Kitten saga - Day 3

Well, the kittens are all still with us! The little ginger boy (called Little Shane by Mini) is the most fragile and I still think he is likely to kark it at any moment, but the two little black girls (Stumpy and Genevieve) seem, touchwood, to be pulling along. Whether I will make it is another story... I am utterly knackered, having been feeding, toileting and generally acting as surrogate mum to the little dears every two hours round the clock. Thank GOD for Teapigs Morning Glory, McVities digestives and that emergency staple of every stressed out human - toast.

Unsurprisingly, given the fact they probably haven't had much to eat since they were born - and certainly nothing at all in the day before they came to me - the sudden upgrade in nutrition gave all the kittens the runs initially. Apart from being messy and smelly for me to deal with (bear in mind for those who aren't familiar with very young kittens, their mother has to stimulate them - ie. lick their bottoms - to make them pee and poo and therefore I am having to do my best to simulate this by means of a damp piece of kitchen roll applied to their rear ends), this is quite worrying as it is enough to kill very little, very weak, kittens. So off they went down the local vet. Now, I conduct a bit of a guerilla war with our vets because they annoy me. As we are in a rural location they make it quite obvious they regard sheep, cattle and pigs as the Higher Calling of the Vet, and they only condescend to admit domestic pets across their hallowed portals because they know these are the critters which pay for their bread and butter. One of the miserable so-and-sos I have semi-brought round (mostly because he is Welsh and we can therefore 'talk rugby') but the Other plainly regards me as a proto-Mad-Old-Cat-Woman and therefore a sub-species of the human race. Unfortunately it was The Other who was on duty yesterday.

He was plainly horrified by my new escapade, but graciously permitted himself to actually touch the kittens and decided to give Little Shane some antibiotics. To do this entailed a franctic scamper around the back office as he plainly doesn't have a clue where anything is - that's for the untermensch veterinary nurses to organise isn't it? - and eventually had to ask the said veterinary nurse where the antibiotic of choice was. She, good girl, questioned his use of it; to which he responded 'Oh it's just an orphan kitten, it will probably die anyway'. He must think I'm deaf, or the partition walls are somehow soundproofed, because there was absolutely no attempt to moderate his voice or be at all discreet about what he was saying... I will leave it to my readership to imagine just how flipping cross that made me. I contemplated giving him a piece of my mind, but common sense prevailed and I came to the rapid conclusion there wouldn't be any point. He's far too old and his head is far too far up his rectum for even one of my tongue-lashings to have any effect - I did, however make do with giving him a classic Angevin Death Stare when he re-emerged and then insisted he look at Little Shane's paws.

Little Shane only has two toes on both his front paws, and one of his back paws is turned in a very odd way. The vet was absolutely horrified and made no effort to stop himself recoiling - 'this kitten is INBRED' he intoned - I honestly don't think he could have been any more shocked if I'd announced I was a cannibalistic necrophiliac with a particular interest in fat middle-aged veterinary surgeons. 'Ah right, shall I put him in the gas chamber now, then?' I sweetly enquired, and for once had the satisfaction of seeing him lost for a response. Mumbling something about coming back in a couple of days if there had been no improvement, he scurried off... I suspect to give himself a full body detox following his encounter with me and my unclean, defective charges. Again, I'll leave it to my readerships' imaginations to guess at what I was thinking but, as a clue, the words 'tosser', and 'WHAT a' wouldn't be far off the mark.

All the above has made me very angry and even more determined to do the best I possibly can to keep these little scraps alive, if only to prove to the bigoted greaseball at the surgery down the road that he is not omniescent. Getting home, and going through the 'feed-toilet-clean-change hot water bottle' routine again, I then turned to the internet for assistance. And found a body of comment which suggested that mixing the formula milk up with Dioralyte or similar seemed to work for kitten with the trots. Two feeds of this later (ie. about 3am) and all three were looking a lot perkier and have continued to improve throughout today. God bless the internet, people who are caring enough to share their experience and expertise via it, and the makers of off-the-counter medicines. Sure, if they survive, the kittens might develop a taste for raspberry flavoured concoctions, but that in my view is a small price to pay.

St Gertrude of Nivelles, I have discovered, is the patroness of cats and cat lovers and therefore has been added to the Pester List. She must be well sick of me by now - let's hope the old girl pulls her finger out and gives these kittens a helping hand. She could, whilst she's at it, give Scumbag at the Surgery a dose of something unpleasant - as penance for his arrogance, of course ;-) ...

