How to make a marzipan pony

My youngest daughter always asks for a pony-shaped chocolate birthday cake. This year I decided that a simpler option would be to make a chocolate cake and sit a pony on top of it.

I don't like fondant - it's completely inedible - and at least marzipan has almonds in it. So this was the solution I came up with for my marzipan-loving pony-mad eight-year-old.

A quick Google search brought up this charming YouTube tutorial and my efforts in marzipan are pictured above. I coloured the chocolate marzipan by kneading it in cocoa powder until the desired colour was achieved. For other colours use paste food colours as the liquid type make the marzipan too wet to model. I stuck to a two tone au naturel palette.

The ponies were a huge hit and I sat them on a chocolate cake (basic choccy sponge recipe) on a bed of custard-based buttercream (less sugary than the icing sugar sort) fenced in with chocolate fingers.

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.

Reflections on duty

Should you, as a parent, force your child to do something they don't want to do? H9 has a thing this weekend which basically involves singing a song in a group of children to entertain adults at a meeting.

She doesn't want to go.

"It will be boring," she says.

Well perhaps it will, perhaps it won't but should she give up her Sunday afternoon for it? We had a similar dilemma over Remembrance Sunday. We bought poppies and she went (in torrential rain) with the school to the village war memorial on the 11th and on Sunday could have gone to a service with her Brownies pack.

But she has a father who works every other weekend and does shifts during the week so they spend time together when they can. For the past two years their Sunday swimming treat has coincided with Remembrance Sunday and she's gone swimming instead. Should we feel guilty?

I try not to. Perhaps life sometimes is set up for those who work nine to five on weekdays and have every weekend free. Perhaps it's set up for people who don't have a longish commute and who don't work night shifts which mean that for half of each month they don't get to say goodnight to their children.

Sometimes we have to do what is best for us so I don't plan to force H9 to go and sing on Sunday if she doesn't want to. Then I'm going to do my very best not to feel guilty about it.

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.

Blog silence...

Swallow chicks in the stable.

Blog silence because:

• It's been sunny so I've been outside doing glamorous things*
• It's been raining so I've been inside losing my usual battle with the housework, sewing (presents so I can't tell you what), cooking (bread, meals, more bread, pizza)
• On Thursday I nipped out to the local fabric emporium (which is on a farm) and bought supplies for the aforementioned sewing (so I can't tell you what because it's a secret, although I did buy some lovely fabric for a skirt for me).
• The Urdd** sports scheduled for last Wednesday (when it wasn't raining but had been so the field was too wet) were held on Friday (when it was raining but the field was dry). R7 won the egg and spoon for the second year running.
• It was a real phew-what-a-scorcher on Sunday and by Monday two of the ewes had flystrike*** so we had to round them up and deal with it.
• In between times there's been Wimbledon and a Grand Prix (the only times I watch the TV during the day and even then I feel so guilty I dust, clean windows, sew or iron while watching)
• Today the school sports were held and Brian was on an early shift so I had to muck the yard out, fetch the ponies in, water the polytunnel, feed and walk the dogs, make the girls' packed lunches, shower and drink a pint of strong coffee all before 7.30am (after which I had to wake two girls, find red coloured sports kit, round up trainers, tease tangles from hair, eat breakfast, stuff dog-toys with treats to amuse dogs while I'm out and find my deckchair and leave for school at 8.45am).
• Then I had to watch my offspring compete in running, egg and spoon (H9 second, R7 third) and tug of war (and feign deafness, invisibility and rigor mortis when the call came for the mums' race) all of which, as any parent knows, is exhausting.
• I did manage to fit in picking three huge bunches of sweet peas (or they'll set seed and stop flowering), dead head the roses and water the polytunnel again.
• Now? Now it most very definitely is wine o'clock.

* I jest. Glamorous? Ha!
** Youth sports - all the schools in this area competing against each other. Usually six schools, but we lost two on Friday to their own sports days.
*** Don't ask. Fishermen use them as bait. 'Nuff said.

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.

The king's swearing

H8: "Mum, was it The King's Speech you went to see last night?"

Me: "Yes it was. Why?"

H8: "Because it's on Newsround. It's got 12 nominations!" (Pause while she gives me her best impressed expression.) "What age is it?"

Me: "Fifteen, I think, because of all the swearing."

H8: "Oh." (Thinks.) "Like what?"

Me: "I'm not going to teach you how to swear! That's for you to learn in the playground at school. Anyway you've heard most of the words before. (Daddy says them.) I'm not going to tell you what they are." (And I'm hoping to drink this cup of coffee before it gets icebergs and polar bears in it.)

H8: "Snigger. Has it got the F-word in it? I don't know the F-word." (Clearly she does.)

Me: "Yes it has, lots and lots." (And very funny it is too. Snigger.)

H8: "I say bloody a lot. Bloody hell! Bloody BLOODY hell!" (Snigger.)

Me: "It's not very ladylike to swear. I don't do it." (I've slipped into my Margo Leadbetter voice again. And she knows darned well that I swear. I say bugger.)

H8: "Sometimes I say beep."

Me: "It's usually best to think of something other than a swear word."

H8: "Snigger."

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.