Category: parenting

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Skyscrapers

When my two boys were younger, they used to spend hours building towers out of anything that they could lay their hands on. The materials were largely irrelevant, but the challenge remained the same; to build something bigger and better than the one before. And, having witnessed the amount of time that had been invested in the construction process, I used to be somewhat dismayed at how quickly their creations were ruthlessly demolished. Now that they are older though, I can see the value in what they were doing and how their approach was, in fact, inextricably linked to the personality traits that were slowly evolving. And I suspect that my penchant for preserving their creations was possibly short-sighted. After all, the ability to be able to pick through the rubble and transform it into something bold and new is undoubtedly a skill worth honing.

‘The sky’s the limit’ by Gaynor Hall

Don’t imagine for even a second that the path was meant to be smooth,
Or that there’ll be a single moment when you won’t have something to prove.
Life’s a competition you see (‘though your opponents may sometimes be hidden)
With hurdles and problems to overcome on that horse that just begs to be ridden.

Don’t imagine for even a second that the playing field will be level,
Or that you can afford to take a back seat whilst in past achievements you revel.
There’ll always be someone who’s hot on your heels – charming, yet full of tenacity,
Waiting to seize the advantage should your work rate fall shy of capacity!

Don’t think for even a second that success needs to come with a ceiling,
The doubt that dwells within your mind is a very common feeling.
But don’t be content to throw in the towel, make sure that each battle is fought
With the maximum strength you can muster, no danger of selling yourself short.

Don’t think for even a second that failure must link arms with shame,
The hurt and disappointment will pass and then you can rally again.
Pick yourself up, dust yourself down, get ready to fight tooth and nail –
For victory is just ‘round the corner; blood sweat and tears will prevail.

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Books. And their covers.

The daily school run used to be a rather sombre affair – two thirds of the journey being completed in a deeply resentful silence born initially out of sibling conflict, and then cemented by maternal rebuke!

Having first barged passed each other on their way out to the car (often accompanied by some strategic ‘following through’ of the elbows and / or feet) the incessant verbal needling would then begin, serving as a brief prelude to one (or both) of them dealing a meaningful blow – and all of this before my key had even turned on the ignition! No amount of adjustment to the morning routine seemed to dilute the intensity of their testosterone charged rivalry and I used to arrive at work wondering quite where it had all gone so horribly wrong!

Now that my eldest is responsible for making his own way to school, however, the school run has changed beyond recognition. It has become a conversation rich environment in which my brain is frequently left scrambling for answers that are (almost) equal in quality to the myriad of questions posed by my youngest son. Being someone who deals in facts (rather than opinions) and takes things literally, he used to struggle to understand the meaning behind commonly used figures of speech. However, dogged determination on his part (no doubt bolstered by an unrelentingly competitive streak) has meant that he is now able to casually toss one or two examples into sentences of his own – delivered, I might add, with a generous helping of conceit!

One early example of the kind of confusion that can easily arise from speaking figuratively, was when (in response to a damning assessment of one of his classmates) I cautioned him not to ‘judge a book by its cover’. No sooner had the phrase left my lips than I was met with a plethora of reasons as to why the cover of a book was, in fact, a useful tool for deciding whether to read it…

Conceding that he had a point, I have since dropped that particular phrase from my ‘repertoire’. However, I was reminded of it again today when I saw a friend’s post on Facebook and very nearly fell foul of my own cautionary advice…

My friend had uploaded a photo of a chocolate bar and the accompanying caption was along the lines of being excited about eating it later. I’ll admit that I was about to scroll on when (sensing that there might be ‘more to it’) I realised that, far from being a frivolous post about harbouring a penchant for a particular brand of confectionary, this was a touching and well-written explanation about something (or rather someone) close to her heart. In this case, that chocolate bar had been given to her daughter as a birthday gift but instead of keeping it for herself, the little girl had chosen to give it to her mum.

Further explanation is needed, however, because this is a young girl for whom life did not begin favourably. Having suffered untold sadness and neglect, she had eventually been removed from her birth mother before embarking upon the long and painful road to adoption. With the continuing love, patience and support of her adoptive parents, the healing process has evidently begun in earnest and (no longer fearful of going hungry) this little girl was happy to part with the entire chocolate bar.  

Parenting can be hard – even when your relationship with your little one began with a totally clean slate. One can only imagine how much harder it must be, when a veritable cocktail of emotional and physical trauma, deep-seated fear, and an almost blanket distrust of adults stands in the way of that crucial relationship building process. Only by having read the post in full, was I able to begin to comprehend its significance.

