Booking an appointment

 

Booking an appointment

Small rant!

The optician advised me to book a blood cholesterol test, so on Wednesday I submitted an online request and was informed that I would be contacted within twenty-four hours.

On Friday, not having heard anything, I ‘phoned the medical practice. I was number nineteen on the list, but was offered the option of pressing 1 and told I would not lose my place in the queue and would receive a call back. I waited patiently, making sure my ‘phone was in easy reach at all times. After an hour, I lost all concentration and moved onto other things. There was no call back.

I decided I would start again on Monday and sit on the ‘phone until I achieved my objective. This morning, in my email, the following message appeared:

Please DO NOT reply to this email address as it will NOT be delivered to your healthcare provider.

Dear Mrs Cooke,
All our clinicians will be operating an Urgent only service on 22 & 23 Sept for issues that cannot wait.
You’ll be able to submit requests directly through our website using Rapid Health from Wed 24 Sept. Please see attached for further information.

Thank you,

To view your attachment, please follow this link: https://accurx.nhs.uk/c/p-s7hf8qr6vw

Ringmead Medical Group

However, I will not be attempting to use the new ‘Rapid Health’ system on Wednesday that is replacing the ‘Klinik’ system, as the link tells me it is not for routine appointments. I haven’t got anything else to do on Wednesday, so will sit on the ‘phone and wait, listening to the awful, mind-numbing musak and the oft-repeated messages about emergencies. Thank goodness I don’t go out to work any longer.

Heaven help those who have urgent requirements!

Ask for Janice

Ask for Janice

‘Ask for Janice’ is a cocktail bar and event venue that used to be located near the Barbican. It relocated to Tileyard Road near King’s Cross station in June of this year. My middle daughter was amused by the name.

There is another place in Brooklyn that goes by the same name, but there is no other connection. ‘Ask for Janice’ comes from the Beastie Boys’ album, Paul’s Boutique.

Are you ticklish?

 

Are you ticklish?

Some people are extraordinarily, almost painfully, ticklish. Others do not respond at all to being tickled. Both reactions are entirely normal, so anybody who tells someone who is not ticklish, ‘No sense, no feeling’ is ill-advised.

Everyone in my family is extremely ticklish – everyone, that is, apart from me. I have never been rendered helpless with laughter at being tickled, though I love to hear young children giggling when they’re being tickled, and that makes me laugh.

I may have slightly ticklish feet, but I can control the reaction to tickling. I always have the sense that I’m disappointing everyone by not being ticklish, but I can’t pretend.

Even my dogs are ticklish, particularly their feet, but not my cats.

Is there any advantage to being ticklish? Is it better not to be ticklish? Does it matter? (No, not at all!)

It’s just not cricket!

 

It’s just not cricket!

Herschel snoozes

Last night, through the heavy blanket of slumber, loud voices encroached. I struggled to understand. Were they outside? Children’s voices in the middle of the night?

But, no! They were downstairs, in my house, uninvited. As my ears adjusted, I recognised they were not children’s voices at all. With slowly dawning realisation, I understood that the voices were emanating from the television in the sitting room.

Periodically, I recognised an advertisement – something to do with insurance, I think. Advertisements are always louder than the programmes they interrupt, or so it seems to me, and so many of them are about insurance.

The voices were just loud enough to impinge, but not clear enough to be understood, a hindrance to all eavesdroppers, not that I was in the mood to snoop. My dilemma was whether or not I should go down and turn off the television. Had I opted to trudge downstairs, I would have been followed by all the animals, who would then be expecting some sort of attention – a trip into the garden, maybe, or a tasty treat. On balance, it was simpler to remain upstairs and that is what I did. I tried to block out the sound and resume my sleep. I dozed.

Sweet dreams. Jellicoe

I don’t know which cat it was, but one of them had turned on the video recorder, in order to watch a cricket match between England and South Africa. Unfortunately, for England, South Africa won.

To cap it all, Jellicoe has just hooked a buttered scone from my plate, which he then dropped, to Gilbert’s delight and satisfaction.

That’s not playing fair! It’s just not cricket!               

Cedar

 

Cedar

Returning from the optician on Saturday morning, I stopped by the church and took a photograph of the venerable Cedar sheltering the gravestones beneath its spreading branches.

