Speaking as a parent

Interval.

Pause for thought.

Back next week.

Reversal.

Extraordinary to see our Blair shaking hands with Gaddafi. Personally I have to welcome it because although it seems like a stark reversal of policy, in the long run the alternatives are worse and I would rather have diplomacy conducted above board than below.

It got me thinking too, and while I don't wish to swell the chorus of knee-jerk anti-Bush commentary I have to ask this: in the last year did we not witness an unacknowledged reversal of British Government policy over the Iraq question? When dealing with war leaders who claim to receive direct guidance from God, has it not been British policy since 1431 to burn them, not follow them?

Proverb Reform.

Yesterday evening I had a hammer malfunction while hanging a picture. (Note to self: DIY first, wine later.) Today I have a sore thumb.

And does it stand out? Is it outstanding in any way? No.

It hurts though.

How can our ancestors have betrayed us thus? Were they simply not paying attention, or was it something more sinister? Anyway, in line with my new chastened approach and to appease my desire to grapple with issues, I propose the first in a series of reformed More Honest and Helpful Proverbs.

“To hurt like a sore thumb.” Obvious really but I think it needed saying.

Some further offerings:

Too many cooks make too much food, and increase unit costs.

A stitch in time should only be attempted by Dr Who.

If at first you don't succeed then institute an extensive and wideranging review of your systems and processes.

Suggestions?

Fiddy Explained.

This just in, to a comment box here, from the on-form PB Curtis, which I feel I must share.

A few days back, in my bad old judgmental phase, I discussed a record by 50 Cent and linked to the lyrics. Zed requested a translation, which was quite reasonable as I think any reader would agree. PB has manfully addressed this task, which lesser men (me) chose to shun, and has brought honour and glory to the name he so nobly bears.

With your permission PB.

If I Can't.

i am the best
i am sexy

(No idea about this last bit)

I can help out with those last three lines there.

When I pull my anorak over my head I feel warmer.
I'm talking to you Andre.
And the result? It's a bit like being out of the sun.
Which amuses me every time I think about it.

Ah, the glories of plain English.

Battle Fatigue.

Silly me. I've wasted a whole day's energy trying to talk calmly in the lions' den. Followed nose, walked into door. Idiot. Now older, wiser, with flatter nose.

I've felt like there's been a steel band around my stomach all day. Last night I had my first nightmare in about ten years. Stupid. Learned lesson, oh yes.

I walked away. Didn't feel the need to continue, let alone try to 'win' such a theoretical contest of opinion on a web string. I have a nice life, partly because I have room for optimism in my views. And in the end we live in a liberal democracy based around enough agreed values to ensure that people who think broadly like me will be in power and people who think like them will never be. That's enough of a victory for me.

Goals.

Last Fri saw another solid victory for Jake's Under 9's football team. He told me they retained their shape throughout, which on the occasions I've watched them is a flat front eight. Changes are afoot and M. Deneuve has stepped down to be replaced by a PE specialist. The school are taking it all v seriously.

Did some good football work with Jake in the park on Sat, though I did get rather cold, mainly because I have to play in goal now while he takes shots at me. He puts prodigious amounts of energy into his goalscoring celebrations which, despite my best efforts, are starting to annoy me. I'm pleased at the exercise he gets - he runs much further and faster after he's scored than before - but it's beginning to feel personal.

When he was younger I was pleased if he kicked the ball either straight or hard and whenever he managed both I was delighted. Back then I was not above letting the ball slip past me at times to encourage him, and I used to delight in his joy at scoring. Sadly this pleasure is now denied me as these days I can't stop his best shots even if I try.

And of course as a conscientious parent I do try, for the chilly winds of competition blow hard on match days and I have no wish to swaddle him in the Gap Kids anorak of doting fatherhood. So I stand and watch ball after ball whistle past my outstretched hand and, try as I might, I take it ill to see him running about like a dive bomber, whooping and hollering.

Balancing guidance in sportsmanship is indicated. Thinking cap is on.

Seriously.

I have just read several comment threads on a right wing site and I have been forcefully reminded of what intolerance is. What follows therefore is the first and I hope the last entirely serious post on SAAP. It concerns, malheureusement, 'L'Affaire Belle', and consists of an apology.

BdJ is not to my taste and I should have left it at that. She has every right to publish what she wishes. She can do whatever she thinks fit with her weblog. She has every right to a book deal. Good luck to her; she has been a blogging sensation. Anyone who wants to read and enjoy her has every right to do so. I was wrong.

