http://stickyfingers1.blogspot.com/2010/12/gallery-white.html

I understand the need to make massive savings. The country is in the mire; we owe £900 billion and that is forecast to soar to £1.1 trillion by next year.

According to the UK Debt Bombshell , it is the equivalent of every man, woman and child paying back £15,213. UK pays £120 million debt interest every day to foreign governments.

That kind of debt is not sustainable. Everyone agrees that significant savings must be made across the board. Something has to give.

Getting rid of child benefit for high earners, those people earning over £44,000, is one idea.

The Chancellor George Osborne, who before the election pledged to save child benefit, says it will save £1 billion a year.

While there are undoubtedly good arguments to scrapping a universal benefit for high earners – whatever they are (that depends, naturally, on whatever you earn. It’s probably £5,000-£10,000 more than what you are on) – the dichotomy comes with the mathematics.

In a one-income family, with the sole earner’s yearly salary at about £44,000, they lose their child benefit. For the oldest child in full-time education, that payment stands at £20.30 a week, with £13.40 a week subsequent youngsters. For that one-income family, it means losing £1,752.40 if there are two children in the family.

That’s a lot of money.

While some families may not even notice the money going into their bank accounts every month – see India Knight’s tweet about how she used her child benefit (she also tweeted that she didn’t claim it after 1998 when she returned to work) – for others, it is the difference between being able to keep the house warm in the winter; it is being able clothe their youngsters. It isn’t about paying for piano lessons.

But the real problem for the angry middle classes and Mumsnet and the like is the incredibly iniquitous decision to allow two parents who each earn just under the 40 per cent threshold (£40,000 each, say) to continue claiming child benefit.

How does that seem remotely reasonable? To many people, including Tory activists, high earners and those who will continue to receive child benefit when the changes come into effect in 2013, it is a monstrous policy.

Is the government sacrificing the simplicity of the system, by introducing a crude cut-off point without any regard for household income, for fairness?

All of this rather overshadowed Osborne’s next announcement to cap the amount of benefit any family can claim to £26,000. Of course, the comfy middle classes won’t be wringing their hands about that.

What next? What are the next elephants in the room to be sacrificed? Winter fuel allowance; pensioners’ bus passes; free TV licences for pensioners? More than likely. We are, as this government continues to say ad nauseam, all in this together. Unless you are super rich. Then that doesn’t apply, of course.

How many of us make solemn pledges to ourselves as the final bars of Olde Lange Syne fade into the ether, only to abandon them by mid January?

And January is such a depressing month to be making big changes: you are still coming down from the heady excitement of Christmas (avoiding all bills until February) and it feels so very, very flat. It’s dark, dank, gloomy. Usually wet or snowy. It is not the time to be planning dramatic weight loss.

So, September 1 it is for me.

Why? It’s probably something to do with the new school year, when new beginnings are tangible and you could see the challenges ahead. And there’s a chance the sun is still shining. It feels a more positive time to set challenges.

So it is with me.

For the past two years, I have been toying with the idea of not changing my career, but enriching it. Journalism is my first love and always will be. But I need something else.

I love the idea of teaching, but not being a teacher (this makes sense in my head). I feel utter frustration when I read stories of adults who cannot read or do not have sufficient literacy skills to get a job. 

I cannot imagine their despair. What must it be like to pick up a book and not being able to understand the words? What must it be like to look for a job, knowing you cannot read the adverts? If they have children, they are denied the pleasure of cuddling up and reading together.

After two years’ prevarication, I actually took the plunge last night and signed up for a course that will, hopefully, lead to a new and important strand in my life: teaching literacy skills to adults.

The course starts in a month and I am very excited. I hope I’m good enough. There are far too many people out there who do not have the skills they need and they deserve the very best help.

Every child is talented at something, of course, and it is always something to celebrate.

But there is something about stories of child geniuses and academic achievements that make me a little uneasy.

Take, for instance, six-year-old Esther Okade, who has just attained a grade C maths GCSE, and seven-year-old Oscar Selby who was awarded an A* grade in the same subject .

No doubt these children are incredibly talented, bright and gifted. Their parents are proud. The two wunderkids look happy enough.

I wish them every success as they grow up and hope they are happy and settled as they go through life.