It is probably Cedrus libani, usually known as the Cedar of Lebanon, a tree often planted in Victorian and Edwardian times in churchyards. It symbolises strength and spirituality.

The foundation stone for the Crowthorne church of St John the Baptist was laid in 1872, and the church was consecrated in 1873.

The churchyard houses Commonwealth War Graves from both World Wars. Three brothers from the Boyde family are commemorated there, although all were buried abroad. Private Arthur Boyde, Royal Sussex Regiment, was twenty when he died in 1916 at the Somme. His brother, Corporal George Boyde, of the Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry, died in 1917. Private Walter Boyde, from the same regiment, died in 1919, after the cessation of war, possibly from war injuries. One can only imagine what grief must have been visited upon the Boyde family.

In addition, a cross in the churchyard honours those who died and were buried without memorials.

The churchyard is a peaceful, well-kept ground, with headstones for tiny children, and others for those who lived a long and fruitful life. Fresh posies appear on graves from time to time, and not always for the most recently deceased.

 Rainbows

We don't often see rainbows, but we have seen a couple recently.

One afternoon, rain lashed while the sun attempted to counteract the dark clouds. Together, sun and rain conspired to bring forth a dramatic rainbow. The photographs were taken from the patio door into the garden and have not been edited.

A few days later, more rain fell in a dispirited, half-hearted manner. The result was a wishy-washy sky with an uninspiring bow. The clouds promised more precipitation, but did not deliver.

Note the anemometer on the pole to the left of the tree. There's also a rain gauge there, which gets blocked occasionally!

The netting on the right-hand side of the photograph is a Heath Robinson affair, designed to allow air to enter and prevent small humans from escaping.

Dogs and puppies

 

Dogs and puppies

Roxy with her ball, Gilbert waiting.

Roxy and Gilbert met a puppy the other day, a yellow Labrador called Max, thirteen weeks old, and very new to the experience of walking in the Great Outdoors. Well brought-up puppies know that they should be submissive to their elders and so they roll onto their backs, exposing the most vulnerable part of their anatomies to the seniors. Frequently, an inadvertent release of a small amount of puppy pee will occur, to further placate the adults.

When the older dogs sniff the puppy, it will squirm with delight, sometimes squeaking. Some dogs remain submissive all their lives. Our senior Jack Russell, Biddy, had an endearing habit of submitting to people in her ‘pack’ all her life.

Roxy is never happier than when she is carrying a ball, and if she can manage to fit two in her mouth, she is even more delighted. She will not relinquish her prize to another dog, only to a human. While Gilbert may sometimes be distracted from the task of retrieval, Roxy is fully engaged and always knows where a flung ball has landed, often pointing it out to Gilbert.

However, when she met Max, she dropped her ball and allowed him to play with it. Well-bred, properly-socialised adult dogs recognise and understand the needs of puppies. We have been fortunate to have had a number of puppies, and it is heart-warming to see an adult dog gently playing with a young puppy.

Gus playing with puppy Bertie.

To the inexperienced it may look and sound dangerous. There is a lot of play growling and mouthing, huge adult jaws enveloping tiny snouts, the puppy being allowed liberties no adult dog could enjoy.

Frodo playing with puppy Jenna.

Should the puppy become too boisterous, the adult will discipline it, firmly and so quickly that a human may miss the reprimand. Nonetheless, just as humans need a break and a rest from the insistent demands of toddlers, so should dogs be respected and the puppy removed to a safe place for a nap after a period of play.

Bertie sleeping with his big friend, Gus.

Young puppies miss the warmth and security of their litter-mates. Adult dogs don’t often sleep together, but will tolerate a puppy snuggling up to them.

Puppy Gilbert with Roxy and Herschel on his first night in his new home.

Tinea

 

Tinea

Tinea, perhaps more commonly known as Athlete’s foot, is an intensely itchy condition which is hard to eradicate. It is frequently acquired in communal changing rooms.

Barry suffered with tinea during his running years. He travelled the world on business, and went running in every country he was sent to. It was a wonderful way to explore different landscapes.

He tried many remedies for Athlete’s foot, and consulted doctors who recommended different treatments, but nothing seemed to work.

One day, our Dalmatian, Cariadd, began to lick his feet. Once he had overcome the ticklishness of her attention, he relaxed and enjoyed it. To his surprise, within a few days, the tinea had cleared completely. It may have been coincidental, and maybe it would have disappeared on its own eventually, but Cariadd was credited with almost magical properties. She only ever licked his feet when tinea recurred and passed on her ‘knowledge’ to the younger dogs.