Three Little Kittens have lost their mittens...

Actually, I've never understood that nursery rhyme. There's doubtless some arcane reason it was created, and - knowing the vagaries of British history - that reason probably involves monarchical naughtiness, plague, or the persecution of religious minorities. What other reasons could you have for inventing a childrens' song???

Anyway, to get back to the point of today's slice of La Vie Angevin, we have acquired, at least for the moment, three little kittens. Chicken Boy James is currently looking after somebody's menagerie whilst they are on holiday and has some cautionary tales to tell about it too: we will not mention the 26 horses, or the 'anorexic pigs' but we will comment that people really SHOULD NOT acquire a substantial number of animals and then not look after them properly. More specifically given today's topic, it seems there are quite a few semi-feral cats down there who persist in popping out kittens, most of which either expire when their mothers find themselves too malnourished to produce milk for them, or when they form the basis of rat-supper. Now, there really is no excuse for this - the Blue Cross and various other charities are quite happy to offer discount or even free speying and neutering of cats and therefore it seems to me this person is either too lazy or too ignorant to do anything about the sad lives her cats are leading. And that makes me cross, but there is little *I* can do about this without landing James and his family in a great deal of trouble as they will undoubtedly be suspects as regards the source of any reports made to the authorities about this situation. So I am between a rock and hard place on this one.

James came round yesterday evening quite distressed about the whole kitten situation as it seems the latest new mother is bone-thin and has no milk... he thus had to deal with the other animals to the accompanying sound of hungry, mewling kittens, which is enough to upset anybody. Now perhaps I am a soft touch, but I did not like to think about this situation too much - there's a big difference in my moral code between knowing these things go on - in which case you can do very little about it other than make contributions to the relevant charities - and having a specific case in front of your nose - in which case I would never forgive myself if I didn't do SOMETHING. So, I suggested if the babies managed to survive the night and evade the rats, he should bring them to me and we'd see what whether we could save them.

Come the morning and a tub of pathetic scraps of life land in my kitchen; and make no mistake, these little creatures are in big trouble. They are tiny little things, skin and bone, one of them has a gungy eye and another has but a stump of a tail as the rest has obviously been a rat-snack. Having obtained a tub of cat-milk-replacement from the vet, I have been syringing 2-3ml down the babies' throats every two hours or so and making sure they are operating correctly at the other end as well. Their eyes have been cleaned up and they have been installed with a hot water bottle, fluffy towel and one of Mini's teddies in a basket next to the Aga and we can but hope they have the tenacity to pull through as I can do no more for them... my readership are politely requested to pester the daylights out of St Francis and St Antony or whatever household deities they possess in the interim... naturally I'll let everybody know how they get on.

One of those days

Well, it's gone 11pm and I'm sitting here with a large glass of red (Bouzy Rouge 1998 in case you are interested) because, frankly, it's either that or go and admit myself to the local mental hospital.

Everything was OK until about 3pm, when I received a very odd telephone call:

Caller: Hi, it's Muppet from LocalRipOff Fuels here, may I speak to Mini Angevin?

Me: Erm... WHY do you want to speak to Mini Angevin?

Caller: Well he rang our office earlier to order some fuel oil and said he'd sent us an email, but I handle the email orders and I'm afraid I haven't received it. I was ringing to find out how much oil he wanted to order?

Me: Mini Angevin is 7.

Caller: OH...

(call terminated soon after with expressions of apology on my part and expressions of both hilarity and bewilderment on the part of Muppet)

Now, with the benefit of hindsight, I should have seen this one coming. When Mini is allowed to watch TV he absolutely adores adverts, especially the sort of cheesy, crappy ones which car insurance companies etc love to churn out to torture the rest of us. Forget the 'naughty ads' aimed at children which the Government are, apparently, in the process of clamping down upon; the lure of McDonalds is as nothing in the Perverse World of Mini when up against the bedazzlement offered by the likes of GoCompare.com. Forget Ronald McDonald and the Happy Meal - it's Carol Voderman and the concept of refinancing which push the buttons all the way as far as Mini is concerned. He can quote, word for word, quite a few of the bigger offenders (with telephone numbers) and this, believe me, is not because he has been sat in front of the TV all day; it's a classic case of being able to learn something easily if your imagination has been captured by it. Although quite WHY car insurance jingles, Brylcreamed men in cheap crimpelene suits fronting LoanShark Inc. and anything involving Yakult are so enthralling beats me - but that's perhaps the basis of another blog sometime.

