The humiliation of the school PE lesson

There's an interesting article on the BBC website today by Dr Andrew Franklin-Miller about the 'Missed Olympic opportunity' to get children exercising.

Dr Franklin-Miller, an expert in sport and exercise medicine says: "Teachers and parents need support with training and a curriculum that builds on the lessons learnt in athlete development, and sport talent identification, not to build potential superstars but to change a lifestyle."

Children are fat and don't exercise enough, we are constantly told, and the finger of blame is variously pointed at parents, schools, junk food manufacturers, the government and computer games.

I'm not sure who is to blame (probably all of the above and more) but I agree with Dr Franklin-Miller that PE is not properly taught at schools. The focus seems to be on achievement of certain skills, not how to be fit. Where are the lessons, at the beginning of term, that suss out who is fit enough to run a cross country race and who needs a bit of training first? Just telling a class of kids to run a mile long cross country course serves only to establish who is already fit and put right off those who are not. Everyone is different - some can sprint, others better at endurance. (Just because a girl is tall doesn't mean she can throw a shot putt or discus Mrs Richards, she might prefer - and be better at - running.)

I would hope PE has changed since I was at school. I remember being terrified of my first cross country run. There had been talk about people fainting and coughing up blood (you know how dramatic kids can be!) There was no training in how to do it nor any preparation like running shorter bits first. There seemed to be the basic assumption that children were fit and able to do it and had been born with the knowledge of how to do it. No wonder so many people grow up hating running, particularly of the cross country variety. (Although I loved cross country running there was no way I would have admitted it at school. I wasn't considered a 'runner' then and I wouldn't have put myself forward for the school team. I just have the satisfaction of knowing that the last time I ran cross country at school I came back first.)

Perhaps schools should take a look at the resurgence of running among women in their 40s and older. This has been encouraged by the Race for Life series, non-competitive 5k runs raising money for Cancer Research. I and so many other women like me started off that way. We read Running made easy by Susie Whalley and Lisa Jackson and followed their six week plan to go from walking to running for 20 minutes. (This is probably the most inspirational book I had read - the fact I have now run three half marathons is testament to its efficacy!) It breaks training down into achievable bite-sized chunks, makes it fun and tops it with a liberal sprinkling of motivation and inspiration. At the end (presuming you do the 5k Race for Life) you get a goodie bag and a medal. It's fun, it's addictive and its contagious.

Back to school days though and the weekly popularity contest of netball or hockey team selection (chosen in order from prettiest to fattest and lamest) and the humiliation of the changing rooms and showers. Why was it vital for a fully clothed female teacher to stand in front of the showers and take a register of who was showering and who was not? If you couldn't shower you had to shout across the changing rooms that you had your period. That was in addition to the naked scrutiny of your peers. Who wants to be unclothed in front of bitches and bullies? You had to have a thick skin and a lot of body confidence to survive that unscathed.

I look at my own children and wonder if they are to be put off sport at school as I was. Not yet, but then they are at primary school in Wales where sport is the second religion. I suspect the rot might set in at of secondary school so I plan to teach them what I have learned about being fit first. They are both rather envious of my running medals and have ambitions to get their own. That, funnily enough, has been the plan all along.

Spoilt for choice

There were Christmas craft fairs everywhere today. We went to the one at Colby Woodland Gardens which gave us free entry and Claire of Cake Carousel was there with her delicious cupcakes which H9 and R7 are quite fond of sampling.

But we could have gone to two in Narberth - one foodie one vintage - or one at the Steiner School or another at the hall in Clynderwen.

Colby though is one we've been to before and after you've perused the stalls you can wander the pretty walled garden.

The fuchsias are still in full bloom, despite the fact it's only five weeks to Christmas.

The rill looks pretty all year round. The octagonal house at the top hasn't been open to the public before this year and all we've done previously is peer in through the windows.

Now though, they let you inside. It's a real sun trap and has clever trompe l'oeil pictures on the wall. You can hire it now for fully catered functions. I just have to work out some sort of a function I might need fully catering. It would be lovely here.

H9 and R7 had raspberry and white chocolate cupcakes and then bought bug catching pots from the National Trust shop. I bought beads and other sparkly bits and bobs for Christmas decorations from Carole at Begelly Beads. All the while the sun shone and it felt more like March than November.