By all means then, use the cover as a guide – but don’t forget to read the ‘book’ in its entirety before you attempt to form a judgement of any kind.

And even then, it’s probably wise to tread carefully.      

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Merry Betwixtmas!

Soon after it was released, in 2001, I remember going to see ‘Bridget Jones’s Diary’ with my mum.

Ever since the trailer had first graced our screens, she’d been wanting to go and see it. She’d also mentioned (several times over!) that Renée Zellweger had been required to put on weight in order to assume the title role – talk about going ‘above and beyond’!

As we watched the film together, laughing uncontrollably at the irreverence, chaos and hilarity of it all, I couldn’t help noticing that there were one or two (distinctly unfavourable) similarities between us. Okay, I was still a tiny bit younger than Bridget (with parents who were infinitely nicer and more tactful than hers) but I was single, prone to brief bouts of loneliness, and ‘upsizing’ at an alarming rate – as the large bag of pick ‘n mix (resting upon my ample thighs) would willingly testify!

Some twenty years later, and my life (rather like my appearance) is almost unrecognisable. Happily married with two gorgeous (but unrelentingly energetic) boys, I delight in the simple pleasure of being able to view my feet once more(!) having shrugged off the sedentary lifestyle of my 20s and 30s in favour of two relatively inexpensive commodities – namely, exercise and fresh air.

Having recently re-watched ‘Bridget Jones’s Diary’, I found myself pondering Bridget’s ‘predicament’ from a slightly different perspective. Feelings of sympathy and (dare I say) pity, were less dominant this time around with the many benefits of being a SINK (single income, no kids) coming somewhat tantalisingly to the fore – sitting firmly, as we are, in the period fondly known as Betwixtmas…

For one thing, there’s the opportunity for some wonderfully spontaneous ‘self-gifting’ – not least because your disposable income is not being siphoned off by tweens who’ve apparently ingested an entire party pack of Miracle-Gro for Christmas!

Then there are the lie-ins, pyjama days and leisurely baths that can happen on a whim – and that (all too quickly) assume the scarcity of gold-dust once the ‘ankle-biters’ have arrived upon the scene.

Those profiteroles (enjoyed mid-morning, straight from the serving dish whilst sprawling out on the sofa) hardly fall within the ‘Change4Life’ guidelines either – inconveniently publicised by schools and doctors, with the clear expectation that these principles will be dutifully modelled by parents too.

And don’t get me started on that impromptu lunch date at the trendy new bistro in town – only made feasible because the logistical wizardry associated with arranging childcare (several days in advance) is simply not a consideration here!

They say that ‘the grass is always greener’ – and I do believe that there is a great deal of truth in this – but for the record (and just in case my husband or children ever read this!) I am extremely contented with ‘my lot’ and don’t miss my ‘Bridget’ days one bit. However, I would still urge my SINK (and DINKY) friends (you know who you are!) to enjoy Betwixtmas to the full.

This is your time. Use it wisely!

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A matter of perspective

Developing the ability to shift between different perspectives is an incredibly valuable skill and when this approach is embraced by a leadership team, it can have a profound effect upon both the productivity and wellbeing of an organisation and its employees.

It’s fascinating that the same word is used to describe the method by which an artist is able to successfully represent a 3D object on a 2D surface. By carefully considering the proportions and positioning of their subject, a skilled craftsman can alert his or her audience to the relationship between the component parts of that picture or scene.

If only it worked for stick men too – alas, the (frankly) rather pitiful extent of my own artistic capabilities…

Parents often lament the fact that their pre-schooler (or teenager, for that matter!) simply cannot see a situation from any viewpoint other than their own. But is it really any wonder, when many adults seem to be permanently engaged in the very same struggle? At least the truculent teenager is able to cite raging hormones as a mitigating factor!

Having been a teacher for a good deal longer than I have been a parent, I have always approached the boys’ Parents’ Evenings with generous helpings of diplomacy – and a determination to consider ‘both sides of the story’ before reaching a final judgement on any potentially contentious issues. After all, angry exchanges are not pleasant for either party and tend to remain etched upon the teacher’s memory long after that particular pupil has moved on.

From the mother who turned up inebriated, to the father who berated me for not awarding his son the Maths Prize (despite being a teacher of Music and English) I’ve probably ‘seen it all’. However, a former colleague once shared a story that rendered (even) me speechless, and it sums up the matter of ‘perspective’ (or a lack thereof) rather well.

