Look at it this way - February 1, 2013

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Call me old fashioned but I quite like kids to be kids.

Admittedly, I played dress up as a child and clunked around in my mother’s stilettos and daubed her lippy across my face but I draw the line at high heels for toddlers, and false eye lashes for little girls and clothes for kids that wouldn’t look out of place in Lady GaGa’s wardrobe. How long before a Little Miss GooGoo range launches?

But it’s time to kick up a stink about the crassness of commercialising childhood. The latest musthave to be marketed to today’s more materialistic maternalistic generation is posh designer perfume - for babies.

Dolce and Gabbana are selling the stuff for £28 a bottle. Think of all the baby powder that could buy. Frankly there’s nothing nicer than the smell of a newborn baby, freshly bathed and clean of nappy. D&G have some neck to think they could “enhance” perfection.


The pigeon show came to town the other day.

Boy, did we miss a coup.

I’m not talking about the big money spent by pigeon fanciers – but the artwork opportunity.

Bird Sheet Music.

Given the right conditions our feathered friends could have given Liverpool’s birdies a run for their money.

An artist set a sheet of music paper down for the birds to poop upon.

The profusion of poop looked like a promising little dicky bird ditty.

So the artist passed the sheet to a composer who matched the random patterns to musical notes.

Both can be seen and heard at Tate North, Liverpool, and are said to depict the “role of birds in the environment.”

Even as a fully fledged RSPB member I’m tempted to give this the bird ... but what larks, eh?


I own the home in which I grew up.

It’s a humble three bedroomed terrace trapped in a timewarp of trappings from earlier travels and redeemed by an excessively long garden. Or moat as it now is, thanks to the over development of under drained land in the area.

Most days it seems too small for two so it’s a constant wonder to me that my parents managed to raise three kids within it.

It’s not a council house – or whatever the local authority hived off equivalent is – so at least no one will try to move me into a granny flat on under occupancy grounds. Or impose the latest Universal Credit (housing benefits as was) bed tax upon me if two kids under 10 (or under 16 if of the same gender) don’t share a bedroom.

I suppose it’s just a matter of time before some bratty nine-year-old takes his mum or dad to the Court of Human Rights for forcing him, under the benefits reforms to come, to share with his six-year-old sister or 12-year-old brother.

Me? When I think back to the scrapes my brothers got into - and the scraps they had - sharing a bedroom until I left home our parents probably deserved a medal. My brother David promptly ripped down my David Cassidy posters and transformed my bedroom into Middle Earth. His hand drawn murals and Tolkien runes are there to this day.

I’ve never had the heart to tell “Elvish” to leave the building...