People sometimes shudder when they think about a dog licking their feet, but it’s actually incredibly soothing.

Academic

 

Academic

September marks the beginning of the academic year in UK, a fresh start just as the northern hemisphere sinks into autumn.

We often say, ‘It’s academic’ in a rather dismissive way, implying that a subject is not worthy of discussion, or else that whatever one may say will not make any difference.

Being called an academic can be considered a compliment or an insult.

Many years ago, I had a problem with my back and consulted a well-known sports physiotherapist. In the course of recording my details, he asked me what work I was involved in. When I told him I was a teacher, he asked, ‘Academic?’

It was obvious that I was not a physical education teacher, but I laughed, as I was then teaching seven-year-olds. Teaching young children is certainly taxing, but could hardly be described as ‘academic.’ The physiotherapist was very well qualified and pleasant, but had no apparent sense of humour, so I swallowed my mirth and muttered, ‘Academic.’

However, I did discover through him that I had scoliosis, which was the cause of my back pain.

It is strange that the beginning of the academic year does not align with the start of the New Year.

In the UK, the start of the school year was governed by the farming year. Children were required to help with gathering the late summer harvest, leading to the traditional long summer holidays. This busy time was finished by September. It also meant that Christmas and Easter provided natural breaks.

In the southern hemisphere, the school year begins in January, while in Japan, it starts in April, the beginning of the fiscal year, and ties in with the flowering of the cherry blossom. In India, it may start at any time between March and June, depending on the region and its climate. 

Words for Wednesday.

 

Words for Wednesday.

River has supplied the prompts for this week. The objective is to encourage people to write. Why not visit her to see what others have created?

The prompts are:

shipwreck  hook  unexpected  buttermilk  white-knuckled  buggy

Strange new colours for paints

She was tired of the bland look of her new house and wanted some ideas for unusual colours. The paint samples had intriguing names. Whoever could have guessed there were so many shades of white with such eclectic labels? Apple White, Swiss Coffee, White Dove, Chantilly Lace, Scotch Mist – her head spun. Each one was designated for a different aspect, north-facing requiring something quite different to south-east.

She continued searching for ‘just the right colour.’

‘It will speak to you,’ her daughter had said, but she was rapidly discovering that she was profoundly deaf.

Beauty Berry Purple sounded tempting; it was bright and deep and cheerful, but overpowering. It would be impossible to furnish a room with walls that colour.

Buttermilk was another version of white, a creamy, yellowish colour, a little like vomit. It would be difficult to find accessories that would complement it and not emphasise its less attractive qualities.

She pondered on Shipwreck for a long time. It was an exciting colour, a mixture of green, blue, and grey, but not calming. She could imagine it causing nightmares, so decided against it.

White-knuckled was extraordinary; ivory white with grey overtones. It was too cold for any room in which one hoped to relax.

Hook replicated the colours of fishing hooks – bronze, black, blue, and occasionally red or rainbow coloured. None of those appealed – they were too brash.

Unexpected was exactly that – a startling shade of vibrant pink with underlying pigments of gold and silver. That would certainly reflect the sun, as well as the moon, electric light, candles, oil lamps, or any other source of light. Even a flickering match would trigger a kaleidoscope of blinding, flashing luminosity. It was far too stimulating.

The last one on the paint chart was called Buggy. The name made her think of mosquitoes and midges, and she started to feel itchy. She couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to paint their walls such a muddy, dull shade of brownish-grey, or was it greyish-brown? At least the dirt wouldn’t show, she smiled to herself.

As she drove home, she congratulated herself on her decision. In the boot of the car were several litres of the paint she had chosen. It was every builder’s favourite; Magnolia went with everything. It was bland, yes, but inoffensive. She could always redecorate later . . . again.

On a sunny September day . . .

 

On a sunny September day . . .

 

. . . an industrious spider was at work, centred in her shimmering web, waiting for hapless creatures to wander in.

'Will you walk into my parlour?' said a spider to a fly;
’Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy.
The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,
And I have many pretty things to shew when you are there.’
‘Oh, no, no!’ said the little fly, ‘to ask me is in vain,
For who goes up your winding stair can ne’er come down again.’