Half term sucked

I was looking forward to half term. A rest from making packed lunches at 6.30am, a rest from "where on earth are all the school socks?" and a rest from the school run, fraught with "have you got your lunch/clarinet/sports kit/my marbles?" angst. Instead we would do fun things and go on nice autumnal trips wouldn't we?

No.

On day one H9 was sick. On day three R7 was scratching her scalp. On investigation I found some rather grown up head lice and many, many babies. Bugger. Oops.We haven't had head lice for ages (years) but I constantly check because there's the threat you will be asked to remove your child from school should they be found to be infested. The week I ran the Cardiff half marathon I forgot to check. Bugger. Oops.

They're all dead now (not the children, the head lice) but I'm paranoid they'll come back. I chase, brandishing comb, while my offspring run away shrieking "no mummy I have NOT got head lice," with me in hot pursuit (and gaining because I can still outrun my children...ha ha) wailing "but that's what you said last time and you DID!"

Meanwhile it rained. Biblically. Everywhere is ankle deep in slippery mud. The small dog goes out, absorbs it all in his wiry fur and shakes it all over the kitchen floor. Then he wipes his face on the dining room carpet drawing big muddy stripes. The carpet is Scotchguarded but I'm not sure this sort of treatment is entirely good for it. Perhaps I should put down canvasses and sell the results as canine art?

This Monday it was a school inset day (and payday - yippee!) so we went to Tesco. When we arrived the CR-V was doing an excellent impression of being on fire. I sniffed at the smoke - it was steam. A broken radiator. I left it simmering while we shopped and it calmed down enough to be topped up with coolant and driven home. Another bloody big bill. Sigh.

What can a woman do in the face of such (relatively minor really) adversity? Bake, that's what.

What we have here is brioche (bread bakeathon #15), Halloween cupcakes, bagels (bread bakeathon #16), naan bread (so easy to make and heaps cheaper than bought) and green tomato chutney.

The best laid plans...

Today we were supposed to go to Folly Farm. We've been planning this for a while, a family visit, with Daddy on his day off from work so we could all go on the Dodgems at the same time and on the flying swings and the carousel and see all the animals (especially the adorable armadillos).

I made sandwiches, packed a flask of coffee and some cartons of juice. Then we drove the few miles and encountered The Queue from Hell at Folly Farm. Ah. I think it was Peppa Pig Day or something. We could see a tsunami of mummies and buggies, angry dads queuing in hot cars with fractious kids in the back seat. The queue to pay to get in was a quarter of a mile long and who knows what it was like inside. We drove past, noting the tailback of traffic to the Begelly roundabout, accompanied by a disappointed silence.

We headed for Carew instead but on the way my homing instinct for Lawrenny kicked in and we found ourselves on the quay again - the second time in two weeks. Brian hadn't done The Walk yet so it seemed a good time to show him the route. We grabbed our sandwiches and dashed out of the car to sit scoffing them overlooking the boats moored at the marina. I pointed out all the boats that looked like Sea Dance and where she used to be moored and Brian, H9 and R7 humoured me (they've heard it all before, but I do like to reminisce).

We headed into the cool woods and on, down into Lawrenny.

The wall by the church is covered with blackberries. R7 and I tested them. The first we've had this year. Then we continued on the walk in unseemly haste...

...and found ourselves in the tearoom.

It was packed (but everyone was outside. We'd already been bothered by a wasp so we stayed indoors in the cool, almost on our own. It wasn't this empty for long.)

G9, R7 and I felt it our duty to tackle the strawberry and raspberry cheesecake. Doesn't it look pretty on its Cath Kidston plate?

Brian sampled the delights of the Lemon Thing (its official title) which is served on a white plate to avoid risk of a colour clash.

By this time it was a quite lovely afternoon. The tide was way out and we crunched about at the edge of the water on piles of mussel shells. We found teeny tiny crabs burying themselves in the soft mud and popped the bladder wrack with our feet. Three oystercatchers flew past followed by a cormorant and the usual gulls. We ambled round the edge of the estuary back up toward Garron Pill and found a quiet place to sit to watch mullet flipping their fins in the shallows. Little boats buzzed to and fro and a Chinook rumbled overhead.

This little shore bird was poking about in the shallows. I think he was quite annoyed at us disturbing his dabbling.

It really was a beautiful day and, according to R7, almost as good as going to Folly Farm.

Vive la difference!

There's a great article on the BBC website today about the Americanisms we love to hate. Now I don't mind Americanisms from Americans but I do object to them in good old Blighty.