Anyway, this peculiar little trait of his has recently broadened into avid perusal of the Yellow Pages. He'll happily spend ages trawling through them, a habit I have done nothing to discourage because it COULD form the basis of A Topic For Discussion if he starts asking questions about something he's found in there. Nothing's wasted in the world of a home-edder. What I think must have happened this afternoon is that he stumbled across the page entitled 'Oil Companies' and, knowing Troll works for an 'oil company', started having a closer look. In the aforementioned Perverse World of Mini, 'looking' invariably leads to more tangible and tactile forms of exploration and, because one of his more endearing (if often dangerous) traits is his love of 'helping', he probably thought ordering some oil for us would be something which would earn him major brownie points. That, and the widdle-inducing excitement of a dirty great tanker turning up in the yard, of course.

I am SLIGHTLY comforted by the thought that no contract instigated by a seven-year-old is legally binding. However, it does beggar the question, what else has the little monster been arranging when my back's been turned? I shudder in horror when I think of the number of credit card company letters addressed to Mini which have appeared over the years in our postbox... OK - they COULD have been just idiots getting their data mixed up, but after today one does have to wonder....

There was also the occasion on which some oleaginous little creep rang up on the understanding his company had been contacted by somebody from our household who said they had been injured in an accident through no fault of their own recently and had expressed interest in employing the services of said company in the pursuit of compensation. As I absolutely DESPISE this sort of ambulance-chasing, imported American activity I sent him away with a flea in his ear, and put the whole incident down, again, to an instance of muppetry in the creep's communications' department. Now I am not so sure I didn't do them an injustice ....

However, before anybody thinks this was the end of the Adventures of Mini in BT-Land... it gets worse...

I went out for a bit of light relief to my quilt guild meeting this evening, leaving Mini in the tender care of Charlene - Chicken Boy James' elder sister and general no-nonsense, red-headed, object of Mini's intermittent lust. Charlene, being aware of the Oil Tanker Incident outlined above, took it upon herself to instigate further interrogation of Mini during my three hour absence and ascertained LocalRipOff Fuels are by far from being the only company to have been subjected to Mini's telephonic attentions. In fact, the little beast has today also rung FOUR removal companies to give them orders to come and remove himself, his toys, his 'fings' and the ghastly nit-ridden little girl from next door to France.

Well, at least I'll know what's happened when the removal lorries start turning up in the yard....

More Bouzy Rouge anybody???

It's that time of year again...

... when Flipping Caravans start infesting the countryside. As I discovered yesterday when I attempted to do something as simple as nip the mile or so down the road into the village to get some milk, bread and comics for Mini and I (The Beano and both The Times and the Daily Mail respectively in case you are interested). It took pretty near a quarter of an hour to cover the distance; as firstly I had to wait as a procession of the grotesque things passed my driveway, and then attempt to join the queue of hapless ordinary motorists which had formed behind them. Had it not been raining when I started, I would have reversed back up the drive when I first clapped eyes on the caravan procession and walked down instead, but I am NOT getting wet, not even for the necessary pint of Angevin morning tea.

Not only were the things, out of necessity I suppose, crawling along, but they also had periodic episodes of slamming the brakes on: presumably as they saw the traffic islands narrowing the road opposite the village green and - shock! horror! - as the near-senile occupants encountered the 'wiggly bit' a bit further on and panic set in. So you can see a journey which normally takes a couple of minutes was lengthened to over seven times that length of time by the lunatic traffic laws which permit these obscene vehicles to trundle around uninhibited at any time of the day or night. It probably won't take my clever readership long to intuit that, by some miracle, were I to become Minister for Transport the very first thing I would do would be to ban caravan traffic between the hours of 6am and 10pm; thus ensuring that firstly their deranged owners didn't annoy the rest of the population in daylight hours and secondly a fair number of them would be taken out by the drunk drivers pouring out of the pubs after 10pm and the knackered commuters on the roads before 6am. The Caravan Club would also be deemed a terrorist organisation on the grounds that their members regularly cause far more chaos on the nation's roads than they could if they merely put bombs on a few motorways. Perhaps I should write and suggest this to Geoff Hoon (the guy apparently 'in charge' of transport)... but on second thoughts he is just the sort of crazed lunatic who would own a caravan himself, so perhaps not.

Please note, I do NOT include motorhomes in this tirade. They can work up to a decent speed, aren't a liability to reverse and as far as I can see, are driven by your more on-the-ball sort of 'tourer'.