As Head of Sport at an independent school, it was the unenviable task of my colleague to select a team for the weekly fixtures. Having agreed a policy of ‘Sport for All’ within her department, she was mindful of the need to give every child a chance to represent the school at some point during the term – even if this meant that the ‘more able’ had to sit the odd game out too.

Well, this was met with utter condemnation one Wednesday morning – an irate parent ‘lying in wait’ for my colleague as she drew up in the car park shortly before 7.30am. Before she had even had time to get out of her vehicle, she found this particular parent towering over her – demanding an explanation.

Drawing herself up to her full height (sadly only about 5ft 4 at best!) my colleague calmly attempted to re-iterate the school’s policy, whilst also pointing out that the child in question had in fact already played more games than any other pupil that term.

This, however, did little to appease the woman (who insisted that her child should feature in the match) and she continued her tirade for the duration of the 850m walk from the lower car park to the main entrance.

Upon arrival (and feeling suitably browbeaten) my colleague reached into her bag and produced the (offending) team sheet with a flourish. As something akin to a last resort, she thrust the piece of paper in front of the angry parent and asked her which child should be removed from the team, in order that her own daughter might play instead?

Her thinking, of course, was that this would bring the parent to her senses, realising at once just how arbitrary she was being.

The fact that this woman didn’t even flinch before making her ‘selection’ spoke volumes.     

C.S. Lewis once stated that “What you see and hear depends a good deal on where you are standing” before adding that, “It also depends on what sort of person you are”.

Once again, Mr Lewis seems to have ‘hit the nail (very firmly) on the head’!

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When the mornings aren’t quite dark enough

It is difficult to recall a time when our country has faced a more diverse set of challenges. A period of post-Brexit economic uncertainty was quickly eclipsed by the global pandemic and, in addition to the heavily publicised failings of the Metropolitan Police, the last few weeks have seen widespread disruption caused (in part) by a shortage of HGV drivers, but also by the subsequent panic-buying of fuel.

Those members of our family who continue to live in the Southeast of England, frequently regale us with stories that would strongly suggest that many local councils are close to breaking point too. One such council has had to suspend its garden waste collections – despite its residents having already been hit with paying an additional subscription for this particular service – and I’m told that its household waste and recycling collections are currently somewhat sporadic too. I gather that hospital appointments around the region are also something akin to gold dust at present, with NHS trusts working flat out to cover staff shortages whilst also trying to meet the ever-increasing demands posed by the ongoing pandemic. It would certainly seem that (in this respect at least) the North-South divide is currently tipping ever so slightly in our favour because, since relocating to Derbyshire in 2014, we have been fortunate enough to see little or no reduction in either the quality or availability of our local service provision. Any medical concerns have been promptly dealt with (to the point where my husband saw his GP one morning and, rather impressively, attended the local hospital for a range of tests the very next day) and our various bin collections have continued without disruption – and, better still, with no hint of a surcharge either.

Much to the relief of us all, I might add. Especially this week.

For half term week (regardless of location) is challenge enough for any family. With countless sibling disagreements to mediate, a range of interesting activities to mastermind, unpredictable weather to surmount, and one’s own last few shreds of sanity to retain, there is one household collection that positively NEEDS to take place. And boy, did our neighbour take full advantage this week…

As I reluctantly stepped from the shower cubicle this morning, I was met with the (all too) familiar sound of clinking glass and falling dustbin lids.

‘Grown-up’ cordial evidently forming part of this week’s coping strategy for other households too!

But this raucous ‘dawn symphony’ lasted well beyond the expected 4 movements, eventually culminating in an elaborate cadenza of aluminium cans too. And as I chuckled to myself (noting that perhaps a wine box or two might have been the wiser option here) I caught a brief glimpse of the ‘conductor’ surreptitiously wheeling their recycling bin towards the pavement. The irony being, of course, that in less than 48 hours (when the UK reverts to GMT) their identity would likely have been well and truly protected.

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Ploughing one’s own furrow

As one’s life gallops inexorably towards the next significant milestone, it’s funny how certain phrases resonate more emphatically than others – and I wish that I could say that I had done this particular one even a modicum of justice! However, being naturally rather cautious in nature, I have repeatedly demonstrated a propensity for choosing the ‘safest option’ and this is possibly why I am so admiring of those who’ve bravely refused to wear the cloak of self-doubt, choosing instead to adorn their outer garments with that boldest of emblems – individuality.