It just isn't British to say '24/7' (although I mind that particular one the least), but 'gotten' gets my goat as does 'wait up' used by my children to mean 'wait for me'. Even worse I've heard 'wait up already' which makes me shudder. Don't get me started on 'normalcy' - I don't even know what it means - or 'orient' instead of orientate. It's worthy of note that the auto-spell check thingy on here (which doesn't like thingy by the way) is perfectly happy with all those Americanisms (which proves it isn't clever enough to know I'm an English woman writing in Wales).

Does it matter? Perhaps. In France there was a drive to rid the language of Englishisms like 'le weekend' but that appears to have failed with the advent of social networking and its necessity for brevity. Apparently the French now use 'now' in texts and tweets instead of 'maintenant' because it's shorter. Presumably it was adopted the same way we took on 'hi' instead of 'good morning' or 'hello'.

Welsh isn't immune either using 'computer' instead of 'cyfridiadur' for example. Native Welsh speakers generally use a brilliant and wonderful version of 'Wenglish' and I'm not sure they know they're doing it. I was in Boots in Carmarthen once and the woman in front of me asked if a particular mascara was waterproof. The sales assistant replied in Welsh except for the phrase 'you could swim the English channel in it' which was in English. Now that's a clever bit of linguistic gymnastics and it's what makes Welsh so hard to learn. Perhaps it's a lesson for those of us who have attempted to learn Welsh - if you don't know the Welsh, say it in English.

Mind you there are other things creeping into daily usage which are probably entirely English. 'Should of' is one, instead of 'should have'. It's complete nonsense! As is 'off of' as in 'can't take my eyes off of you'. No! Another is the use of 'that'. As a sub editor I was constantly removing the 'thats' from reporters' copy (and I'm well aware subs editing my copy used to remove a few too, but perhaps not the nine I once removed from a single paragraph written by one reporter.)

I read something recently which said millions of pounds of business is lost each year by websites with bad grammar and miss-spellings. Apparently things like 'your welcome' instead of 'you're welcome' make consumers mistrust the validity of the website (even sub-consciously).

Language is lovely. It is what helps us to be properly understood and I shall continue to pedantically (but gently) nag my children about their usage of it. I shall also 'stomp' (great word - I think I'll keep that one) all over any creeping Americanisms.

All nice things...

I had a bit of a strop on Saturday. It concerned the fact that I was trying to watch the interviews on the BBC's coverage of the qualifying for the British Grand Prix. My children were, to put it mildly, MAKING A RACKET.

I remonstrated, I pleaded, I quoted Pink Floyd (the "lips move, but I can't hear what they're saying...") But to no avail. So I switched off of the TV and went to have a shower (I'd been for a run and was lunching and watching the top ten shoot-out for pole position first).

When I came out of the shower there was a folded bit of paper from R7 on the bed with a heart and the words "sorry Mum". Aw, sweet. All forgiven, of course. What I didn't know was that while I had been showering Brian had been fetched by the aforementioned offspring who had then confessed to extreme noisiness and Daddy had laid down the law a little (something about how I do a lot for them and the least they could do was not spoil my enjoyment of F1 which was my little treat, a reward for a week's hard work of mothering.)

I had a contrite verbal apology from H9 (really, I wasn't that cross, it wasn't like it was the actual race or anything) then in the kitchen I found this note from R7 (who is a sensitive soul):

I Miss you Mum

all nice things mummy has Done for me in my Life

She cooks the best food in the world for me

She helps me when i am in trouble

She Looks after me when daddy is working

She buy's amazing stuff for me

She play's with me.

She waches Harry potter with me.

Please Don't Leve me Mum

from Rosie

Gulp. Swallow. "Leve"? I was only in the shower! Slightly miffed perhaps, but the interviews were almost over and really were only a bunch of men droning on about downforce, off-throttle blowing of the diffuser and other stuff about exhaust gases in F1 which, really, they bored on about for most of Saturday and then agreed to do nothing much about.

Children are funny. Still, at least it shows what use I am to this family even if they can be a bit noisy (but perhaps I'll go and sing over Blue Peter or Shaun the Sheep as revenge...) You'll note the rather Welsh use of the apostrophe in R7's note - she hasn't started to learn English at school yet.

I won't, of course, ever leave (that's for them to do to me). Where would I go? Why would I want to? How would I afford the petrol?

Things that go boing in the night

I resisted the purchase of a trampoline for ages. It seemed to be one of those things that Everybody Has Except Us - like a Wii, Ninentodo DS, wide screen TV, iPod, smartphone, iPad or Kindle.