I tried to extract some humour out of it all but by the end I was failing and had somehow degenerated into ad feminam attacks. She has an absolute right to anonymity and I have no right to exploit that, saying things that I would never say if she had a name, and to which I know she will not reply. Wrong again, and I'm big enough to admit it on the rare occasions I realise it.

Sorry to all concerned. That's it.

Now let's say no more about it.

Cooking Update.

Regular readers will probably know that I'm doing rather more cooking than usual. Can't say I'm enjoying it. Mel hasn't said she's enjoying it either.

Some are born cooks, some achieve cookiness and others produce dishes that never look anything like the pictures in the book. (That last one is me.)

I started cooking when I was a student and, try as I might, my interaction with ingredients and instructions remained a volatile and unpredictable area - a people person such as myself is at a disadvantage when faced with trying to motivate an impassive bag of flour. After a few weeks I channelled my creativity into thinking of names that adequately lowered expectations. For instance, I took to describing my risottos as 'A la grècque', which meant that they'd been thoroughly b*ggered.

Old habits die hard and last night I served up sardine quenelles with a Chard salad. This was to be eaten in front of the telly (darkness and distraction both good). M claimed not to be hungry.

“Shall I bring yours up later?” I asked.

“No, I think that’s my job,” she replied grimly.

I expect to be relieved soon. Which will make two of us.

Revelations Update.

There have been a lot of distractions round here over the last few days which have stopped me bringing you all up to date with some important strands in our lives. So...

The Revelations Evening got the go-ahead from the School's Drama and Video Rights Committee. This not only surprised me but was potentially bad news in the light of my promise to help coordinate the thing. Posters duly went up all over the school last week asking for applicants. There was a wave of initial interest apparently, but it did not seem to turn into submission slips. Zoe only brought home two for me on Fri and one last night.

So far we have Hector who wants to tell his vegetarian parents that he eats hamburgers secretly on the way home, Emily to tell her parents that she wants to give up the clarinet and take up the drums, and Mr and Mrs Sutton who want to tell their three children that the Old People's Home that they visit Grandpa in is, in fact, an Open Prison.

I think that last one is a spoof, but I'm not sure. I'll have to make discreet enquiries.

Less Sex Please.

I'm confused. Do we know who Belle de Jour is now? Has she finally been fingered? Without getting paid, that is.

Her real identity never much interested me. I always assumed it was written by a woman, and at the time I couldn't imagine why a man, gay or straight, would want to write such a thing. But there again I didn't connect it with the Guardian comp till others did. Anyway I thought it was written by an educated media-savvy insider. It was too knowing, too glib and too peppered with journalistic jargon.

I never much liked it; I was always unsettled by its glaring untruthfulness. To me it was just dishonest and manipulative, centred on sex but uncomfortably wide of the mark about it. Neither was I ever convinced that the life of a call girl is actually anything like that. Stealing at one time the costume jewellery of p0rn and the dowdy clothes of verité was an audacious heist that I felt the polished prose never quite hid.

Personally I had no cause for complaint when the Guardian gave her their prize. I just couldn’t believe they had rewarded such a stitch-up, and had so clearly got confused between a good read and a titillating read.

Enough. All I ever wanted to say about BdJ is this:

We do not need more exploitative dishonesty about sex in our media. We need more honesty.

SMoG.

Extended moments of genius have long been recognised in the wider literary world with numerous awards available to people who are prepared to spend significant portions of their lives bashing away at a keyboard. There are even awards within the blog world for entire blogs or individual posts.

I think the humble sentence has been rather overlooked in all this hoo haa. So as a modest contribution to Blogal Peace I have decided to confer the occasional SMoG Award whenever I come across something that strikes me as a Small Moment of Genius.

This is partly to recognise the amount of good writing that appears in Comments boxes and to create a wider forum for recognition of this semi-private part of the blog world.

I am not a great connoisseur of literature and my choices may be controversial but they are solely intended to encourage pith and to share the pleasure I get when I come across sentences that strike me as complete in themselves. I fully accept that I have no right to give out awards to anyone for anything but my chief weapon as a parent has always been praise and I find it hard to hold back.

I thought of doing a Moments of Near Genius award but it seemed less satisfactory as a name and was perhaps courting controversy, which isn't really my thing.

I am not proprietorial about the idea at all and I urge any of you who like the concept to do the same. I think the only rule is that you don't give them to yourselves.