From the poem by Mary Howitt (1828)

 

First day

  First day

Ariella is four years old, the daughter of my second granddaughter. She is more than ready for school! Here she waits under a tree in her all-new uniform, keen to start the day. I love the boots!

Big cousin Fergus, nearly 11, is looking after her. He delivered her to her classroom this morning. He is starting Year 6, his final year in primary school, and Ariella is starting in Reception class.

It was a lovely sunny morning in Dorset, but Ariella carries her own sunshine, anyway!

Isla joined Fergus and Ariella for a photograph. Isla is twelve and at secondary school. She is my oldest great-grandchild and almost the same age as my seventh grandchild, Frankie. I cannot believe she is wearing a tie. I didn't think schools were still so unenlightened.

Ariella is very fortunate to have her cousins living so close. I'm sure her grandmother, my eldest daughter, appreciates how lucky she is to have all her family near . . . and handy for baby-sitting duties!

I don't suppose Ariella will look quite so neat and tidy at the end of her day. See here for a more realistic expectation.

 Me and my shadow

Sunday afternoon alert

 

Sunday afternoon alert

3:01

The 3:00 pm alert sounded at 3:01! It didn’t last long and was reasonably loud, but could easily have been missed if we hadn’t been near our ‘phones.

Obviously, in a real emergency, the alarm would have continued to sound – well, one assumes that would be the case!

In life, we assume a lot – too much, probably.

For example, NHS blood tests are regularly conducted for all sorts of reasons. Three years ago, Barry had a routine blood test and was told, ‘We’ll contact you to let you know the results.’

To clarify matters, he asked if he should call, and was assured that he would be informed. ‘We’re very busy,’ they said. Time went on and life intruded. No-one called and thoughts of blood test results receded into the background.

Anyway, to cut a long and tedious story short, it transpired that Barry’s kidneys were showing signs of damage. That was apparent from the blood test in 2022, but no-one told him. Had he known, he would have adjusted his diet accordingly. Fortunately, we eat a largely salad-based diet, but there are some things he shouldn’t eat or should limit, like tomatoes, dried fruit, avocado, wholewheat bread, brown rice, dairy milk, olives, apricots, and potatoes, among other things.

Adjustments are now being made, too late to undo any damage done in the last three years, but enough to prevent further deterioration.

The lesson we have taken from this is to follow up every test, even if rigorously assured that we will be informed of results. In other words, we have to be ‘squeaky wheels.’

On advice, Barry takes his blood pressure every Monday and sends the results to the organisation that requested them. Recently, he discovered that the results are in a vacuum somewhere, his medical practice having no knowledge of them.

Again and again, this pattern is repeated. There seems to be no connection between one department and another, and if there’s a crossover between NHS and private medicine, life becomes even more disorganised.

Individually, administrative and medical staff are good – diligent and dedicated to their excellent work - but they agree that the system is broken and urgently needs overhauling.

Questions are answered and problems resolved eventually, but it all takes too long. I think the answer is to always carry a sharp stick and poke the sleeping beast that is reputed to be the envy of the world. Not everyone has the time or the capacity or determination to ask the right questions, or move to ‘the next level.’

 

Broadmoor alerts

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Broadmoor Hospital is one of three NHS high security psychiatric hospitals in the UK. We live half a mile away from it. It houses about 230 men, aged eighteen and above. Not all the inmates are criminals. Some are hospitalised under the Mental Health Act because of mental illness or personality disorders which, untreated, could lead to them harming themselves or others.

In 1952, following a breakout by a dangerous individual who then murdered a young girl, a network of thirteen sirens was established to warn residents of nearby towns and villages in case of further escapes.

The sirens used to be sounded every Monday morning at 10.00 and could be heard across a radius of two miles. People would set their clocks by them. One Monday, when they went off, people realised their timepieces were slow. They muttered and reset their watches only to discover later that an escape had been effected, just moments before the alarm was due to be tested.

If the sirens sounded while children were at school, the doors were locked and the children retained until their parents or carers could come to collect them. Once, an inmate escaped and was so terrified by the noise and freedom that he went into a police station and gave himself up. Another time, the escapee hid in a local resident’s shed.

Overall, there have been few escapes.

In 2018, the wailing sirens were decommissioned, to be replaced by a digital alert system, which can relay through television, social media, and messaging services. The hospital, now in new premises, relies on double perimeter fencing, more than three hundred cameras and special coordination with Thames Valley Police.