None of those things is essential to life but they do make aspects of life that much nicer and we've given in to one or two (or four) of them. But not the trampoline. Surely those are dangerous? Surely you or your offspring will end up in casualty with broken bits?

But then everyone has them, so one's offspring visits other people's homes and bounces on trampolines. Better, perhaps, the devil you know. So yes, we now have a trampoline, a 10 foot Jumpking, a nice sturdy thing with a surrounding net to catch falling offspring. (Surrounding nets are vital). I have laid down the Rules of the Trampoline and we all love it. It's a bit huge and ugly in the garden but childhood is short and bouncing is fun. I've discovered different and quiet lovely views of the garden from the highest bounces on the trampoline. (Looking out from it is better than looking at it though. Perhaps I can train climbers up the supports...?)

Somehow my children (and a friend) contrived to be bouncing on it at 10.30pm (clutching glowsticks). Somehow they broke the 'one at a time' rule (there were three on at once). Somehow they were on in two and a half hours after bedtime.

Things that go boing in the night.

Childhood is short and it should be fun. (But I must apologise to the neighbour in the granny annexe about all the shrieking and laughing after she went to bed...)

Juggling children, sheep and bicycles

How annoying to be left so far behind by one's little sister.

Friday's school run brought with it a bit of a juggle with children - we were like the Tesco advert where the mum and dad rush about swapping children between various activities. I collected three from school, sent H9 and her friend G9 to the play park while I took R7 (dressed as Belle from Beauty and the Beast) to a party. Then it was home with the two eldest (having eventually tempted them off the swings) where I handed them over to Brian to take them to Brownies (once we had persuaded them to come down from the trees they were climbing) while I dashed back to the village to collect R7.

On Saturday morning we rounded up the sheep, separated the lambs and treated them against flystrike before sending them (noisily) back out to the field. The yard then had to be swept ready for the sheep shearer's arrival at 1.30pm which nicely coincided with H9 going off to a party.

The ewes were then sheared (they hate the process but love the result). Mum and I collected and rolled the fleeces and squeezed them into a wool sack. R7 bounced on the wool sack which, she claims, is a Very Important Job. We then had to scrub the yard clean and wash out the stables in which the ewes had been waiting for their coiffure appointment (they had little else to occupying their little woolly brains so they did a lot of poo). We then had to get showered and cleaned up ourselves because we were covered in wool and smelled awfully much of ovine excretions. Thankfully Brian got back from work in time to collect H9 from the party. We managed to fit bicycling practice sessions in both the morning and afternoon.

Sunday was sunny again so I got up at 6.30am to do my run in the cooler part of the day. Five miles in which I encountered only one other person and a single car. Bliss.

G9 came over to play with H9 and R7 and somehow I managed to pick the raspberries, blackcurrants and red currants, make a batch of lemon curd swirl ice cream (with our own eggs in both the ice cream and mum's home made lemon curd) and cook us a roast chicken lunch (with new potatoes freshly dug from the garden). The ice cream and raspberries made a divine dessert.

Then it was off to Rosebush for the Adran sponsored cycle ride which was two miles along the track towards the forestry and back around on the old railway line. R7 (who wasn't officially there as she is not a member of Adran until September) pedalled off happily while H9 struggled with the pot-holes and got very grumpy that R7 was so much faster. There was then a barbecue which the children tucked into happily while us grown-ups (and the dog) headed off in search of something cold and refreshing in a handy local tafarn.

All off this was conducted under the bluest of blue skies with scorching sun for which the only suitable antidote on Sunday evening was lashings of homemade elderflower champagne.

School report

I've just been to the school for an informal parents evening which turned out to be a very sociable, happy occasion with a great deal of praise and good news for my offspring. It made me both proud and envious of the education my children are having.

R7's teacher is an absolute delight. Almost as tiny as her pupils, bright and smart, she has taught R7 on and off since the nursery class and the adoration between them is mutual. There are no SATs here so R7 has been assessed discretely and found to be above the standard required in everything.

Meanwhile in year four H9 is taught by the new headteacher. H had done well with her previous teachers but Mrs C seems to 'get' H9 and H9 respects that and is inspired by it. The children learn not be subject but by child-led exploration (with guidance) so they don't know they are doing geography or science or whatever, it's all mingled into an education that is exciting and engaging. H9 again is above the expected standard in all subjects, even in maths which she tries to pretend she's not good at (but is).