I have found two in the last 24 hours so the first two SMoGs go to:

Stuart for this:

“I think that if I make enough of a drama out of something then the world will conspire to reward me for being entertaining.” Posted here (no 2),

and

noodle for this:

“the flexibility of thought y'need to maintain to remain a liberal far exceeds the mental energy required of the faithful.” Posted here (no 14).

Bravo.

The Home Front.

Censorship was rather on my mind over the weekend, to which events here amply testify.

It all started on Fri evening when we forced Jake to do his homework before we went away for the weekend, not after we returned. He had to write a poem about 'My Family' and we figured it would be better to get him to do so in a state of exhaustion on Fri night rather than trying to get him to write it in a state of exhaustion on Sun night.

It started well. He decided to write about one family member - me. I was flattered. The problem was the second line that went “He likes wine and drinks a lot”.

This triggered a passionate debate between myself and Mel. She felt the line should stand and I felt that a little extra thought might yield a better result. I suggested he insert 'quite' before 'a lot'. Stony ground. I then suggested the line might end 'and talks a lot' instead, which would open up some possibilities for relating things I had said. Jake chimed in that it was his school, his homework and that he was doing the talking in his poem.

I could find no flaw in this watertight claim to self-expression and in the end I thought it best to respect it as such. Nevertheless the whole exchange left me somewhat shaken and my commitment to a non-partisan outlook as stretched as any jumper I have ever owned.

Last night Zoe asked me about 50 Cent, whose name had come up several times by 7.30 pm. She asked what I thought was so bad about him. I explained that I was trying not to be judgmental but that he had led a life of crime and was now making records about it without being sorry for what he had done. She asked why on both counts. To defend the Fid I explained that he hadn't had a good start in life and that he had seen his mother shot in front of him at a young age.

“Well so did Babar the Elephant,” she snorted, “and he turned out all right.” I felt much, much better after that.

Censorship.

Been away and came back to find a string of well considered comments about censorship under my last post. I thought I would bring the debate out here because this is a serious subject upon which I would welcome a continuing discussion. (That was Fiddy Speaks, by the way.)

Zed: the song is about shooting people 'pour décourager les autres' and being clear, resolute and consistent in pursuit of that policy.

Let me be clear. I am opposed to censorship. As Demian pointed out the catch is always who decides on what is to be suppressed and why. I would say it is probably easier to determine what offends than what pleases but neither is a straightforward task. However I would say that we are not talking about fine artistic judgements here. In this case the distinctions are rather coarser.

So, let 50 Cent make his records, let people buy them. But I have to question why the BBC are playing him. Whence the pressure? It is not compulsory to play records by any particular artist. There is a large choice available. Has he become somehow indispensable? Or is it because other stations are playing 'If I Can’t' and the Beeb fears it would lose listeners if it doesn't follow suit? That would be a bizarre and unwelcome extension of the intimidation surrounding Fiddy already. Will someone now argue that violence never pays? Are guns now to be the most effective promotional tool available to the music business?

Hg may have it right and the BBC are actually satirising the Half Dollar by rendering his oeuvre both ridiculous and incomprehensible by slicing him down to about 23 cents' worth. Here's hoping.

And what exactly is he saying? He is telling us that the way to make and keep money is to be prepared to shoot people. (12 references to guns, 7 to death by firearms.) If anyone is concerned about gun crime in this country then is it not worth a moment's pause to consider what is being said here? Would the BBC commission a play about a young black man who goes around selling drugs and shooting people then ends up as a pop star, lionised, glamourised, rewarded, validated? Would the BBC have welcomed a record from the Kray Twins on this topic at any point? Not playing this record will not make gun crime go away, but what does playing this record say about the BBC's attitude to gun crime?

Is this 'a good and harmless record' like, say, 'Relax' or 'Let's Spend the Night Together' are now considered to be? I'm not convinced. This particular record is not about consensual behaviour within the sphere of privacy that surrounds personal moral decisions. It's about murder. Some people may feel sufficiently distanced from it either because it's about life in America, or because the artist is black, or because it's just the harmless make-believe of showbiz. I doubt people would feel so benignly bemused if this lyric was in standard English.

Is it influencing people? I don't know. On the page of lyrics that I have linked it has so far garnered 2277 votes at an average rating of 4.9, 5 being the top mark. All idiot children? All unimpressionable youths with enough life experience to be able to distinguish image and reality? The one catch there is that Fiddy is 'for real'. He has no image. He, above all others, really means it. Other hip hoppers have talked about violence but few so uncritically and none who have been considered fit for mainstream exposure in the UK.