Occasionally, we meet some of the staff when we’re out with the dogs. They are tough, interesting individuals with many a tale to tell. Broadmoor is not a workplace for the inattentive or faint of heart.

My daughter-in-law’s mother was a psychiatric social worker who used to visit Broadmoor from time to time.

I miss the sirens.

Alice Grace

 

Alice Grace

The Mindful Narrowboat is a series of vlogs filmed and narrated by Vanessa Thomas. She has lived on her narrowboat, Alice Grace, for six years, accompanied by her yellow Labrador, Zephyr.

Vanessa was a teacher for twenty-five years, and a head teacher for the final five years of her time in that profession. Now she travels the canals and waterways of Britain, recording the wildlife, and sometimes domestic, farm life, and some history of the places she visits. She also keeps a journal, in which she documents and draws the things she has seen, accompanied by poems she composes.

Her life seems calm and measured, and obstacles are met and overcome with aplomb. Even when the weed in the water clogs the engine, or the water level drops perilously low, she is steadfast and cheerful, but realistic. Lashing rain and beating sun are treated alike as part of life, to be borne and accepted.

Towards the end of each video, Vanessa makes tea in a china teapot, places biscuits carefully on a plate and takes mug and plate to her drawing desk. She sits and writes and draws, making everything seem so effortless.

Watching her videos is almost an exercise in mindfulness. Each episode lasts about thirty minutes. To live comfortably in a relatively small space takes considerable organisation. Alice Grace is a welcoming craft, though I have to confess that it is not a life I would embrace.

Vanessa publishes her journals periodically. The photographs I have taken are from her 2022 work.

 

Words for Wednesday

 

Words for Wednesday

River has supplied the words for this week’s prompt. They are: conviviality   adoration   willpower   mellow   gentle   guitar

The aim of the words is to encourage some form of writing. Why not join in and also visit some of the other participants?

Will Power was a gentle giant. At least, that’s what his friends called him. He was embarrassed by the nickname and understood how awful his girlfriend felt when everyone referred to her as Miss Conviviality.

That name was not given in a spirit of friendliness, more as a slur on her character. In her teenage years she had been too generous with her affections to the bolder youths of the small seaside town, thinking that was the way to gain popularity. What she had mistakenly thought was adoration proved to be contempt and scorn. Changing her attitude had brought ridicule, since the lads refused to believe she was different. Will had watched and listened and made up his own mind.

He saw how she sat apart from the rowdy crowd on the beach, strumming softly on her guitar and singing in a sweet, low voice. He watched as the rougher youths catcalled and made lewd remarks and how she made no response. He noticed how the quieter girls sat close to her, as if to protect her.

He decided he liked her and wanted to know her. He courted her in an old-fashioned manner, and she responded cautiously, her nervousness and distrust slowly giving way to confidence and self-belief. Will’s strength and assurance gave her poise and grace.

Gradually, the taunting voices fell silent, and the town ne’er-do-wells slunk away like scalded cats. No foolish young man dared any longer to belittle her. Will was mild-mannered, but would stand no nonsense from anyone. He would never start a fight but would not hesitate to finish one.

In the mellow sunset of a late summer evening, Will asked her to marry him, and she consented. Peace and happiness followed and the unpleasant past became a faint memory.

Emergency alerts

 

Emergency alerts

!

I have just discovered, quite by chance, that the (UK) Government will be conducting a nationwide testing of the Emergency Alerts system at 3.00 pm on Sunday 7^th September. The alert system is used to inform of life-threatening emergencies, like wildfires, severe flooding or extreme weather.

From Gov.UK:

The government does not need to know your phone number or location to send you an alert’.

The alarm will sound on mobile ‘phones or tablets, even if such devices are set to silent. It lasts for about ten seconds and takes the form of a loud siren sound, a vibration or spoken word. It includes a telephone number or a link to a government website for more information.

I seem to recall that the last time the alert system was tested it was something of a damp squib and could easily have passed unnoticed.

If people don’t have compatible devices, ‘you’ll still be informed about an emergency. The emergency services have other ways to warn you when there is a threat to life.’

That led me to wonder how ‘the authorities’ would know who would not be able to receive alerts and what methods would be employed to ensure that they were informed.  Door to door visits by volunteers, perhaps, or a candle in the window? Church bells tolling or emergency service sirens wailing?

