Taking Things Literally

In my previous post 'Getting things a bit Wrong' I mentioned the story of my small son thinking that 'wax' was the plural form of 'a whack' and complaining that he had one in his ear. All I can think is that those particular orifices must have been especially dirty (there were worse ones as I recall)  as this next tale involves the same part of his anatomy. When he was about 2 he was in the bath (I think the whole caravan/shower trauma must have had a profound effect on my psyche as all these anecdotes seem to involve cleanliness) when I said "Ooh, look at those dirty ears. Are you growing potatoes in there?" The reaction was instant and loud. Hysterical screams, telling me to get the potatoes out. Poor little boy. I explained that I was joking and that he did not, in fact, have root vegetables sprouting in his ears and he calmed down.
A more recent case of 'taking things literally' happened a couple of years ago and involved a situation at my son's school. The Head Teacher had left very quickly and unexpectedly and with no explanation, at least not to anyone who mattered like the parents. As you can imagine there was much whispering, gossip and speculation. We don't have much else to do in Norfolk. Eventually one little boy went home and said to his mum, "Hey, I've found out what happened to Mrs Roberts. Apparently she shot herself in the foot!"

Family Holidays Part Two: Sleeping and Hygiene Arrangements.

So, once the evening meal was over came those fateful words 'We need to make the bed up'. Now, this had to wait until the evening meal was over for the simple reason that the table formed the main base of the afore-mentioned bed. The bedding was retrieved from the cupboards (which were underneath the seats), the table collapsed and the cushions arranged to make a nice, comfortable, King Size bed. Lovely, nothing wrong with that, until you remember that I have two brothers and all three of us had to sleep in this space.
OK, here's the thing. When we first got the caravan we were 7, 9 and 11 and this arrangement was fine. We were small, there was plenty of space, and it wasn't in direct contravention of any EU laws regarding right and proper sleeping arrangements. Fast forward several years and you are presented with a very different and altogether less satisfactory scenario. Now, we were not the kind of children who had cool parents who allowed you to go off on holiday with your friends once you reached your mid teens. Oh no, we were still doing this aged 13, 15 and 17. I kid you not. Whilst this kind of behaviour might be acceptable, dare I say practically obligatory in parts of Norfolk, it is probably more frowned upon in other more sophisticated sectors f society.
So it was that I would settle down for the night with one brother prone to talking in his sleep and the other singing along tunelessly to Buddy Holly (I told you we weren't cool) on his personal stereo.
We would be woken at some ungodly hour the following morning by Dad grinding coffee by hand for his breakfast. Remember last night and having to clear the table before you could make the bed? Well, in the morning we had to get up before breakfast could be served.
All you wanted to do, as a teenage girl, following a stuffy night spent in the warm embrace of her younger brother was to have a shower and make herself look presentable for all those gorgeous French boys who were also staying at 'Le Camping Merde de Cochon'.
Memories of what I am about to recount can, 25 years on, cause me to cry real tears of pain and embarrassment. I know I have a few Psychiatrist/Physchologist friends reading this blog. If any of you could come up with an effective form of therapy for dealing with trauma suffered as a result of holidays then I would gladly try it. You could call it S.H.I.T - Sian's Holiday Intensive Therapy. Boy, would it need to be intensive. You see, my dad had bought a caravan with its own toilet and shower cubicle and for this reason was loathe to go to a site with any 'facilities'. Unfortunately he was also loathe to let us use the shower in the caravan. End result - you were allowed to have a shower 2 or 3 times during a 2 week holiday. When I say a shower what I actually mean is a dribble of water, tepid at best, cold at worst standing in a space which is smaller than the surface area of an average TV. Everyone in the caravan knew if you were using the water as the pump made the most god-awful noise, akin to a cow going through a particularly difficult labour. If you ran the pump for more than a few seconds Dad would be shouting through the door for you to turn it off.
Needless to say I never did pull on any of those family trips to France.

Child Trust Funds

Bryn, born in 2005, was lucky enough to be a 'child of Gordon'. It's ok Geof, you can put your on-line paternity testing kit away. What I mean is, that at the time, the Chancellor, Gordon Brown was giving every new born child £250 to start a trust fund. Now I don't know about you but £250 just for being born seems like quite a good deal. I think we may be losing sight of who actually did the bulk of the hard work in the whole 'being born' process. Just saying.
Anyway, we have tried our best to put away a little each month towards this trust fund but at present he probably has about enough to spend 10 days doing 'Media Studies' at Solihull. (Please contact my legal department for any complaints about the Media Studies/Solihull comment. I know nothing about either of them. They just sounded right.)
At some stage Bryn became aware that there was a modest amount of money somewhere out there with his name on it and asked what it was for. "Well", I explained. "Traditionally it would be for your University expenses, but you may prefer to spend yours on psychotherapy".
If you think about it, putting money away for a person to access at the age of 18 might not be the wisest of moves. Who knows what he might choose to spend it on? We will have very little, if any control over it at that point. I mean what are we going to do if he spends it unwisely? Stop his pocket money? Put him on the naughty step? Send him to bed early? He could end up spending it on crack cocaine, loose women, a flash car or...even worse...an Ipswich Town season ticket!