And I'm not particularly worried about my chldn, for once. This is about public broadcasting and public culture and the public streets we all share.

Merits? I have to say that it's easily his worst record to date. 'In Da Club' is a minor classic and although I dislike its lyrical content too, it confined itself largely to amorality as opposed to the active promotion of murder as a career move.

Take note of the words people, please, even if you don't get the full text in sound. This is not a nice, underprivileged but talented performer making his way along the hard road to showbiz acceptance and a career in Vegas. He's already rich. Visit his website and have a good look down the barrel of the gun that he lovingly points at all his callers. Drop in any time, y'all, see what I'm about.

I realise there are problems with taking such a view. I realise that I have enjoyed records that in their time were also disliked and reviled. I accept that to say “Thus far and no further” is to enter into arguments which are not universal but merely technical and subjective. I also realise the company it puts me in. The Christian Right usually date the point at which social attitudes ceased to evolve acceptably at around 1000 BC. I can be accused of drawing it in 2004 AD.

The right to political self-expression is sacrosanct yet we recognise that touting racial or religious hatred falls outside this sanctuary. The right to artistic expression is sacrosanct but I seriously question whether this sort of thing stands much scrutiny as valid artistic discourse. Pinch yourselves, this is national daytime radio here. Are there no other records worthy of exposure? Do we require our pop stars to glamourise guns and advocate violence now or is this just the new liberal preference in authenticity?

I at least am prepared to put up a counter argument. It matters.

(To come: Self Censorship - the New Black or just the Old Stalin?)

F---y S---ks.

Oh dear. Hip Hop Artist In Unintentional Self Parody Shock.

I've just heard the new 50 Cent record, or rather what's left of it. Most of the space usually devoted to Mr Fid is filled with pregnant silence, leaving us to guess what acts of sexual prowess, extreme violence or clever rhymes were once there. The record could mean almost anything. I would look up the lyrics myself and link to them but the DJ didn’t back-announce it so I don't know the title. Maybe that's too offensive to say as well.

This degree of use of the listener's imagination is truly unprecedented and paves the way for records which we, the audience, imagine in their entirety, given only a drum beat to start from.

It's truly laughable. Don't the mass media get it? If it's so foul mouthed that only 20% of the lyrics are playable doesn't that say something about the overall message? Would an internet hate site be rendered inoffensive by subediting it so that all the nasty swearwords were removed, so it read “K*ll the ------- J*ws. Send the ------- n*gg*rs h*me. Th*y deserve it, filthy scum”?

Why are the BBC playing it? Do they need to be held to ransom by the media politics of US based companies?

If the record is that offensive then just don't play it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Update.

Found it.

And if anyone in the BBC or anywhere in a position of responsibility in our mass media thinks that this sort of thing is acceptable as general entertainment fit to be aired on a national platform then they must be mad and I call for them to resign.

And it just sounds STUPID.

The Pace of Reform.

I attempted to make some progress towards Dishwasher Question Time last night and introduced the topic before supper.

A good motivational speaker is sensitive to the mood of the room and after a few lines of my opening remarks it became clear to me that on this occasion my audience wasn't entirely with me - not in the spirit of constructive analysis that had inspired me to speak, anyway. So I decided not to risk putting the issue to a vote. I rounded off by saying that I thought I'd said enough and in this at least we seemed to be of one mind, which counted as progress at the time.

A rather silent supper followed. I wheeled out my failsafe conversational gambit which is to ask Mel to take me through the difference between creme fraiche, fromage frais and sour cream. This is usually good for twenty minutes or so of mood altering monologue but alas on this occasion it yielded nothing much beyond some unkind remarks about how there was no point in telling me because

a) I obviously didn’t listen last time and
b) I never cook with any of them anyway.

I objected, and with hindsight perhaps I overplayed the outrage card. The upshot seems to be that I am cooking supper, including advanced emulsified dairy products, until further notice.

Hat Trick.

To dwell on one's googlegrockles may well be yesterday's black by now but it's all still new enough to me to find it amusing. However I know a slippery slope when I see one and from now on I am confining myself to searches in which I came first or appeared solo.

1. “tunisians bitches”. Awesome topic. Not one I had covered as such although I do qualify under the terms stated. Even more impressive because the searcher was looking in French. Mon premier Numero Un. Yéy!

2. “Noel Gallagher thinks Robin Williams”. Excellent stuff, and I'm pleased for Noel that people take his opinions seriously on a wide range of topics now and not just on drugs and Man City.