Whilst on the subject of caravans, has anybody else noticed the ludicrous names the things have? Presumably these are dished out by the manufacturers in a vain attempt to make the them sound exciting? Because, let's face it names such as 'Hideous Lump of Metal', 'Mobile OAP Home', or 'Please Pass Because My Underpowered Car Can't Do More Than 35mph With This Thing Stuck To It', whilst true, are not going to have the things rolling off the forecourt like hot Ferraris, are they? I have also noted that the names which do find their way onto caravans fall into three broad categories (I surmise to cater to three aspirational groups who are delusional enough to even consider purchasing one):

1. Names like 'Swift', 'Sprite, and 'Ranger'. Presumably these are meant to falsely tempt the potential buyers into imagining they'll be merrily speeding on their way to their glorified-picnic-area-of-choice? Because let's face it, by no criteria could a caravan be called 'swift'; a large cubic lump of metal, however mobile it might be, bears about as much similarity to a sprite as a dung heap; and people who buy the things tend to only range as far as the stocks of Tena-Lady they can carry with them will last.
2. Names such as 'Charisma', 'Senator', 'Challenger', 'Conqueror' and 'Buccaneer' which I suspect are there to appeal to the male side of the caravan-purchasing equation who would rather imagine they are closer to a variety of aging Clint-Eastwood-style Marlboro Man, than to the crimpelene-slacks-wearing individuals they actually are. This, I would suggest, is rather sadder than category 1. WAKE UP GUYS - in the very purchase of the Flipping Caravan you are placing yourself firmly in a group where Foggy and Compo would feel comfortable and, no matter what piratical name you give your rusting heap of junk, it's going to have about as much swash and buckle as a can of mushy peas. Captain Jack Sparrow you are NOT, far less Jonny Depp - in any incarnation.
3. 'SMUG' names, like 'Applause', 'Accolade', 'Pageant' and 'Ovation'. Now, this is a bit of a more subtle approach and one which I suspect is designed to appeal
A) to those who feel they will get 'value for money' from their tin can and therefore deserve some credit for their financial perspicacity. YOU ARE DELUDED my little caravan-loving pals, if you imagine for one minute that is the case. For starters, the cost of the things is astronomical; bearing in mind the average age of a caravanner in the UK and the dwindling number of years they can reasonably expect to be able to drive a car and caravan safely, they could probably go on at least one luxury holiday a year, and several mini-breaks, for the same amount of dosh. Then we have the increased fuel consumption to add as their poor little cars try to drag the thing along the roads; the nightly cost of berths in the picnic-areas-laughingly-described-as-caravan-parks (having done some quick research these are NOT cheap!), and the cost of gas, batteries and other consumables in the tincan itself. Add on the insurance charges for the caravan, the cost of maintaining it, and the higher fares on ferries etc if you daringly venture out of the UK and it's painting a pretty grim picture. So no 'Applause' for you, my poppets.
B) Alternatively, it occurs to me the smug name could be attempting to appeal to those who, in buying their own little home on wheels, could be giving themselves a massive pat on the back for thus cleverly avoiding the necessity of interacting overmuch with the locals should they venture out of Britain. I can just imagine them congratulating themselves on being able to have their Own Cups Of Tea with their Own Ghastly Culinary Concoctions lovingly created on their Own Little Stoves in their Own Little Mobile Shack. And thus avoiding the Horrors Of Foreign Food and Foreign People. In which case, you do indeed get an ovation, comrades - as I see the back of your metal box thump off the ferry on the other side of the Channel and thus out of MY country. The UK can do without this sort of bigotry, which has made it the laughing stock of Europe and held us back for too long. I hope your camping gaz appliance blows you and your flipping meat-and-two-veg to a place far further away than Europe...

Roll on the day when the rule of law finally breaks down and it will no longer be an offence to fit missiles to the front of one's car. Because me and whatever incarnation of the Aquatic Passat I'm driving then will be out there... be very scared, caravan owners, because I will be watching you....

Labours of love...

The next time I start suggesting I add thin sashing to quilt blocks when I'm assembling them to make a quilt top, somebody tie me up and subject me to waterboarding or similar to make me mend my ways.

Sashing, for the initiated, is a term referring to bands of material you sew around the outside edges of quilt blocks when you have enough of the latter for whatever project happens to be the topic of the moment. They are usually all in the same fabric and thus both 'frame' the blocks and can also give a bit of unity to the design as a whole. As I'm sure my clever readership can work out, the narrower the bands, the more fiddly the work involved...

