Cukoo in the Nest

How do we encourage our children to do their share of the domestic chores? This was a question posed on Radio 4's Women's Hour recently that really made me prick up my ears. As a mother of a 16 year old son, I too have experienced problems over this and could relate to the many anecdotes that were being aired.

Aside from my son being adamantly adverse to wanting to clean and tidy his bedroom, which I can fully understand and appreciate, there has also been his chronic tendency to simply avoid putting items used into the dishwasher, laundry bin and ditto the waste bin, and this I fail to understand. After all it's not as if he will be dealing with the follow up for any of it, as he doesn't actually empty the dishwasher, do the laundry or for that matter see to the full bins. It would seem that my son would much prefer to let the dirty items pile into heaps around his bedroom. And yet ... and yet he's an artist! So how can he stand to see such clutter and turmoil, the mould growing in cups, the stink of dirty socks and underpants collecting in little pockets around his bedroom? No, I absolutely do not understand the mind set of any of this and so I will move on and consider the advice given on Women's Hour.

The experts advised that children should not be bribed but rather they should be allowed to make their own decision and arrive at their choice.
"NEVER!" I bellow in rage with the radio. If my son had been allowed to choose over the years he would by now be a filthy, louse ridden, illiterate raggamuffin with rotten teeth to boot.

And what's the big deal anyway? When I was young there was no debate. As kids we did what we were told, helped with the washing up, polished our shoes for school the next day, made our beds - or else! But as youngsters we never questioned the 'or else' bit, we just did as we were told. Maybe the difference is that today, our kids have discovered that after taking no notice there is nothing else, that it was, in most cases, for the majority of reasonable families, just a hollow threat.

And so I have to admit that my son does have a choice, but, so do I. If he chooses not to clean and tidy his room, I will choose not to fund his rock gig, or his day out to see a film with his mates or the new shoes that he would like, but doesn't I hasten to add actually need.

And amazingly, or not, he chose to help me with the gardening this week end. Well done son, I muttered to myself, good choice.

Sisters Unite!

I do a daily commute into Birmingham city centre by bus and quite often it is an unpleasant experience for many reasons. Given the choice, I am inclined to believe that I would prefer to drive in or, as a second, go by train. My colleagues who travel by rail seem to have a better time of it, or maybe I am under an illusion in this.

Sometimes however, something wonderful can emerge out of the dross.

A few days ago, I was on the top deck trying to read, when the usual happened: loud music, not to my taste, including profane lyrics, and almost definately very very poor sound quality and cigarette smoke wafting its ugly way along to where I am sitting - towards the front for safety reasons.

I can tell from the voices that there are several male youths sitting at the back having a good old yarn; nothing like a bit of cussing and ranting to promote a feeling of 'bon homie' between friends. The smoke and sounds are almost without a doubt coming from these enchanting young men, I think, but it is was getting on my nerves and I wanted them to stop. So I took a deep breath, put on a charming smile and spoke in a polite voice. Could you stop smoking - please, and turn your 'music' down. Thank you. But of course they didn't.

I turned to address them once again but the young and beautiful black woman sitting directly behind me, hair extensions and high fashion queen, cut in.

"Hey maun, tun dat naasty rackit dauwn n stop dat stinky smokin n show a bit more respec, n Wilson, does yo Mum know you doin dat, cos yous still a baby?"

Then she turned back and we smiled at one another - and then they stopped!

One Man's Colour ...

I love colour and believe that it is one of life's great glories, but until I met my husband - of some years now, I never really gave it a lot of thought. With Sime however, some of our biggest arguments have been over what colour a thing actually is. His notion of a colour and mine do not always match and I am still not sure whether what he sees is different to me or whether it is to do with semantics, or, as I have lately began to wonder if it related to personal association.

Over our years together Sime has introduced me to various colour concepts, some examples amongst others are, that yellow can have pink tones, pink can be brown, lilac grey, there are many shades of black and that what I always took to be a pair of tan coloured trousers of his were in fact green!

Clothing is one thing but when it comes to decorating, well I will leave you to imagine the difficulties that we must sometimes have. Over the years however, my husband has realised that whilst he may have the more sensitive eye, (yes, he is very much a man's man and this has taken me quite a while to concede to) he will actually defer to my judgement as he is also very sensible.

We have over time discovered a few tricks to fix a colour as so often our perception does not match the Dulux swatches, because the experts, as far as we are concerned, get it wrong. So often when we have compared the paint on our wall to the swatch from the shop they simply do not match. And so we resort to 'knocking it back' or 'dirtying it down'; sounds like some command that a porn movie director might make, but these are decorating techniques that have helped us to make the colour more like what we thought it should be.

The other notion that I've had regarding the seeing of colour, is that perhaps there is a genetic trait that makes the perception of its tone and shade something that family members may share that might be slightly different to another family. But this idea was firmly squashed when I was discussing what I was going to wear for a rather grand occasion outfit with my Mum very recently. I showed her my lovely gold taffeta skirt and she said that she didn't think that I generally liked to wear green!

Missing The Pier - Soooo Much

Is there anybody out there who is really missing The Pier like me, or am I seriously devoid of a life?

Around this time last year, I remember my local store in Birmingham city centre looking like a car boot sale. Usually the shop was exquisitely displayed with its enticing and exotic paraphanalia from around the world. I remember how sad and ravaged it looked when the company went into administration and everything was being sold off to close up shop. I sat in the middle of the store and boo hood like a baby.

I have never, since its closure, had a retail experience like the one I got from The Pier and I have been mourning its loss eversince. I would go into the city with my mates specifically to pay it a visit and we would be as excited by the prospect as if we were going to some exclusive venue. Once inside we would browse for hours looking at all the beautiful and unusual things on display. There was nothing to buy that anyone would ever 'need' only stuff that you would ever want. Stuff that you would treasure for ever. Unusual, quirky, foreign and utterly delightful for home and lifestyle.

Now with the lead up to Christmas I am missing it even more and feel bereft. There has really been nothing that has matched it since and I hope that one day The Pier will make a come back as it gave me and I suspect many others a great deal of pleasure.