Or maybe it's actually a book along the lines of those old fashioned albums with titles like 'Hollies Sing Dylan', a record I never had the pleasure of hearing but I used to see regularly in bargain bins. I would love to know what might come out if ever Noel did decide to think like Robin Williams. Perhaps Oasis could rediscover the edge that has eluded them since 'Be Here Now'. They might at least be funnier. Or perhaps we would get a new standard for 'thinking out of the box' but a bit more like 'thinking out of yer tree'.

All the same I imagine Noel had more to say about “Robbie Williams”. Soooo close there.

3. “Lil Critters” “brand manager”. One result. Me. There is a site for two term searches which lead to oneself but I've forgotten what it's called. Anyone remember for me?

Bribery.

I'm not so obsessed that I look for declining standards everywhere but I was brought up short on the weekend by a trip to the hairdressers with the young people. Apparently it is now common practice to bribe today's chldn with lollipops to produce good behaviour during haircuts.

Why? I'm afraid I just don't rate a haircut as among life's truly unpleasant experiences. On the contrary, I myself have always rather enjoyed having someone's undivided attention. In fact since I've been a father that kind of thing has become so unfamiliar to me that a trip to the salon is a positively intoxicating experience. Anyway this is not about me, it's about getting sweets for sitting still without the aid of a video while not screaming as if someone was cutting your ears off.

I'm all in favour of well structured reward schemes but I think this is upping the ante a little too far. What next in the misguided incentive stakes? Treats to persuade our chldn to go out and play? (“Yes!!” they chorused.) Or are the hairdressers in league with the dentists in a clandestine work creation scheme here? Will our next trip to the dentist produce a bottle of cheap and nasty end-splitting shampoo?

Strange voice.

What about Excess Baggage then on Sat morning? Not my usual listening pattern as I find other people's holidays about as interesting as other people's dreams or operations, but I caught the end of it by mistake and found something unusually gripping.

Did you hear that strange voice? Not the unearthly squeaky girlish one with the jerky speech rhythms and the divebomber changes of register - that was Sandy Toksvig. No, the unexplained one that got onto the recording of last week's programme from the haunted castle in Ireland.

It seemed to say quite clearly: “I died”. Or at least “Oi doied”. What do we think about that, then? A world exclusive for the BBC?

It’s A Funny Old World.

The searches for “meaning + kelis + milkshake“ simply will not go away, so for all you seekers after truth here is a short guide to Art, Life and how to live with complexity.

Listen. It doesn't have to mean just ONE thing. Why should it? It can mean LOTS of things and it's skilfully constructed with that in mind. Eminem wasn't actually cleaning out his closet. Did any of you think that was likely? After all, he has people to do that sort of thing for him these days.

The 'Milkshake' in question is a METAPHOR. This is a bit of a rarity in mainstream pop at the moment I know, but bear with me here. A metaphor is a poetic device by which an object. activity or person is described as if it were something else. Thus to say “The Duchess was a boat” is both crude and inaccurate, but to say “The Duchess sailed into the room” is literary paydirt, and to describe a prostitute's face as if it were a painting will win you a Best Written Weblog prize from the Guardian.

The clever part about art or poetry, including lyrics, is that images in pictures or words can mean MORE than one thing at the same time. Joni Mitchell didn't actually live IN a box of paints. “Shake your booty” is not just encouraging babies to wiggle one foot. The bloke in 10CC's “I'm Not In Love” actually probably was, which is what makes it able to stand repeated listenings - for the first fifteen years anyway.

So. There is no 'one' meaning to Kelis's Milkshake. (No, it's not about heroin. I don't know where that one came from.) All the explanations worth anything are sexual, if that's any relief to you. But don't despair, that's actually good news. Why? Go to the Urban Dictionary for instance and read the many, many interpretations therewithin. Feel the wonder and learn to enjoy this multi-layered world. It's not simple, but Art lives.

Revelations.

I think I've got myself into trouble.

We had a Parent Teacher meeting last night about Zoe. We were told she is doing well, as we suspected, and that she has no serious weaknesses requiring attention. That left us with 5 of our allotted 7 minutes to fill.

Following on from some discussion of the Form play I made a suggestion prompted by last week's School Newsletter which had asked for ideas to pep up the end of term Concert. I proposed a Jerry Springer-style Revelations session. I was joking but the look on Mrs Farris's face told me that she had rather taken to the concept. She asked me if I would help coordinate it.

I had to say 'Yes' really, didn't I?

Props.