It's all a far cry from my own schooling which was the primary school to age nine, middle school aged nine to 12 and high school for the rest. I loved my tiny rural primary school, which for me was about writing stories, being unbeaten in every school race, singing, dancing and hanging upside down on the climbing bars comparing the frills on my knickers with my friend Louise.

Then something went wrong in middle school. I encountered a bottle blonde harpy called Mrs Richards who took a dislike to the eight-year-old me (my birthday's at the end of August so I did everything a year younger) and made aspects of my time at that school quite uncomfortable.

Of course I don't remember it all clearly now but incidents included me being sent to join the remedial children for extra schooling in English (the remedial - awful word - teacher sent me right back into my class insisting there had been a mistake), falling behind in maths, failing to live up to her sporting expectations (I remember her standing over me with a clipboard, screaming at me because I couldn't jump far enough in the long jump).

I remember maths exam after maths exam when I got almost perfect marks and she wouldn't put me up to the higher set. Eventually when I just completely stopped getting any question wrong she said: "I suppose I'll HAVE to put you up to set one," and sent me there - in fury and bad temper - on the last day of that school year.

She prevented me becoming a prefect and stamped all over any enthusiasm I had for school sports. She had her favourites. I wasn't one of them. After four years of that treatment I thought I was a fairly average pupil academically, hopeless at sport and quite a rubbish person to boot.

Then we moved up to the high school and took tests to be selected for streaming. On day one at the high school I still remember looking at the code 3D1A and thinking there must have been some mistake. I was in the top sets for everything. Mrs Richards dislike of me - and to this day I still wonder why - pervaded the my school life. She knocked my confidence and I never put myself forward for any of the sporting teams (despite wanting to - I loved hockey and netball) and I wanted to do cross country running too (the last time I ran at school I beat the entire school team).

Of course I then went on to college and university, won a couple of best student awards and got my degree and made it happily into journalism and writing which is all I originally wanted to do anyway. The Mrs Richards effect wasn't terminal but she is the teacher I remember most and for all the wrong reasons!

Teachers have a great deal of influence over the pupils in their charge. It's a happy accident and a privilege that H9 and R7 are in the school they are in and I'm glad they are there (even if that fact they are entirely taught in Welsh has had its moments of difficulty - but only for me, not them). The early years of education are vital and if there's ever any whiff of a Mrs Richards in my children's education I'll be right there, ready for a fight.

Cofiwch Dryweryn!

You know how it is, some weeks pass in a blur. This one was mostly taken up with anticipation of and practice for the national round of the Welsh Book Quiz.

H9 was part of the school team and had already been through two, I think, rounds to get to the finals as representatives of the county. This included reading and talking about various books and performing a play about their main book, Ta-ta Tryweryn by Gwenno Hughes. H9 had a shouting and speaking part, waving a placard while wearing a floor length fur coat. She loved taking part and I think she learned a lot from the other children in the team, many of whom are far more used to performing having taken part in the Urdd Eisteddfod.

The villagers protest.

The play was about the village of Capel Celyn and the Tryweryn valley north of Bala which was flooded in 1965 to provide for water for Liverpool. It portrayed the anger and despair of the Welsh-speaking residents as they fought - in vain - for their homes, chapel, school and farmland. It was so controversial because Liverpool City Council brought a private bill before parliament in 1956 which meant the Welsh local planning authorities had no say in the matter. The bill was opposed by 35 of the 36 Welsh MPs (one didn't vote) but was passed in 1957 and one of the last Welsh-only communities was lost to provide water for an English city.

Liverpool officially apologised for the incident in 2005.

Water engulfs Capel Celyn.

The play was extraordinarily moving. As the 'water' engulfed Capel Celyn the performers hummed 'Hen wlad fy nhadau' - a powerful moment.

After the morning quiz and performance the team made it through to the final four and were back on stage again to perform their play a final time for the judges. The standard was incredibly high - brilliant acting and singing in all of the performances. I'd have hated to have had to choose (except, being maternally biased, I'd still say Maenclochog's performance was the best!) They came second - a fantastic result for such a tiny school.

The finals took place at Aberystwyth Arts Centre which is on the university campus. It was lovely to be back there again. I used to occasionally have lunch at the Arts Centre when my grant allowed and saw many plays and films there. I really felt that nothing had changed since I last was in there in June 1990 wearing a mortar board and gown to collect my BSc. Perhaps the trees were taller and the Arts Centre has had some new additions - studios, dance school, a new cinema. I was itching to trot next door into the library, almost expecting to see some of my fellow students studying for their finals or maybe into the Students Union for a quick pint.