But stories like these nag at me and I can’t quite put my finger on why.

Am I concerned about their well-being as they grow older and put themselves under intense pressures to prove themselves? Or is it about the outside influences, which heap pressure on them, leading to myriad problems?

Is it pushy parenting? There are elements of that in some cases of child prodigies, of course.

Is it about allowing them to have a “normal” childhood so they develop the social skills that are vital to living with their fellow humans?  A person who cannot empathise is an isolated and lonely figure.

What is it that makes me so troubled about six and seven-year-olds taking such formal exams?

Most importantly, what do you think?

The town does lack its one and two-star Michelin restaurants, although it does have a fine selection of chip shops and pizza emporia (I know many of the latter in particular).

But now is the time to put Walsall on the culinary map, people.

Will we find Walsall's Fanny Cradock?

The Channel 4 show Come Dine With Me is returning for a new series and it is looking for Walsall residents to take part.

Who wouldn’t want to see Walsall’s equivalent of this?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HSmr0S8e558

For those of you who are not aware of this show, it takes four strangers from the same town and each has to host a dinner party for the others. At the end of the week the most impressive host wins a £1,000 cash prize.

If you or anyone you know would like to take part then email leaving your name, address and contact number ASAP on: comedinewithme@itv.com or call 0871 200 3939.

And – no, I will not be applying. I don’t want to end up like this stressed-out woman:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OH2YrzXiRd4

I remember the pain and the sorrow.

I remember all too well the stand-up rows I had with my mother about them: both sides adamant that the other was wrong; neither would back down. It was like the OK Corral, but in a shoe shop.

The reason for this grief?  School shoes. I recall the shelves heaving with dreadful footwear that *no one* would be seen dead in: the “sensible” lace-ups with delightful crepe soles; the t-bars that no one over the age of eight would wear.  No – what every secondary school girl wanted to wear was the patent pumps with big Minnie Mouse bows (am I showing my age?).

Unfortunately, my mother with one eye on her purse and the other on the perceived longevity of this fashion attire refused to say yes. What I needed, she assured me, was sensible leather shoes that would keep my feet dry when it rained, warm when it snowed and were still appropriate when the sun was shining.

But – I was a near teen, going into what is now Year 7 and I didn’t want little girl shoes. It was an argument we endured at least once a year (depending on how long the shoes lasted). I can’t remember who won. I imagine it was 50/50. Maybe.

Fast forward *cough* a few years and I am having the same issues with my daughter. She is about to go into secondary school and does not want sensible Clarks. Fine – I don’t rate them anyway. But we are definitely at opposite ends of the spectrum when it comes to deciding what’s appropriate.

Do you think these Alexander McQueen shoes will go with my uniform?

Thin soled ballet pumps – as far as I am concerned – aren’t going to last when you are walking a two and a bit-mile round trip five days a week in all weathers. She won’t touch the Hush Puppies and I do sympathise: most are hideous or just too young (adorned with butterflies or silver hearts).

History is repeating itself. The stand-offs are probably hysterical to an outsider. I’m having palpitations each time we enter a shop; her body language speaks volumes. She can’t even look the shop assistants in the eye. I just apologise continuously.

Oh, that I could fashion a pair of school shoes that were right for a girl on the edge of teendom!

A plea to shoe designers: please save me from the embarrassment of another ding-dong of a battle in the middle of a shop. Is it so hard to come up with leather shoes that can satisfy mums and their fashion-conscious daughters?

Excuse me for a moment. I’m just going for a lie down …

I mean, I hate ironing and could cry each time I see the pile of clothing that needs doing.

But this week was different.

This week I ironed my daughter’s primary school uniform for the last time. And, look, I even took a photograph of it (except one shirt, skirt and cardigan, which she was already wearing by the time I got round to doing this).

Five small-ish shirts, two cardigans, a skirt, pair of trousers and a pair of culottes (you never know what the weather is going to be like). All done.

As I (kind of) ironed out the creases of each item, I thought back to how I first proudly ironed the aged 2-3 grey school skirt, crisp white polo shirts and bright red cardigan she wore when she first went to the school in nursery. Always desperate to grow up, she couldn’t wait to put on her uniform for “big” school.