... a fact I should have remembered earlier on today, when I decided to add some narrow cream sashing to the 140 blocks which will eventually make the latest Chateau Angevin quilt. Narrow = 1 inch finished width in this case.

I started to question my sanity when I'd cut out what seemed like a billion 1.5 inch strips. I continued to do so as I chopped the said billion strips up a bit more so they were the same size length as my quilt blocks. But what really did push me over into teeth-gritting rage was the issue of pressing the seams ... ironing is not my fave task at the best of times and the sheer tedium of grappling with narrow bands of fabric which ALL seemed to want to go the opposite way to the way they should was enough to make me wonder whether it would be less annoying to just unpick the whole lot now and think of some other way to put the things together rather than persevere with this mad plan.

Unfortunately I am made of equal parts lunacy and stubbornness.... and truth be told what I have done so far looks really nice and really sets off the lovely fabric (Fig and Plum by Fig Tree Quilts for Moda) so it looks as if we could be in for several more days of grumpiness until I get this job done.

Somebody, somewhere send me a magnum of Aloxe Corton. Premier Cru if you are feeling generous (or guilty)....

On a lighter note...

... I worry about Baby Troll sometimes...

Yesterday, immediately after we'd dropped Troll off at the bus station as he was returning to the Algerian Autistic Man Camp (aka his workplace), a very chi-chi blonde, resplendent in Big Shades, and driving a little, trendy, sports car pulled out in front of us.

"I LOVE HER" screeched Baby Troll, his eyes out on stalks
"Don't be ridiculous, Baby - you don't even know her. She could be a horrid old moo"
"No, she looks lovely. She looks NICE. I bet she'd look after me. I LOVE HER"

Bear in mind here Baby Troll is not quite eight years old. Which beggars the question what on EARTH is he going to be like when he's 14? Or 18, for that matter?

And another one...

People who know me well will be surprised that to date there has been no mention of the whole 'Baby P' issue on these pages.

Well that's going to change now, but before I commence my rant, I'd just like to point out that things about me aren't always as transparent as they might appear. It's true that part of the reason I haven't commented on the case was because most of it was kicking off during the few months I didn't blog at the start of this year and thus my rants, such as they were, were verbal, and directed at those around me on a daily basis, rather than blogged. However, it would be more relevant to say that I didn't comment publically largely because I find the whole thing just too upsetting to think about very much. Coming from a very large, very Welsh, family (the Welsh attitude to children and family is pretty close to veneration for the uninitiated) mentally I shy away from considering the sickness of mind which would inflict the sort of pain on a child which Baby P endured. I am not exaggerating when I say to think about the issue very much would lead to quite unpleasant nightmares on my part, and I'm enough of a coward to attempt to avoid that if I can.

However, today on reading the BBC news website (surprise surprise), I discover that attention has now turned to the NHS professionals who had dealings with the child; they have received criticism for failing to pick up on Peter's injuries earlier. The BBC helpfully listed the occasions on which the child had contact with the NHS:
- Six recorded visits to hospital, two of which were to an A&E unit
- A GP saw Peter 14 times, the last of which was a week before his death.
- One visit to a specialist health service.
- Five visits made to Peter at home by health visitors
- Two recorded visits to walk-in centres
- Other contacts include mental health workers and parenting counselling service

On the face of it, it's pretty shocking, isn't it? The GP and another paediatrician have now apparently been suspended on the strength of this case (see below for my reaction to that). However, just think about it for a minute... here we have SIX different areas of expertise between which the unfortunate child was shuffled. The report itself admits there wasn't a coherent level of communication between any of them so reading between the lines, it seems each was effectively working in a vacuum, not knowing whether anybody else had noticed anything strange about Peter's injuries. And I think this is the crucial point...

These days nobody has the guts to stand up publically and say there are some parents out there who are just not fit to be parents. No, in these PC times, we have to consider those parents' 'human rights' etc etc and as a result, rather than looking the problem in the face and seeing it for what it is, we have shied away from it and created a whole raft of different 'organisations' and experts to whom to pass the buck. A&E departments, unless in cases where it is utterly impossible to ignore the nature of injuries, are far more likely to let the patients go once they've been treated and make a discreet phone call to social services/the patient's GP than they are to call anybody WHILST THE PATIENT IS IN THE HOSPITAL because they are just SCARED. Scared of the physical violence which could so be easily directed towards them once the suspected perpetrators realise what has happened. Scared they'll be seen as 'interfering', 'judgemental' or 'prejudiced' and denounced as such by the lentil-knitting PC crew who have infiltrated virtually every public institution. Scared of the potential legal action which could be directed against them and their hospital/health authority by the suspected perpetrators who, by and large, are pretty savvy as regards sniffing out the possibility of compensation and aware they have been handed the upper hand in such situations by the aforementioned lentil-knitting mob. It takes a very brave health professional these days to put their neck on the block and actually kick off about injuries they see which they find suspicious. Coupled with the fact most NHS emergency services are run off their feet most of their working day, I'm not at all surprised they didn't appear to have said very much on the occasions Peter was under their care.