On the journey to and from Aber we passed the famous wall with its graffito 'Cofiwch Dryweryn' (remember Tryweryn) which is on the side of the A487 near Llanrhystud. Apparently it used to say 'Cofiwch Tryweryn' until a local teacher complained to her pupils that it was grammatically incorrect. The following day the T had been replaced by a D and someone had also added 'sorry miss'. The monument is kept freshly painted by the community.

On the way up the wall was pointed out to the children as they were doing the final run through of the play. On the way home, victorious, as the bus passed the wall again the children stood up in their seats and yelled 'Cofiwch Dryweryn!'

PS (added Monday, June 20th 2011 in response to Mountainear's comment): If you think 'incidents' like Tryweryn have been consigned to history go and read Mountainear's blog. This time it is pylons across a stunningly beautiful part of Wales to take windfarm-generated electricity from mid-Wales to England. Please also visit the No Pylons in Rea Valley website.

A half term haircut

BEFORE

This half term was a staycation with lots of things to do at home (like building the new polytunnel - more of that when it's finished). Funny how we've done lots of things but I can't really remember what. Anyway our main trip of the week was to take one very scruffy Scamp up to see Neris for a haircut.

Neris works with Brian and has helpfully recently completed a course in dog trimming. She also owns two adorable girl Schnauzers - Megan and Lily - and lives a mere stone's throw from New Quay.

Scamp hates car journeys so we hadn't got very far before we had to make the first (of four) comfort breaks. 

Megan pretending to ignore Scamp

It was love at first sight for Scamp as soon as he saw Megan and Lily (and Neris too, but they had met before). 

Lily

The three got on brilliantly so we left Scamp with Neris and headed off to New Quay with our picnic.

Burying R7's feet in the sand

New Quay was full of Birmingham accents, lobster-red cellulite, barely contained breasts and people eating chips on the beach.We joined them while we ate our smoked salmon and cream cheese sandwiches, poked about among the shells and rock pools, had ice creams from out favourite ice cream parlour and then (because we were getting sun burned) went into a shop for new sun hats for H9 and R7 (where I discovered Sesalt Clothing).

Then we collected our newly shorn dog, minus a few big knots (we must brush him more). He was rather reluctant to leave Neris, Megan and Lily so he's now busily growing his coat so he can go back again.

Doesn't he look gorgeous?

AFTER

Proud Mummy moments

My children have got to the stage where they are very aware of my blog and what goes in it. Recently H9, who had made a cake at Brownies, said she had eaten it already so I "couldn't photograph it and make it famous".

Of course, like every mummy, I think my children are pretty darned perfect and I'm am enormously proud of everything they do but I try to respect their privacy. They're not 100% keen on being pictured on my blog and prefer to vet pictures before I use them. They prefer balance too so if one is pictured so must the other.

I tend not to blog about them and their achievements but they are making it difficult not to have gushing mummy moments of 'look at what my lovely children have done now aren't they fab'. I've resisted so far (and have confined such things to Facebook) but there comes a time when these achievements must be recorded. So this is a brief burst of what they've done.

They both won first prize in this year's village Eisteddfod. H9 won for her short story (in Welsh) about guinea pigs taking part in the pet version of the X Factor and R7's was for handwriting.

H9 has also been a member of the school team taking part in the Welsh Books Quiz - an inter-school competition which involves knowledge of books but also acting in a play about one of those books. The team won their area contest, then the county final and will now represent Pembrokeshire at the Wales final in Aberystwyth in June.

Finally, for her Easter holiday homework, H9 had to draw a design for a scarecrow that her class could make for a competition at a local garden centre. Her pirate design was chosen and has been brought to life by her class. It is now on display at Newbridge Garden Centre, Crundale, near Haverfordwest. Visitors to the garden centre can vote for their favourite and the winning school gets £200 worth of plants and gardening equipment so, if you're passing, please look out (and vote) for Black Bart the pirate scarecrow.

A little bit of Christmas magic

My two have been a little unenthusiastic about writing to Santa this year. In fact they were getting me quite worried with their reticence.

"We trust Santa to get us some nice surprises," said H8 with heavy emphasis on the 'trust' bit. Hmm.

R7 accompanied her sister with an enigmatic smile.