Now we’re buying a proper blazer, garish tartan skirt, trousers from only one shop, a tie (five stripes showing, please, or she’ll be sent home), a PE kit to be worn for every sport known to man – including gum shield, and a “performing arts” kit.

I get a lump in my throat even thinking of her leaving the cosy environs of a primary school, a place where everyone knows each other and everyone is made to feel special.

I’m dreading the leavers’ service on Friday and know that I and my friends will be blubbering idiots at the end of it, while our partners laugh at our emotional outbursts.

But it’s the end of an era – and it’s all about to get very serious.

It’s all about to get very scary.

And she can’t wait.

N with Scamper

I’ve rarely contributed to Tara Cain’s Gallery because time just seems to fly by.

But Creatures (this week’s theme) was easier as I had the photos on my laptop.

It;s about Scamper and Squeak.

Last year, I capitulated on the pet front. I said no to cats and dogs (OH is allergic to the fur, thankfully).

We’d tried several goldfish, but they never last more than three weeks.

After the tragedy of several dearly departed fishes, the pestering for pets stopped.

Then it started again.

This time, I agreed to let them have a pet – but no rats or gerbils. I’d have loved a chinchilla, but they are a bit pricey. I love rabbits, but only the cute ickle ones.

But guinea pigs. Yes! I love guinea pigs. They could each have a guinea pig: two are needed for companionship.

Squeak

So, Scamper and Squeak came into our lives. I *adore* them. They squeak madly, love their fresh carrots and brassicas, and are genuinely friendly – even jumping onto my lap when we have them on a blanket in the hall.

I worried madly when winter approached, so moved them to the greenhouse to keep them out of the bitter cold (OH -who fusses them and talks to them as much as any of us – refused to have them in the house).

I chat to them more than the children do. I fuss them and feed them far too many carrot tops. But, look at them – awwwwwwww.

In his emergency 2010 Budget, Osborne has declared that from October 2011, single parents will be expected to go out and find work when their little one enters Reception class.

Presumably, the Chancellor of the Exchequer will be able to guarantee thousands of part-time, flexible jobs, 9.30-2.30 probably– perhaps term-time only.

Perhaps the remuneration will be sufficient to merit paying up to £10 a day for before-school or after-school care.
The salary will need to be good enough to make up for the fact that child benefit is to be frozen for three years from 2011.

The Government believes the new initiative to get lone parents back into work will save £380million by 2015 and will help 15,000 people into employment.

Really?

I’d love to believe that both the private and public sector will be falling over themselves to offer such ultra-flexible terms to those who need them. But it isn’t going to happen.

David Cameron visits a school

Is it?

I’ve had a bit of a wake-up call, to coin a cliché.

PicApp

I’ve decided that instead of worrying about the next bill that comes through my letterbox, demanding to be paid, or wishing I were a stone lighter and doing nothing about it, or worrying about work (the lack of it, the too-much-of-it), I’m going to take a step back and put everything in perspective. The glass will be half full. Again.

This was a promise I made myself in January – it was one of those New Year’s resolution that are always forgotten when the last of the Christmas decorations come down.

Every so often I remind myself of it and check myself to ensure I’m reacting to situations in a proportionate and appropriate way. If I read of a tragic or horrible event I remember the promise to myself. But usually I forget.

However, traipsing up and down to hospital six days out of seven for two weeks and driving to a care home for one week has brought home to me how short and precious life is.

Dad has suffered his third stroke. He is fortunate in that it hasn’t taken his speech and he is – thankfully – on the mend; he is slowly learning to walk properly again and is looking forward to recuperating at home.

Photo courtesy of PicApp

The nurses at Walsall Manor Hospital were marvellous, considering they were usually under-staffed, and the staff at the care home where he is receiving intermediate care before being allowed home are also fabulous (although he wishes they would serve tea later than 4.30pm because it’s a heck of a wait for breakfast at 9am the following day).

I’ve seen some poor souls over these past three weeks, once vibrant people with fascinating stories to tell. Many have been robbed of their speech or the use of their limbs and most need help with the most basic of tasks.

Seeing people like this has made me reaffirm my pledge to keep things in perspective. It’s time to stop worrying about the future and get on with living and enjoying my life and my family. The glass will be half full.

Just remind me, though, if I forget. Right?