After an (unsurprisingly) pretty firm, complaint from me following a particularly blatant piece of stupidity on the part of our local health visitor (a Barbie-like creature not even I can find the words to express my contempt for) I was thankfully spared much contact with health visitor services after Mini got to the toddling stage. You can imagine my thoughts on their general efficiency however... I have no doubt that some of them are genuinely excellent at their job and do no end of good. However, I am also equally sure that the vast majority are absolutely useless when it comes to doing anything more than uttering vapid statements along the lines of 'there, there, have some antidepressants and join a playgroup'. It's rather sad we have to have them at all, and I can't help but think all the authorities actually envisaged them doing when they were created was filling the vacuum left when modern society lost contact with the notion of 'extended family'. All in all, therefore, I am completely unsurprised nothing resulted from Baby P having contact with health visitors...

Looking at the rest of the list of organisations with whom Baby P had contact, brings forth many of the same thoughts. We just can't expect health professionals to voluntarily kick off about potentially abused individuals when we have simultaneously allowed a culture to develop where they are likely to cop a lot of politically-correct flak for doing so. There are, however, two exceptions to this; firstly I note mental health services were involved. Did it not occur to anybody that if the parents are perceived as needing this sort of treatment it might be a good idea to play safe vis a vis the children concerned? Oh, silly me, of course not - to do so would infringe the human rights of the mentally disturbed. Secondly, I cannot excuse the GP (whom I note has been suspended); he had more contact with the family than anybody else, he was the best placed to form an adequate assessment of the danger posed by the parents to the children, and he was the first to see many of the child's injuries. I haven't actually read any comments stemming directly from this person, but if, as I suspect, he felt hamstrung by the considerations I have outlined above, I don't think in this case he deserves any sympathy. 14 visits to him and six to A&E are way, way too many to ignore unless the child had a chronic health problem and I haven't seen anybody saying that this was thought to be the case. He should be ashamed of himself and should lose his job.

None of this is going to bring Peter back, poor little soul. Nor in my wildest dreams do I imagine it's going to mean we are going to get an injection of common sense into the set up and a move towards telling the PC-mob where they can stuff their rights. If you talk privately to most health professionals, the police, or even social services, most of them will admit THEY think there are some people out there who just aren't fit to be parents, to use the phrase I employed earlier. But they can't actually DO anyting about it because they'll be hung out to dry for letting their middle class prejudices affect their work. WHAT IS SO WRONG WITH MIDDLE-CLASS PREJUDICE? I am not suggesting for one minute there aren't abusive middle-class parents but statistically they are much smaller in number than those in 'problem families'. Middle class kids might be subjected to mental pressure as regards to doing their homework or get rickets from a too vigorous adoption of whatever trendy diet is in vogue at the time, but by and large they do not visit the doctor's surgery 14 times with injuries including a broken back. Why CAN'T children who are living in appalling conditions (and who the professionals know are statistically unlikely to lead productive, fulfilled later lives because of this poor start) be taken out of these conditions and placed with middle-class adoptive parents? (Goodness knows there are enough childless couples, or ones who just want more children around to love). Yes, there undoubtedly would be cases, where for whatever reason, the authorities got it wrong and children would be moved unjustly, but I would argue these are likely to be far smaller in number, assuming we had people with some common sense at the helm of the relevant authorities, than we that of children currently suffering.

In considering the rights of the abusive parents who gave birth to these unfortunate kids, we are forgetting the rights of those children themselves. And surely it is the children who are the most important thing - or am I missing something here?

A couple of overdue rants...

Is it just me, or is everybody else sick of this flipping 'MPs' expenses' debacle?