Then yesterday two jolly envelopes arrived with the postman (stoically on foot as our driveway still resembles the Cresta run), one for each girl, postmarked Lapland. They were intrigued.

In it Santa told them he had lovely surprises for them and their friends, who were named, and that he knew about our chimney and was looking forward to whooshing down it on Christmas Eve.

"How does Santa know about my best friend?" said R7 wide-eyed. Best friends are quite changeable at this age and Santa knew the current favourite.

I am definitely coming to your house on Christmas Eve, wrote Santa in H8's letter, is there something you would like me to bring for you? Now let's see, you have a nice wide chimney so I can whoosh down into the fireplace without getting stuck.

H8 was very impressed indeed with that. We have an enormous Cimne Fawr. So that's how he's been getting in all these years.

You'll have a lovely surprise on Christmas Day, he added in R7's letter. When children make a special Christmas wish the wind brings their wishes all the way to the North Pole and whispers those wishes in my ear.

They were quietly thrilled with that. We always put their letters to Santa in the wood burner and send them to the North Pole using the medium of fire, sending the words on the wind as smoke. Obviously our method of communication works.

The got out paper and pens and wrote letters back to Santa.

Thank you for all of my presents over the years, wrote H8.

How did you know about my best friend? asked R7 (who still can't get her head round that one.)

So through the medium of the internet I would just like to record a colossal Christmas-sparkly thank you to Santa (and to his little helper) for a lovely bit of Christmas magic.

Summer holiday game No. 1: Art in the garden

Art in the garden requires few tools and not much else other than a large dose of enthusiasm. You need a box of chalks, a nice flat area of concrete or stone and a selection of blooms, leaves and grasses. It's not permanent, so remember to grab your camera!

Mummy in the garden, by H6.

Mummy in the garden by R4.

You get lovely and chalky doing this, but it will all wash off easily and the pictures will gradually disappear after a splash or two of summer rain.

Adorable!

I have adorable children. Sigh. Yes, I know every mother says this, but mine really are adorable.

Take H6, for example, on Friday, when I was the Mummy Who Forgot (sausage rolls for party) then the Mummy Who Threw Things Away. H6 said the sausage rolls didn't matter (someone else remembered, didn't matter who, wasn't important) then went into raptures of delight over her tidy bedroom. So I'm not Really Horrid Mummy, I turned out to be Very Nice Mummy after all and quite by accident.

It seems that, despite my fears that I am a completely hopeless parent, I've actually got a couple of adorable little children.

They do nice, thoughtful things too, like H6, this afternoon, guiding rain-splattered me into the house, as a tug would guide in an aircraft carrier, as I struggled under an Everest of damp washing. I went blindly into the house whinging and wailing and instructing small people to "MOVE OR YOU'LL GET SQUISHED"! Next there were gentle, soft hands, kindly guiding me in. Adorable.

Then this weekend grown-up also adorable children arrived from Down Under. They were the third in a series of four heading off on post graduate round the world tickets courtesy of their granddad. All three so far have been absolutely delightful, good-looking and sporty, full of humour and good cheer, totally uncomplaining, and absolute paragons.

They are the offspring of my cousin StB, who lives in Melbourne, and we used to hear all about them in the annual Christmas letter. We used to snigger into our beards a bit (all right, a lot) at this annual list of their good deeds and incredible academic, sporting and musical accomplishments. But, having met three-quarters of them (and I'm sure the fourth will be the same) we have to admit that their fond mother, ShB, was speaking nothing but the truth and perhaps even playing it down a little.

Take this weekend's pair, for example. My second cousin, AB, is a recently qualified midwife who put herself through college by working as a nanny. My children immediately fell totally in love with the Minogue-soundalike. AB is also very attractive (slim and blonde) with a 1,000 watt smile and a very tall, equally handsome, affable triathlon-fit boyfriend. Being such sporty types they were delighted with the heaps of fresh veggies I cooked for dinner and that there was wholemeal toast at breakfast. They were polite, well mannered and, like their older brother and sister who have already visited, totally adorable.

Back to my own adorable little ones, though. We've just survived the annual torment that is School Sports Day. Mine dressed head to toe in red to support their house, Cerwyn, and bounced excitedly off to school clutching red coated bears as mascots. They ran their races, with varying degrees of success (H6 third in her run, last in the egg and spoon; R4s last in her run, second in the egg and spoon) and cheered madly for their team mates.

