“What is a free range chicken?” my six-year-old daughter asked me over breakfast. I was not about to enter into a discussion on the intricacies of chicken rearing. I gave a brief explanation of the chicken’s ability to run merrily around on the grass rather than being shut inside. She quickly related it to dogs or more specifically, our border terrorist, Molly. She likened it to keeping her inside for days on end and never giving her a walk – a rather good simple analogy I thought, once you added in a few extra tins of Pedigree Chum.
The whole chicken chat arose because I had been talking to friends about Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall’s current “Chicken Out” campaign to encourage people to buy free range chickens. Hugh is trying to open our eyes to intensive farming which is the way 95% of the chickens we eat in the UK are reared. He is emotional in his demonstration of the intense pressure farmers are put under to produce poultry as quickly and as cheaply as possible. Hugh packed 2,500 chickens into a rearing facility for 39 days, with no natural light, with only 1 in 24 hours of total darkness. This encouraged the chickens to feed as much as possible and put on unnatural weight so they were ready for the supermarket shelves as quickly as possible.
His campaign is thought provoking but, for many, it largely comes down to money. Many people say they cannot afford to pay double for a free range chicken. This is a very personal decision and who are we to judge whether people decide to spend their money on a free range chicken for their kids’ lunch, the latest trainers or a Nintendo DX?
I was quick to reassure my daughter and rather righteously claim to have always bought free range chickens. However, moments later I began to reflect on my confident claim. Was I really the free range mother I claimed to be? Afterall, it was most unlikely that all the chicken my children had consumed in restaurants, pubs or even at friends’ houses were free range. I simply cannot deny that I have turned towards the occasional fast food item, when I realise there is nothing scheduled for supper. Like many, my children are quite partial to the odd chicken nugget and have declared the crème de la crème of nuggets are those nestled together in a MacDonalds bag. That definitely puts me in the part-time free range camp. I wholeheartedly support Hugh’s campaign and am happy to pay the difference for our free range feathery friends, particularly in supermarkets. However, I am guilty of the occasional rushed relapse. Sadly, I do not think Hugh’s campaign will ever reach the fast-food industry, which I am afraid is here to stay. Ronald has kindly introduced salads to his golden arches but I think the free range or even organic McNugget might be a little way off but we can only hope.
Friday, 25 January 2008
Friday, 18 January 2008
Man Flu
Thankfully, we have been spared the deadly norovirus that is circulating the British Isles. However, we were inflicted by a rare strain of the most powerful and deadly flu – commonly known as “Man Flu”.
My husband has spent ten days roaming around the house in his dressing gown, wearing a woolly hat which he says is essential to keep his head and ears warm. The heating has been pumping around the clock just to ensure the germs are kept cosy in our close knit cottage. The open fire has been banned for a week as the smoke, “irritates his sinuses.”
He has embarked on a lengthy ritual of remedies and scattered tissues around the house that are unable to make it to the bin. At night, I have endured the strong aroma of TCP with which he has gargled together with the Vick that he has smothered across his chest. He tosses and turns, groans, huffs and puffs at the sheer agony he is experiencing.
The only thing that seemed to relieve the pain temporarily was a film, preferably a thriller but no sooner were the credits rolling, the virus struck again it its most virulent form yet. He has conducted a full investigation of where he contracted the deadly virus sniffing out any guilty party who happened to sneeze near him in recent weeks.
Admittedly, at times he did look a bit pale and peaky but unfortunately there is something about Man Flu that promptly turns me into a ‘no nonsense’, unsympathetic wife. Perhaps unfairly, I was tiring of the patient in the woolley hat. I wanted to be spared the regular updates of the symptoms throughout the day. “Go for a brisk walk across the fields and blow the germs away, I suggested.”
He is quick to point out that I have never suffered from this strain of virus before. He is indeed right as according to the Urban Dictionary, Man Flu is, “an incurable virus which has been adapted to only effect the XY gene found in men. The virus attacks the immune system 10,000 times harder than the average flu virus, causing excruciating pain for the victim. The often deadly virus is mostly laughed at by women who sadly cannot contract Man Flu.”
My husband has spent ten days roaming around the house in his dressing gown, wearing a woolly hat which he says is essential to keep his head and ears warm. The heating has been pumping around the clock just to ensure the germs are kept cosy in our close knit cottage. The open fire has been banned for a week as the smoke, “irritates his sinuses.”
He has embarked on a lengthy ritual of remedies and scattered tissues around the house that are unable to make it to the bin. At night, I have endured the strong aroma of TCP with which he has gargled together with the Vick that he has smothered across his chest. He tosses and turns, groans, huffs and puffs at the sheer agony he is experiencing.
The only thing that seemed to relieve the pain temporarily was a film, preferably a thriller but no sooner were the credits rolling, the virus struck again it its most virulent form yet. He has conducted a full investigation of where he contracted the deadly virus sniffing out any guilty party who happened to sneeze near him in recent weeks.