Having witnessed the enormous amount of sibling rivalry that pervades our household (on an almost hourly basis!) I am constantly trying to encourage my boys to ‘be themselves’. The very idea that they should simply be carbon copies of one another is something that I work tirelessly to refute because (for two males born of the same parents) they couldn’t be less alike! From their outward appearance, right down to their inner persona, they are very much the proverbial ‘chalk and cheese’ and yet I would willingly adopt a range of traits from each, in order to set about achieving that much-coveted ‘happy medium’.

In my professional life too, I have gained something of a reputation for ‘championing the unusual ’ and I’ll admit that I am prone to developing a ‘soft spot’ for those pupils who evidently struggle to conform but possess a unique ‘spark’ of one kind or another. After all, these are the very ‘individuals’ who are most likely to end up igniting our future with their genius.

Of course, I can see how a class full of 35 ‘individuals’ might not be to everyone’s taste – something akin to the ‘Krypton Factor of the teaching profession’! Nevertheless, the temptation to quash individuality (simply to achieve compliance) is one that we should all try desperately to resist. Because whilst uniformity within the classroom undoubtedly makes things ‘easier to manage’, it is likely that it will also be responsible for choking those first fragile tendrils of brilliance too.

So, by all means equip each child with the best ‘tools’ for the job, but don’t worry if those initial ‘furrows’ resemble rather elaborate crop circles instead; there is more than enough time for some gentle refinement.

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What doesn’t kill you…

I’ve touched upon the subject of ‘resilience’ before, and I’m willing to bet that the vast majority of us will have been forced to develop this ‘in spades’, following confirmation that the UK’s first case of COVID-19 had been recorded on 31st January 2020.  

However, ‘Risk and Resilience’ has long been a focus for businesses around the globe, both in terms of determining technological or financial vulnerability, and assessing the extent to which teams of employees possess the emotional resilience to deal with a range of challenges.

The popular saying ‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’ (albeit originally rather more eloquently expressed by the German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche) is one that I am particularly fond of uttering, and I don’t mind admitting that (at least nine times out of ten) it is accompanied by a cursory rolling of the eyes too! The very notion that the only feasible alternative to ‘coping’ with the additional stress of a challenging situation is ‘certain death’ would (to my mind at least) seem to be a rather extreme means of testing one’s adaptability. And anyway, ‘broad shoulders’ are arguably something best left condemned to the 1980s…

On the other hand, it could be argued that it is only by ‘pushing the boundaries’ that we learn the true extent of our capabilities and there is definitely something to be said for trying new things and embracing fresh challenges from time to time.

Last Sunday, we ventured once again to our happy place.

The Peak District (with its steep limestone valleys, dramatic gritstone ridges and stark moorlands) never fails to provide us with some much-needed breathing space, and our boys love nothing more than to scramble unreservedly amongst the numerous rocky outcrops. Having first consulted ‘ViewRanger’ (our Sunday app of choice) we had chosen a circular walk in the Upper Dove valley area of the Peak District taking in a line of pinnacles said to resemble the ‘plates’ along the spine of either a dragon or a dinosaur. The very mention of such dramatic imagery certainly piqued the interest of our youngest and it was with great relish, therefore, that he scampered ahead like the proverbial mountain goat.

Very quickly the going became incredibly tough with steep inclines, scant paths, and a variety of uneven surfaces that had a habit of crumbling at the most inopportune moments. Two legs were quickly exchanged for ‘all fours’ as we kept our centre of gravity close to the ground and (desperately clutching at anything that might lend some kind of support) leaned into the mountain in a fervent attempt to steady not just our bodies, but also our nerves.

Needless to say, with several more pinnacles still to navigate, this was an ordeal that was to be repeated more than once and I’ll admit to succumbing to brief periods of panic each time our boys vanished from view. I needn’t have worried though, because they were infinitely more agile than either of their parents – and in their element at being able to assist their old and feeble mum in her increasingly tentative attempts to conquer the rugged terrain.

We were ultimately rewarded with spectacular views, looks of admiration (from seasoned hikers with rather more specialist equipment than the humble trainers that we were sporting) and a well-earned (and deliciously peppery) pasty at the summit. Even the boys agreed that this was a winning combination, worthy of deserting the Xbox for a few hours at least. High praise indeed!

Once we were safely back at our car, the journey home offered ample opportunity for quiet reflection. Stiff legs and a sense of elation were proof enough that some risks are definitely worth taking.