It reminds me of circumstances a few years ago when schools were not being opened because of poor weather. I enquired how we would know the latest developments and was told, ‘Local radio announcements.’  ‘I don’t listen to local radio,’ said I. I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to locate local station on my radio. The reaction was one of disbelief. How was it possible to exist without constant attention to the local radio station?

Anyway, we all survived. I await Sunday’s trial with interest and have informed all my family of what to expect.

The London Family

 

The London Family

Jack with Roxy, Herschel and Gilbert

The London family came to see us on Saturday. We hadn’t seen them since June and, of course, the children have grown. Charlie was ten in August and is going into his last year of primary school. The nail-biting business of applying to schools begins now, with offers not made until March. The most popular schools have strict catchment areas, which are adjusted from year to year, according to the numbers applying. There is no guarantee of a place being offered, unless the child lives right on the school boundary.

Charlie and Jack made a beeline for the cats and spent much of the day playing with them and stroking them. Jellicoe responded magnificently, stretching out on whichever child’s lap he was inhabiting. Herschel became rather over-stimulated and started lashing his tail, a warning to keep clear. He is not as used to being handled as his brother, since he doesn’t make regular visits to the vet. He is very affectionate, but on his own terms.

Robert is entranced by cats and loves watching them. He says he’d get no work done if he had a cat. As he’s allergic to them, having to take an antihistamine before he comes to our house, it’s not very likely he will be acquiring one. It doesn’t stop Charlie researching hypoallergenic cats, though there are no completely hypoallergenic cats.

Roxy and Gilbert were largely ignored. The children have a Labrador of their own, so dogs are not a novelty to them.

Jack spent quite a long period playing cards, first with me, and then with Barry. Apparently, he plays three card games with Bethan every morning before breakfast!

I had made a trifle, but realised, after I had started, that I had no custard. Charlie and Jack were very understanding, but made it clear that a proper trifle should contain custard. I promised them that I would order some immediately, and did so. The lack of that vital ingredient did not prevent them from quietly demolishing most of it in the dining room as the adults sat and chatted in the conservatory, unaware of the boys’ activity. It didn’t do them any great harm as it was packed with fresh blueberries and raspberries.

All too soon, it was time for them to leave. We sent them away with apples and plums and a tradescantia I had potted up. Ninety minutes later they were home again. It had been a most enjoyable day. The dogs and cats were exhausted, Herschel so much so that he didn’t come upstairs to bed. Most unusual!

The following day was a quiet one, as the animals reverted to their usual routine. Today, Monday, the dogs have been out for a lovely walk, and much joyous swimming in the rather depleted ponds. We have had heavy rain, but need very much more. We haven’t had a hosepipe ban imposed in our area, though it could still happen.

Most schools start back later this week, and life returns to normal, with all the demands that come with a busy Christmas term. The daylight hours are shorter, the nights cooler and longer, and soon we shall be lighting our first fire. Then it will be time to draw the curtains, light the lamps, and enjoy the cosiness of autumn.

Pin the tail on the donkey

 

Pin the tail on the donkey

                                Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

I was going to write about nodding donkeys, and G.K. Chesterton’s poem, 'The Donkey,' which somehow always makes me cry, but decided instead to repost an extract from a story I wrote. My apologies if you’ve read it before.

For context, Mike and Jane have organised a party for their son, Alexander, who has some behavioural issues. They have set up a ‘Pin the tail on the donkey’ game. Believe it or not, there are still families who play traditional games – it’s not all entertainers and discos.

When Mike and Jane realised that none of the children was likely to get within a stone’s throw of the donkey, let alone its nether regions, they decided to let them have a go without blindfolds. The first child stuck the tail on the donkey’s nose, the next on its hindmost hoof. Three children opted for the pleasantly rotund mid-portion of the donkey, one for its eye, another for its ear. The rest of the guests went for the hindquarters, or rather the back half of the animal. No-one came anywhere near the right position, which made Mike wonder if any of them had ever seen a donkey, or horse, or cow or indeed any quadruped with a tail.

‘Does anyone know where a donkey’s tail goes?’ Mike asked cheerfully.

The tiny doll-sized girl’s hand shot up. ‘I do,’ she yelled. ‘On his bottom,’ and she giggled. The rest of the children went into paroxysms of laughter at this rude word and repeated it excitedly to each other behind their hands, eyes wide with shocked delight.