Personally, I don't really give a tinker's cuss what public monies the little dears have been directing towards their own wallets to pay for their mucky-film hire and take-away curries - how ever much the bill comes to it would be but a drop in the ocean compared to the gazillions Comrade Brown has chucked at various banks, had the elves photocopy at the Mint or blown on bomb-dropping sprees in the Middle East. What it IS, however, evidence of, in my humble opinion, is a very nasty little facet to the English character (as if there weren't enough anyway); ie. the deep seated dislike of anybody who has more money than you do and a sort of obsessive-compulsive need to Cut Them Down To Size. Now, I have a suspicion this has its roots in the fact the English are, always have been, and always will be, essentially feudal in outlook and are thus never so happy as when they can have a good old moan about the 'toffs' they perceive as 'above' them in status whilst simultaneously dumping royally on anyone unlucky enough to be thought to be 'below' so that they Stay There. Monty Python, not for the only time, was bang on the money about that one. I could go on about this but I shall save that for another outing (there's bound to be one!). The essence of my theory is if your average Englishman finds out you earn 50p more than him per annum, your days on his Christmas Card List are numbered. (And ironically these are the people who have such a downer on Communism... beats me!)

I've lost count of how many whinges along the lines of 'MPs are paid too much anyway, it's disgusting they've been fiddling their expenses and defrauding the taxpayer' I've seen on various public fora. What this ACTUALLY means is 'MPs are paid more than ME and I'm jealous *I* haven't had the chance to put my paw in the till too'.. Because, and make no mistake about it, I would be extremely surprised if any of the Oh-So-Moral (and I regret to say largely fairly illiterate) commentators would behave any differently were THEY put in the same environment as our beloved elected leaders. You don't fool me, contributors to the BBC Have Your Say forum, oh no,...

What completely bypasses the subjective little minds of these people is the fact that in real terms, our MPs are NOT paid much money. The current salary for the average MP is £65K per annum - which moreover is taxable - ie. about the same as one might expect to get for a fairly average middle-management position. We only the pay the Prime Minister himself around £195K which is far, far, less than the MD of even a moderately-sized company could expect to receive per annum. All THIS is, I would suggest, the problem - to quote my Dear Old Dad, 'you pay peanuts, you get monkeys'. In this case monkeys of very average ability WHO WE ARE EXPECTING TO RUN THE COUNTRY. Is it any surprise, then, we are in the abject mess in which we currently find ourselves?

The trouble is, given the English need to knock down anybody climbing up the greasy pole faster than they can, there isn't an easy way out of this. Given the current furore over a few thousand quid blown on some cushions CAN YOU IMAGINE the uproar there would be if we kicked the whole bag of mediocrities currently at Westminster out and replaced them with truly excellent, innovative and imaginative, leaders - and paid them industry-equivalent salaries?? I suspect the BBC Have Your Say server would melt down in around 10 minutes under the weight of grammatically-dubious protest coming its way. The same people who have absolutely no problem with various anorexic, bipolar, junkie, chanteuses earning, say, a conservative £2m per annum for inflicting what they laughingly call 'music' on the world would have an instant cardiac at the thought of paying somebody even half that amount to run our country.

I will NEVER understand the English... and frankly, I am absolutely nauseated by the spectacle of so many MPs, shiftily shuffling their feet around, eyes downcast in the best Princess Diana tradition, SAYING SORRY for being naughty boys and girls and helping themselves to that wicked patio heater. It's just more evidence to me of their basic mediocrity and craven need to stay on the little pedestals they've clawed their way on to - I'd have FAR more respect for them if they just said 'Stuff you - I needed that patio heater, I was entitled to claim for it and I'll bloody well do so again given half the chance'. At least that would be honest.

Which brings me on to my next overdue topic of discussion... swine flu. Again, I am sick to my back teeth of listening to the endless chatter about this particular topic. According to a report made only a few hours from my writing this, there have been 4,700 cases worldwide and 61 deaths so far: my reaction? BIG BLEDDY DEAL. Sorry guys, but these figures would just not be newsworthy were the media not intent on following the dictates of their political masters and are whipping up hysteria about it in a vain attempt to divert attention from the economic situation.

So, in the best iconoclastic vein, here is an effort to restore some balance... the Angevin attempt to try to put some perspective on things:
- It is estimated that each year in the UK alone around 114,000 people die from tobacco-related diseases
- Estimates of annual alcohol-related deaths in England and Wales vary from 5,000 to 40,000.
- Since the beginning of August 2008 91,164 cases of cholera were reported in Zimbabwe alone, 4,037 of them were mortal.
- From 1967-1993, the World Health Organization has reported an annual average of 1666 cases of bubonic plague. The number of actual cases is probably much higher, given the failure of many countries to diagnose and report the plague. In America an average of 10-15 cases per year have been reported during the last few decades.