Then came the dreaded mothers' race. I had to have a go, H6 and R4 were screaming for me to take part. Such a shame I missed the 'ready, steady, go' bit and was left standing, surprised at the start. I had a lovely view of the mums fighting it out at the front of the race, but I did manage to pass a few others on the way to the finish, so I didn't totally disgrace myself. Rumour has it that the winner, by the way, is a former elite athlete who has represented her country at the Commonwealth or Olympic Games. Which explains why she left the start at 'steady' instead of 'go' I suppose.

Brian, meanwhile, enjoyed a moment of glory leading the Dads' race until being pipped by two slightly more youthful dads who realised, towards the end of the sprint, that someone ten years their senior was in front of them and they'd better look sharp. H6 and R4 said that Daddy was third and Mummy was tenth. Neither of us have any idea who came where, we were too busy restarting our hearts and learning to breathe again.

* The photograph shows the adorable pair in their adorable Hunter wellies. They wanted proof that the bits at the back were reflective. Adorable.

Keep mum. Children about!

The sun is smiling on the Preselis today. Well, sometimes, at any rate, and the forecast is for sunny spells for the next five days. HALLELUIAH!!!

Yesterday’s gloom has mostly receded. I’m not sure where it came from, but I’m glad it has gone!

I was talking of a children’s party in the moaning blog. Whilst there I was chatting with another mum about children, what they say and how careful you have be about what you say in front of them. She recounted the tale of a child she knew would go home with the party bag and dad would look into it and say: “Oh, look, the usual rubbish”. At the next party, on receiving its party bag the child said (right in front of the hostess): “Oh look, the usual rubbish”! One very red-faced mother who couldn’t wait to get home and throttle her husband!

You do have to be so careful what you say in front of the children.

A colleague of mine used to live in a big house divided into three flats. She lived on the bottom floor with her daughter, then about six, and there were tenants on the two floors above. J always referred to the top floor tenant as being “not quite the full shilling”. So, one day there’s a knock on the door and J’s daughter runs to answer it. “Mum,” she yells from the doorway with the tenant. “It’s the one who’s not quite the full shilling!”

I don’t recall anything too embarrassing that my own children have said yet, save for the ritual humiliation of the public loo. Rosie, three, is quite fond of the embarrassingly intimate question in such a situation. I’ll spare you the details, those with young children already know what it is they say! If she has failed to embarrass me that way, she will fling open the door just as I’m pulling up my pants.

You learn, after a while, to attempt wild distraction when there’s a pause and small child looks up at you and says: “Mummy…” in a certain tone of voice. You shriek (frantically and maniacally): “Look Rosie! Look! Giraffe!” Rosie, then all grown up and sensible will say: “Don’t be silly mummy,” in a voice that could wither bamboo.

A couple of gems Rosie has come up with lately have included (on the swing): “Mummy, my tummy’s smiling,” and (in the car having just driven over a hump back bridge): “Mummy, my tummy’s laughing.”

Then there are the questions. How is pasta made, how is tomato sauce made, how are tomatoes made, how is cheese made, how are forks made, how are plates made? And that is just a simple spaghetti tea! Roast dinners are fraught with danger, lamb especially.

"Who is this?" they'll ask, or (worse): "Mummy, how do lambs get made?"

"Ask Daddy."

Hannah, now five, tends to get hold of a subject, like a terrier with a slipper, and worry it for days. Currently we’re on the subject of floods. Can you get flooded on a hill? Why does the water flood? Where does it go? When will it stop raining? (I wish I flamin’ knew!) Last week there was a flood in the village (about six inches deep and a few feet wide). Did people have to get air-lifted from that flood? Er, no, I replied, (inwardly vowing never to let the child watch Newsround again.)

Another time it was the hot water system. Hannah wanted to know where the hot water came from (easy to show her the tank in the cupboard upstairs). How did it get to the bathroom downstairs (it’s an odd, old house). Easy. See the pipes. How does the water get upstairs? Easy. See the pump by the boiler which heats the water.

Hannah thinks for a nanosecond: “So, the water comes in here in the bathroom, gets pumped upstairs to the cold water tank, back downstairs to the boiler to be heated, back upstairs to the hot water tank, then back downstairs again to the bathroom.”

“Yes, Hannah.”

Pause. “Why?”

I have no berludy idea.

Hannah is queen of the alarming (to parents) statement. For example, one day after school she announced: “Daddy, boys are scared of being kissed on the lips by girls.” How did she find that out? Don’t ask!