Admittedly, at times he did look a bit pale and peaky but unfortunately there is something about Man Flu that promptly turns me into a ‘no nonsense’, unsympathetic wife. Perhaps unfairly, I was tiring of the patient in the woolley hat. I wanted to be spared the regular updates of the symptoms throughout the day. “Go for a brisk walk across the fields and blow the germs away, I suggested.”
He is quick to point out that I have never suffered from this strain of virus before. He is indeed right as according to the Urban Dictionary, Man Flu is, “an incurable virus which has been adapted to only effect the XY gene found in men. The virus attacks the immune system 10,000 times harder than the average flu virus, causing excruciating pain for the victim. The often deadly virus is mostly laughed at by women who sadly cannot contract Man Flu.”
Friday, 11 January 2008
The Baby
In a few week’s time it will be The Baby’s second birthday. I therefore feel it is now time to promote him to the role of The Toddler in forthcoming Family Ties articles. Like most youngest children in a busy family, the last two years have flown by and it is only now that it has become obvious to us all that he is in fact no longer a baby and scarily his first morning at pre-school is looming. When I think back over the past couple of years I am suddenly struck with a sudden feeling of guilt.
The two older children were born in London so they travelled on buses, tubes and taxis regularly. Since we have been living in Dorset, we still try and take the odd trip to London on the train and enjoy day trips out to the theatre, ice creams in Harrods ice cream parlour and walks down to Buckingham Palace. I am ashamed to admit, The Toddler has never been on a train, bus or taxi to London or anywhere else. In fact, as my five-year-old daughter pointed out, he has not even had a Babycino in Starbucks. Last year, he did not make our holiday in Cambodia and instead spent two weeks with Granny and Grandpa In fact, that is where he has spent much of his first two years. And more often than not, he is accompanied by his best friend, Molly, our border terrorist. In fact, over the past two years, he has barely left the village other than on the weekly shop to the local supermarket.
At home, he is a very relaxed little boy. Thank goodness, I hear you say. He is perfectly happy to play with all the old toys that his siblings were given. He is satisfied being dressed in perfectly good clothes passed down from his brother, with only the odd button missing. He is content with his Mummy reading him a rather sticky old book at bedtime, albeit at record speed as her mind turns to homework, laying out school uniform and reading to the other two.
With his birthday looming, which unfortunately he shares with his sister, my mother casts my mind back to my daughter’s second birthday. We hired a room in a children’s restaurant in London where she enjoyed an afternoon of soft play alongside fifteen of her two-year-old friends. The photographs show her sitting at the end of a large table, wearing the most beautiful dress, with the most phenomenal tea displayed before her. For ‘The Toddler’, I was thinking more along the lines of his three little friends, or rather my three friends’ children, coming over for a round of lunchtime sandwiches in the kitchen. But as the guilt sets in, I will buy him a new shirt to wear, rummage around for some balloons and perhaps take him on his first bus ride to Sturminster Newton.
The two older children were born in London so they travelled on buses, tubes and taxis regularly. Since we have been living in Dorset, we still try and take the odd trip to London on the train and enjoy day trips out to the theatre, ice creams in Harrods ice cream parlour and walks down to Buckingham Palace. I am ashamed to admit, The Toddler has never been on a train, bus or taxi to London or anywhere else. In fact, as my five-year-old daughter pointed out, he has not even had a Babycino in Starbucks. Last year, he did not make our holiday in Cambodia and instead spent two weeks with Granny and Grandpa In fact, that is where he has spent much of his first two years. And more often than not, he is accompanied by his best friend, Molly, our border terrorist. In fact, over the past two years, he has barely left the village other than on the weekly shop to the local supermarket.
At home, he is a very relaxed little boy. Thank goodness, I hear you say. He is perfectly happy to play with all the old toys that his siblings were given. He is satisfied being dressed in perfectly good clothes passed down from his brother, with only the odd button missing. He is content with his Mummy reading him a rather sticky old book at bedtime, albeit at record speed as her mind turns to homework, laying out school uniform and reading to the other two.
With his birthday looming, which unfortunately he shares with his sister, my mother casts my mind back to my daughter’s second birthday. We hired a room in a children’s restaurant in London where she enjoyed an afternoon of soft play alongside fifteen of her two-year-old friends. The photographs show her sitting at the end of a large table, wearing the most beautiful dress, with the most phenomenal tea displayed before her. For ‘The Toddler’, I was thinking more along the lines of his three little friends, or rather my three friends’ children, coming over for a round of lunchtime sandwiches in the kitchen. But as the guilt sets in, I will buy him a new shirt to wear, rummage around for some balloons and perhaps take him on his first bus ride to Sturminster Newton.
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