So get real guys... yes, the swine flu can, has and probably will continue to, kill people. But so do a lot of other things - AND WE HAVE A VACCINE FOR SWINE FLU. Frankly, I'd take my chances with bedding down with the dear little piggies for a week rather than try to cross the road at Hyde Park Corner during daylight hours...

I really should keep my big mouth shut...

...especially about the chickens.

A few weeks ago, when indulging in the ritual sport of teasing James (who occasionally helps me with the birds) about his fondness for bantams (can't stand the things myself as a general rule - they're too small to eat, their eggs are piddly, they jump around and they make stupid noises) he made his usual pathetic attempt to justify his bizarre taste in chickens by mentioning that his ghastly little things go broody so at least that saves him collecting eggs and shoving them in incubators. "Yes, yes, yes, yes" said I blithely, "but my brahmas tend NOT to go broody - which means they keep laying and I can flog the eggs to interested punters, thereby making enough cash to cover their costs..."

THE NEXT TIME I SAY SOMETHING LIKE THAT somebody please slap me. The very next day two of my wilful little madams decided there was nothing else which would fulfil them so much as sitting inside their houses on top of a bunch of eggs and repelling all boarders who tried to move them. And it's spread... I now have approaching TEN biddies in the same situation. Now, whilst broody brahma hens are immensely funny to look at - they look just like fluffy galleons in full sail, pull extremely grumpy faces and make the most hilarious outraged noises if you go near them - I was at least bang on the money when I said they don't continue to lay when they are brooding. Which means they aren't earning their keep... and there is the side issue of now *I* am the butt of James' teasing, rather than the other way around....

...at least, I suppose, he's right and I don't have the hassle of dealing with so many eggs in the incubators... grrrrr

Whew, that was some weekend...

Just as well I had a thoroughly relaxing time en seule in France for a few days, because this weekend has been a thoroughly draining emotional roller coaster.

For those of you unaware of the fact, I am involved with a small chamber choir (www.dodecantus.org.uk); but before anybody starts thinking we skip around singing piddly little madrigals and more of the same sort of navel-gazing musical self- indulgence, let me disabuse you. Dodecantus, from its inception, has always striven to be 'different' - we put on things which even large choral societies would think twice about. And by some miracle 99% of the time we manage to pull it off, possibly the prime example of this being our rendition of Poulenc's Stabat Mater which, for the uninitiated, is a hideously difficult piece of music. We are, to our knowledge, the only chamber choir to ever even think about doing it and so far, thankfully, we have had rave reviews at every outing.

Anyway, to get back to the point, this Friday and Saturday saw us presenting our Spring programme, which in the general scheme of things tends to focus on music lifted from the more serious side of the spectrum. On this occasion we sang seven items from the Rachmaninov Vespers, a cantata by Karl Jenkins (Dewi Sant) and four anthems (Mathias' Let the People Praise Thee, O God, Bainton's And I Saw a New Heaven , Walton's Set me as a Seal and that old warhorse of the English choral repertoire, Parry's I Was Glad, for those who are interested). I admit to a certain amount of quiet back-patting when several members of the audience who hadn't been to one of our concerts before confessed when they saw only 15 singers trot out at the start they wondered whether they should have come, as there is nothing worse than sitting in a seat squirming in embarrassment as you watch people make fools of themselves on stage, but they were completely won over before we'd even finished the first number. We were indeed in good form, and I think last night in particular was one of the best performances we have ever given.

Which is especially good, because it was our conductor's last concert leading us; unfortunately he's had to bow to work pressure following a promotion and we were the sacrifice. Now, in the almost-three-year period of Martin's rule, it's the nature of the beast that it hasn't always been sweetness and light - musicians being what they are, there's been a certain amount of whinging and griping along the way from all parties. However, in the course of the evening, it was really brought home to me, both from the comments our members were making, and from observations from the audience, just how much of a team effort this choir is; and how much Martin has contributed to that team effort. In giving my farewell post-singing thanks I don't think there was a dry eye in the house, nor at the traditional expedition to the curry-house-opposite-the-church after the concert did the atmosphere alter. It really struck home to me how much the choir means to so many of the membership - we've all made it our 'second family' and just the sheer joy of making a harmonious (well, OK, 'MOSTLY harmonious'!) noise once a week has so enriched us all.

All of which has really made the headache of finding our next conductor more intense... Martin's successor will have to be exceptional... watch this space!