And the best bit? ‘Death’ was cheated out of one more day!

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New chapters

First days are seldom easy and, regardless of the setting, there always seem to be a fair few hurdles to climb. Most of us do ultimately survive them though, and the general consensus is that ‘things will get easier’ as time goes on.

With secondary schools starting back this week, there will no doubt be a large number of Year 7 children who feel incredibly nervous. This poem is for them. Be brave, be positive – and please know that ‘lunch’ is sometimes still the highlight of my day! 

‘First day nerves’ by Gaynor Hall

The waiting’s almost over, there’s only a few hours left,
The Summer passed so quickly, he hardly caught his breath,
Uniform named and ready, school bag neatly packed,
Bus route walked and memorised, timed both there and back.

He knows this is just the way of things, done countless times before,
By children who’ve felt just as scared as him when they stepped from their front door,
And yet a hundred butterflies seem to dance inside his belly,
What he wouldn’t give for one more day snuggled up in front of the telly!

The bus arrives, he scrambles on, not sure quite where to sit,
And then he spots an empty seat and gratefully seizes it.
He watches as the trees go by and drizzle strikes the window,
Relieved to have managed at least one ‘tick’ in this game of first day bingo.

The bus departs and the day begins with numerous introductions,
Each member of staff (all nice enough) reeling off a host of instructions.
He feels his head begin to spin and starts to get a hunch –
That the highlight of today, at least, might end up being lunch.

With his stomach full (and old friends found) he feels his spirits swell,
Just Art and History still to come and then the final bell.
The journey home flies quickly by, there’s a spring in this young man’s step,
What a shame that it’s only Monday then; there’s a while ‘til the weekend yet!

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Defying belief!

Most people will be familiar with the phrase “Never work with children or animals” coined by W.C. Fields all those years ago. However, I’m willing to bet that (following an extended period of COVID driven home schooling) an even greater proportion of adults now have a better understanding of the potential pitfalls of even trying to achieve something useful whilst the ‘ankle biters’ are around!

As a mum of boys, I discovered quite early on that my children needed ‘exercising’ in almost the same way as a dog. Any fleeting thoughts of spending a ‘lazy day at home’ were usually swiftly dispersed upon realising that there would almost certainly be ‘pay back’ – in one form or another. If we were lucky, it might simply be under the guise of incessant bickering and the joyful refrain of “it’s not fair!” being emphatically chorused on auto repeat. On a bad day though, the afore mentioned arguments and protests would gradually escalate into the damaging of toys, furniture, or (much to my husband’s annoyance) the paintwork. And so, a genuine love of the great outdoors developed (amongst their parents at least) and with it, tangible improvements to behaviour, sleep quality – and (I’ll admit it) home décor!

Having moved to Derbyshire in 2014 we have been fortunate enough to have acquired an enormous natural playground, right on our doorstep. Many a Sunday is spent happily exploring the astonishing beauty of the rugged terrain and majestic rocky outcrops of the awe-inspiring Peak District. Bracing climbs and spectacular views do wonders for one’s physical and mental wellbeing and only the most appalling weather conditions can generally dissuade us from heading out there.

Shortly after Christmas then, ever mindful of the usual post-turkey resolutions, we took the decision to brave the snow and head out to the Peaks. We had chosen a circular walk from ‘The Fox House’ in Longshaw and (at just over 4 miles and supposedly well within our capabilities) headed confidently in the direction of Higger Tor.

All went well to begin with, both boys happily running ahead and delighting in trying to shatter some large sheets of ice that were dotted about at the edge of the trail. In no time at all we had reached the first proper ascent, stopping only to watch a handful of intrepid motorists do battle with some horribly icy country lanes. As we picked our way carefully amongst the rocks, my husband became aware that his phone battery was almost flat and that since this was our only means of navigation (coupled with the fact that an ominous mist was threatening to obscure the landscape altogether) there might be genuine cause for concern. Without a feasible alternative though, there was no real choice but to carry on – and besides, our youngest was making short shrift of the rocky ascent, emulating only the most experienced of mountain goats!

Eventually, (and after an undignified fall on my part that ironically followed a plea to ‘be careful’ to my two infinitely more agile children!) we reached the summit and discussed the quickest route down. The snow had fallen more heavily on that side of the tor and so it was quite difficult to gauge (with any certainty) what lay below. The mist was closing in more rapidly now too and so we promptly chose our ‘path’ and began our descent.

