Football fanatics

Our son has recently taken up football. Every Saturday at 6am, he arrives in our bedroom fully dressed in his football kit asking if it is time to leave. We then have to fill the next four hours with football build-up, encouraging him to eat as much cereal as possible and if necessary run a few laps round the garden to limber up.

He has joined Tiny Cherries, a locally-run football club in Sturminster Newton, and spends most of his week talking of nothing else. My husband is thrilled at his eldest son’s enthusiasm for any sport, so much so that after the first session, he convinced me that he needed the full football kit – including the over-priced nylon England kit, football boots and shin pads. Now, I should point out that our son is not fourteen, he is in fact four-years-old.

Not only are the children keen, so too are the fathers that show up at the football pitch every Saturday. They do not just stand on the sideline, shouting out the odd word of encouragement, but can barely contain themselves when they are asked by coach, Darren, to help out. My husband excitedly breaks into a casual jog across the pitch to get in position. In fact, it is only a question of time before he too decides he needs the full football kit to really feel the part. On Monday, in the school playground the boys gather together, the bond between them even stronger after another testosterone-fuelled football session. One of the fathers approaches me and starts chatting about how their football skills are coming on. He comments on our son’s shiny, new kit, saying, “Nice kit.” He then adds, “Of course, my son has red socks rather than white. Much more likely to get spotted by the coach, you see.” Naturally, I laugh this off, but when later I mention it to my husband he gasps, puts his head in his hands and says, “Of course. I should have known that.”

As the week’s go by, my son and husband’s competitive instinct increases. On one occasion, my husband was a little embarassed when our son had a massive temper tantrum and marched off the pitch because he was second rather than first in line for the penalty shoot outs. My husband spent the next 20 minutes giving him sports counselling behind a tree, away from his other team mates and, more importantly, the other fathers.

Now, our son has decided he also wants to turn his hand to rugby as long as he can partake in full on tackles, something he regularly rehearses on his sister, The Baby and the border terrorist. My husband tells him, “Football will give you the valuable ball handling techniques for rugby.” With that, the four-year-old skips off saying, “I’m just off to play dinner ladies with my sister.”

On-line shopping

When Waitrose announced their on-line shopping service would now reach our village, I was as elated as my mother was when disposable nappies replaced Terries. I would no longer have to endure the performance of getting The Baby’s rigid legs into the trolley, bribe him through my list, realise it is lunchtime so go to the cafe and sit there for half an hour draining a strong double expresso while he munches through a sugary doughnut.

I was quick to fling a DVD on for the children, close the door and log-on in the comfort of my warm kitchen with just me, the laptop and a sleeping border terrorist. Once I had booked my delivery slot, I began scrolling through the on-line aisles. Admittedly it did take time as I dashed round the house checking how much bleach I had left or whether the children needed more toothpaste. I also missed the gorgeous smell of the Bakery as I scrolled through the bread section mulling over the huge array of sliced, crustless, rolls, baps, wholemeal, organic, seeds, malted and the rest. It was no light task, but I checked out delighted to have spent less than usual.

When my delivery day arrived, I was so excited that I rather peculiarly decided to clean my fridge out in preparation. I rummaged around the fridge, clearing out the old garlic bulbs and onions and the out of date chutneys. I then eagerly scrubbed the shelves, as if the Waitrose delivery team was going to vet my fridge before they agreed to leave my precious food. The van pulled up outside and trying to contain my excitement I yelled to my son, “They’re here,” as I skipped out of the gate to greet them. I was met by a very smart man in a suit. “I’m the Manager,” he said cheerfully. He then explained that they were overwhelmed by the response to the service so he was helping out. I was impressed. As he carried my bags into the kitchen, I excitedly leaped around, forgetting I had my slippers on, flinging open the fridge to show him my sparkling shelves. He began to look a little nervous and left quickly. I began unloading my neatly, orderly packed bags. Despite ordering four packets rather than four chicken legs and enjoying some delicious organic butter which I did not order, it was a great success. I celebrated with a glass of Chablis and a Jaffa Cake.

Pass the marmalade, please

Like many people of my generation, I was distinctly rattled to hear that Paddington Bear is now being used to promote Marmite.

The makers of Marmite have launched a new advertisement featuring Paddington sitting down to enjoy a Marmite sandwich. Paddington, being so polite, then shares a piece of his sandwich with a pigeon, who goes beserk at the taste causing a passing bus to crash. The advertisement plays on the “You either love it or hate it” theme. The advertisers are attempting to encourage people like Paddington who are “creatures of habit” to try Marmite.

My children are greatly influenced by television advertisements and if I am not careful they will soon solely associate Paddington Bear with Marmite. I have a problem with this. I want them to think Marmalade when they hear his name and imagine him delving into his suitcase for his sandwich. Paddington loves the chunks in Marmalade, its sweetness and its stickiness on his paws and when he finishes says, “Yes, that’s much better.” Marmite is smooth and above all, salty!

Sadly, Paddington is not alone in being tampered with. Enid Blyton’s adventures are now less dangerous, no doubt for health and safety reasons, The Faraway Tree characters, Dick and Fanny, are now called Rick and Franny and Andy Pandy’s friend, Looby Loo, no longer skips off to do the washing for fear of offending feminists. Perhaps I need to move with the times, but I think one of the lovely things about these traditional books are their old fashioned, innocent, charming styles.

When copies of the most controversial children’s book, Little Black Sambo were re-printed, I ran out to buy one. This is now my childrens’ favourite book. They love the fact that Little Black Sambo outwits a group of tigers by giving them his fine clothes including his purple shoes with crimson soles and crimson linings. They are fascinated by the tigers who chase each other around the tree so fast they turn into “ghi” an Indian term for melted butter. Little Black Sambo’s mother, Black Mumbo, later uses this to cook delicious pancakes. In fact, I often recount this to my children to stop them excitedly chasing each other around the house at bathtime.

Many of these books are part of our heritage. Paddington Bear is far too well-mannered to decline the Marmite, but I, on the other hand will now only buy chunky, sweet, sticky Marmalade.