Well done to Jamelia for her current single 'Thank You', in at No 2 this week. I was struck by its originality the first time I heard it about a month ago. My immediate reaction was that it was a better version of Christina Aguilera's 'Fighter' but it turns out it is based on her real experience of an abusive relationship.

I was never really comfortable with 'Thank you for making me nasty too' which seemed to be the Aguilera message. Jamelia's 'I won't let this happen to me again' seems to be rather more constructive. And the music is miles better as well, IMHO.

I've laid off the side effects of an oversexualised media and the bad behaviour of oversexed Men on this site for a few weeks but the statistics that tell us just how many women are terrified and murdered by their partners in the UK (and the USA) make me think I should say some more.

Bathtime Listening.

The Pudding Question lies dormant for now and I'm not going to bring it up until I have an unassailable line of reasoning on it. Meanwhile the focus has shifted to the bathroom.

One of my Xmas presents was a waterproof radio that you can listen to in the shower. It's sturdy and quite loud, though for my happiness to be complete I need to get something for my birthday that stops water going into my ears while shampooing, or perhaps a shower silencer if such exists.

Casting a keen eye round the bathroom Zoe had a brainwave last week and asked whether she and Jake could listen to the radio in the bath. Somehow the concept seemed wrong but I couldn't think of a good reason why not. (Note to Self: must sharpen up.) So I made a deal, namely that I got to choose the station if I was on bath duty. I chose Classic FM. Not my natural home but more suitable than what the pop stations usually play after 6 pm.

The unfamiliar sound of violins, oboes etc did have a galvanising effect on the quality of bathtime chatter, though unfortunately only in the short term. If my Italian were better (i.e. existed) I would have been able to explain the lyrics to Jake as he requested but once I told him they would probably be about 'Love' he lost interest. Just as well really, as I tend to confuse the plots of Aida and Tosca and my knowledge of Il Trovatore comes principally from the Marx Brothers' 'A Night at the Opera'.

Zoe, on the other hand, has become particularly interested in singing since being awarded a solo in the Form play. She has become fascinated by the women's voices and last night she wanted to know how they got wobbly like that. I told her that years of practice were necessary, which had to do as an explanation because I don't much like operatic singing and I haven't a clue how anyone trains to be able to achieve it, apart from eating a lot. I hinted that the diaphragm was involved but before I could explain the anatomy concerned she was up and out and dry.

Later I heard a convincing wobbly bellow from her room and found her happily shrieking away while vigorously shaking her stomach.

Pudding.

Jake asked me this morning why puddings come at the end of meals and not the beginning. I was just thinking this through, trying to remember whether I had ever asked this question as a child and what the answer had been if I did, when Zoe asked why we didn't have a pudding after breakfast.

“Or before,” added Jake.

I'm not from the school of blind obedience to tradition and I did think the question more than mildly interesting. However no quick answer came to me nor did any obvious way to broaden the discussion out into more profitable areas.

I know that the sweet, fatty foods which traditionally make up desserts were composed of high value ingredients in Tudor times and the practical origins of the Pudding Finale may lie in a strategy to fill up one's guests with cheaper dishes so that desserts could be smaller and a pleasant afterthought rather than the main attraction.

This clearly does not apply in the modern world where meat and fresh vegetables are much more expensive than the sugary milky products which now constitute our nation's idea of pudding. Argument from Tradition would also have preserved the Cod-piece, the Thumbscrew and Bear-baiting, so I'll have to come up with something better by this evening.

Ho Hum.

We were in negotiation with the school all last week about Zoe's play in an attempt to get her a larger part than the meagre role allotted her. We seem to have a settlement. Mrs Farris the Form Teacher was not prepared to recast or rewrite the play and Zoe decided not to back out once she realised that to do so might be to prejudice her chances in the Year Merit Prize, where she currently lies second.

Face has been saved now that Zoe has been given one verse of a song to sing as a solo. Everyone seems happy with this arrangement except that on reflection Z is now feeling nervous about unsupported performing. I feel another talk about the burdens of fame coming on.

Jake woke up this morning complaining of sore throat, headache and sickness. Mel attended him solicitously and went through a detailed description of his symptoms with him. When asked for my opinion I asked M to leave the room. I then asked J what happened in yesterday's Robot Wars. After five minutes lively description of ground clearence, fire pits and carbon dioxide-powered flippers there was a guilty pause as realisation dawned.

“How's the headache?” I asked, somewhat unnecessarily. “Does the sore throat seem to be easing off at all?” I added as my second rhetorical diagnosis. A doctor I may not be, but as Monday morning paramedic I can pass muster.