Having negotiated countless twists and turns (largely of my ankle joints) and numerous precarious screes, we stood at the bottom, peering into the distance. We knew the general direction of our car’s whereabouts but a veritable minefield of boggy land and grassy tussocks (blanketed in snow for additional challenge) lay between us and welcome refuge.

And that’s when it happened.

My husband (very much pack leader on such occasions) literally disappeared into the marshland letting out a cry of anguish as he began to sink deeper into the quagmire. I, of course, was expected to leap to his aid but, having now been utterly paralysed with laughter, could do nothing but crumple in a heap and giggle inanely from afar. Fortunately for him, our eldest (upon realising that his father was not in the least bit amused by his wife’s shameful behaviour) swiftly regained his composure and rushed to my husband’s assistance.

Just as we were taking stock of the collateral damage to both my husband’s clothing, and his dignity, we heard a mighty splash nearby. All three of us whipped around to see what on earth had happened now. There, only a matter of yards from where my husband’s ‘rescue’ had recently taken place, was our youngest – up to his waist in bog and waving his arms frantically above his head as a means of attracting our attention. This time (mercifully) the maternal instinct kicked in and (instead of giving in to helpless laughter) we all rushed to hoist him out. The fact that there was a sort of tide mark just above his nipples was a clear indication of just how deep the marsh had become now that the thawing process had begun in earnest.

But before you devote too much sympathy to our ‘little man’, I feel that I should tell you that he later confessed to having in fact ‘chosen’ to launch himself into the bog… Apparently, the reasoning behind his actions was that because he knew that he was considerably lighter than his father, he “thought (he) would just skid along the surface of the ice and not sink in at all”!

Nice one, kiddo!     

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The quest for anonymity

The extent to which one’s perspective can change over time, is nothing short of extraordinary. What seemed desirable just a few short years ago can suddenly seem rather alien to us as we strive to understand the many different stages of our own ‘metamorphosis’.

Of course, some stages are easier to detect than others, conveniently highlighted by physical changes that are instantly identifiable. And whilst humans do not undergo the sort of conspicuous or abrupt change to their basic structure that occurs in insects (for example), subtle changes are often afoot – not least in terms of the developing personality. 

I recently took a trip down memory lane and spent a couple of hours thumbing through a series of photographs from my childhood. It will come as no surprise to learn that (rather than simply focusing upon the happy faces of the subjects captured within) I spent most of the time cringing at the various outfits on display – presumably fashionable at the time, but now nothing short of bizarre! From shell suits to rah-rah skirts, quilted dresses to satin bows (that were almost as big as one’s head!) I unwittingly modelled them all. Perhaps this goes some way to explaining why I feel so grateful to be a mum of boys – unashamedly flaunting my right to fill their wardrobes with jeans and t-shirts that are both uncontroversial, and likely to stand the test of time. Hurrah!

As the new academic year begins to come into focus, the inevitable flurry of shopping trips and internet sessions (in an attempt to meet the increasingly stringent requirements of the secondary school uniform list) has begun. Trying to achieve the perfect balance between buying clothes that will last for more than a term, and clothes that look as though they were at least intended to be worn by a Year 7 pupil (as opposed to someone sitting their GCSEs) has not been without its challenges. The overriding consideration though (certainly from my son’s point of view anyway) has been to ensure that all purchases render him utterly inconspicuous so that he can avoid the unwanted attention of older pupils and blend seamlessly into the background.

I’m pretty confident that this is something that we can all relate to. After all, schools haven’t changed that much and neither, sadly, have children. That ‘pack mentality’ of looking for difference, weakness – or indeed anything that is likely to get a reaction – is as prevalent now as ever it was. However, I have to admit to having been rather taken aback when a friend told me that her daughter (a thoroughly personable young girl) had been going through a difficult time at school and that her circle of friends had started to alienate her. I suppose that I assumed that the age-old suspects (such as hair colour, poor complexion, budget clothes brands or unsightly braces) would be at the root of their cruelty. Imagine my incredulity then, when I discovered that it was because her daughter didn’t wear braces that she was being ostracised! I didn’t see that one coming… 

So, when does individuality become acceptable? And at what particular stage in a person’s development is it ‘OK’ to stand out from the crowd?

To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure that there is a definitive answer to either of these questions. What I do know, however, is that I’m eternally grateful to have left the uncertainty of youth behind – and reached an age where, quite frankly, no-one feels the need to pay me very much attention at all!

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