Mike looked despairingly at his wife who was struggling to maintain a straight face.

‘Very good,’ he said. ‘Would you like to show me where his bottom is?’

The tiny doll-sized girl put her hands over her face and peeped out at him through her laced fingers. She shook her head.

‘Would anyone else like to show me?’ he appealed, but his words were lost on his audience, who were rolling around on the floor, clutching their stomachs and gasping as they cackled.

‘Can anyone show me where the donkey’s tail should go?’ he asked, hoping that sanity might be restored, but the children were seized by hysteria and a couple were going red and starting to cough and splutter. From experience with his own children, Mike recognised that overexcitement would soon lead to tears and possibly vomiting and loss of control of other bodily functions.

‘I’ll show you, shall I?’ he boomed and lurched energetically towards the donkey whose cheerful smile exhibited a mocking aspect he hadn’t noticed before.

In his haste to reestablish normality he failed to notice his shoe laces had been tied together until he was brought to a sudden, undignified halt. Overbalancing, he crashed to the floor, narrowly missing a small ginger child who had been watching him since he entered the room. The cherubic blond boy was also watching and Jane thought she detected glee on his face.

‘Shi- shall I show you?’ Mike bellowed, heroically resisting the urge to swear loudly and profanely. The small ginger child stuck its first and second fingers in its mouth and its little finger in its nose and gazed at Mike as he fumbled his laces undone and struggled to his feet, rubbing his knees. The tiny doll-sized girl giggled suddenly and said, ‘You’re funny, you are. You’re funny. I think you’re funny.’

She looked at the other children and said, ‘We all think you’re funny. You’re funny, you are.’

All the children started chanting, ‘You’re funny, you are, you’re funny.’

Mike bared his teeth in what he hoped was a smile, which Jane later informed him looked about as convincing and heartwarming as Hannibal Lecter’s menacing leer. He picked up the donkey’s tail and attached it to the correct part of the animal’s anatomy.

‘There,’ he said triumphantly. ‘You see? Now, which one of you would like to have a go?’

The tiny doll-sized girl looked pityingly at him and said in tones of infinite patience, ‘Well, it’s there now, so you’ve won, haven’t you?’

The small ginger child sucked harder at its fingers, the cherubic blond boy muttered some more about pass the parcel and Alexander burst into tears and punched his father in the groin. Mike gasped and sat down heavily on the sofa. As he fought to prevent the colourful Anglo-Saxon words that were trying to force their way past his teeth, Jane took control and called the children to the kitchen for tea.

The ensuing fracas was eye-opening. The tiny doll-sized girl stood on her chair and reached across the table to grab a bowl of crisps. She sat down and put a protective arm around the bowl, shrugging off all comers with a snarl and cramming crisps into her mouth at an astonishing rate. The blond cherubic boy took bites out of several slices of pizza before replacing them on the plate. Another boy, one of the tough-looking kissing duo, spat out everything he tasted and disliked, which proved to be most things. Alexander licked his finger and swiftly marked half a dozen chocolate fancies before snatching the plate with all the cheese and pineapple skewers and disappearing under the table.

The small ginger child piled its plate with cocktail sausages, ate one and knocked the plate off the table as it suddenly realised it desperately needed the loo. It asked Jane to help with the intricate buckles on its shoulders. Thus it was that Jane was able to ascertain that, despite all appearances to the contrary, the child was a boy. She had been fooled by the long ginger ringlets and the elaborate rings and bracelets he was wearing. His name was androgynous – Kim. His clothes, too, gave little clue to his gender. He was wearing dungarees, true, but they were red and white gingham with flower motifs over a silky pale blue polo neck. The shoes on his neat little feet were black patent with big silver bows.

‘Kim,’ she asked as she fastened him back into his outfit. ‘Have you any brothers or sisters?’

He gazed at her, long lashes shading his wide eyes. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m the one and only, never lonely.’

‘Oh,’ said Jane, somewhat taken aback.

‘Mummy and me, together we’re free,’ he said.

‘That’s good,’ she murmured.

‘I love her and she loves me,’ he added.

‘Lovely,’ breathed Jane.

‘Together till eternity,’ he sighed.

‘What a strange child’ thought Jane. ‘Does he always speak in rhyme?’