt both a twinge of homesickness and delight at being where I could hear Laotian children all at the same time.

The mistle thrush that wakes me in the summer as the sun rises. I'm not good in the mornings but always I forgive this little bird. Many times - when I've been in 'less developed countries' (I don't like the term but you know what I mean) - I've been woken by cockerels. I have mixed feelings about cockerels. By the time they're crowing many local people are up and about, women in the fields and men ... too often the men are playing cards, but sometimes they're doing useful things with machinery. But the point is that local people are already into the day while this lazy tourist is still abed. The cockerel rebukes me. But, at home, my mistle thrush sings me back to sleep.

Music (almost all music. There's some very modern classical music that I struggle with.) Music does wonderful things in my head, and I'm not sure I can put it into words. Some makes me tap my feet, or swing my shoulders - and I'm not even aware I'm doing it. Some makes me join in a sing, in spite of myself. And some will make me cry - though I've no idea why. But somehow it reaches parts of my brain that are nothing to do with thinking, and that makes me feel wonderful!

Some accents - a strange one, this. I've no idea why some accents whine like musical saws (you know the kind - they appeared in music halls and are so screechy you want, briefly, to hide till they stop talking) while others are compelling. Last weekend, the waiter with his French, 'Voila' was enough for me to know I'd listen to him to reading the phone book. Tom Conti (do you remember him?) - I could listen to him reciting anything, listening to the music of his voice and paying no attention to the content. I read somewhere that the language of Dante was taken as the national language of Italy when the country united in 1848 because it was the most beautiful of the dialects available - and I get that, for I can listen to it without caring I don't understand a word.

And soon I'll be bombarded by new sounds. Cuban Spanish, Cuban children, Cuban birds, Cuban music ...

What sounds make you stop, listen, be glad you woke up today?

It's sunny - let's go out to play.

Sorry, I'm going to be a bit British here, and witter about the weather.

I know that anyone in paid employment, with a boss and working hours and people who depend on them - they can't go out to play when the sun shines. And I include the self-employed here - if you don't work, you're not paid. And many of you can't be flexible with your working hours - I don't suppose any householder would be too delighted if the non-appearance of the plumber was due to him fancying a swim.

But there are a lot of us who, for whatever reason, are not working or can be flexible with our working hours. So - what do we do when the sun shines?

Here in the UK sunshine is precious. Take a trip to the nearest park or garden centre next time the sun shines - it will be full of people in light clothes, moving freely, as if they've unfurled after months cuddled in cardies. Children, feet released from the tyranny of wellies, can run at last. Men throw frisbees. Women eat ice cream.

I know - some people need to sit in the shade. Those with hay fever survive only by dripping drops in their eyes and shoving drugs up their noses (you know what I mean - not the Hard Stuff). But even those who struggle with the heat acknowledge that the sunlight brings a wonderful change of mood, smothers the rainy greys with colour. And generally tempts even the most workaholic of us out to play.

So - here's a thought. Once we are out there, in the sunshine, chatting about the general wonderfulness of the weather, why do so many of us have an urge to lie down and go to sleep in it?

And yet, when night falls and we can take to our beds, we toss and turn and complain it is too hot to sleep?

Maybe it doesn't matter. Let's just enjoy the weather anyway, as it is not likely to last long (and may even have broken by the time you read this).