Hooray for old bats! They are the ones who have the courage to say what the rest of us chicken out of.

Old bats are women of a certain age - brought up in days when older women had a right, nay, a duty, to interfere in lives of people around them - especially concerning children, and who believe in continuing this tradition.

There was one in the supermarket this morning. A small boy was waiting for his mother to choose yoghurts. As he waited, he pushed the trolley back and fore, back and fore in front of the shelves. So as other customers reached out a tentative arm for the low-fat Greek style, BANG! A trolley would re-appear and get your foot.

A number of us were getting irritated and raising ineffectual eyebrows at each other. Then an oldish woman - early to mid 70s perhaps - came up to the small boy, fixed him with a fierce stare and said "Please don't do that."

And he didn't.

He looked at her astonished that anyone should speak to him in that firm tone. The rest of us looked round, anxiously, waiting to see what the boy's mother would do. But she took one look at the grey-haired woman and she too quailed.

The mother grabbed the boy, the boy grabbed the trolley, we grabbed our yoghurt and we were all happier.

But why were the rest of us such lily-livered cowards and wimps? Why does it take someone older to have the brass neck to say what the rest of us are thinking?

Maybe it is a generation thing. They grew up being told off by old ladies, and they're determined to have their turn.

True, these days if you try and tell other people's children or teenagers what to do, you're running a very real risk of a mouthful of abuse, if not worse.

But not always. As one brave lady discovered. She is my new role model.

Now I'm going to start practising, so I can be an old bat when I grow up - if only not to get my foot bashed at the yoghurt counter.

Packed your holiday reading yet?

If you have, I bet it's a fair guess that it won't include any Booker Prize winners but might well include the latest Jilly Cooper, Joanna Trollope or any other decent novel.

These are the books we enjoy reading. Books we sum up by saying "a good read", which is still somehow frowned upon by the literary establishment. Why?

Telling a story well and entertainingly is a talent that should be appreciated, recognised and rewarded. Indeed, in previous generations, story tellers were held in high esteem - if only for helping our ancestors get through those long dark winters. Yet now it seems such skill is sadly undervalued - except by readers.

Jilly and Joanna were a double act at the Hay on Wye festival last week. Cheerfully bemoaning the fact that they'll never have the literary recognition accorded to the great un-read.

Bu they'll have the last laugh - they've got the readers. And the bank balance.

WE are off on holiday. I have found and booked the cottage. I will drive there. I have washed, ironed, packed clothes. I have shopped for the things we need. I have also done my work, cancelled the milk and papers.

Senior Son came home with the entire contents of his flat and is going to Ibiza in a 24 hours turnround. I have sorted out his urgent washing, nagged about insurance and E111 and given him the first and last healthy nutritious food he has had or will have in weeks.

Smaller Son is home tomorrow to collect his car. I have taken it out to make sure it's working. I have cut the grass, watered the baskets and picked the ripe gooseberries. I'm sure there are more things I have to do before we go, but I can't quite think straight at the moment.

Husband, meanwhile, has done nothing more strenuous than look at the map book and think about a route.

Sometimes, just sometimes, you can't help wondering if it wouldn't be a lot more restful just to stay at home.

Bereft without Becks and the boys

Football fans are making themselves ill. Apparently, the end of the football season is like a bereavement and fans can't cope alone.

Amazingly, three quarters of fans questioned in the survey commissioned by Premiership sponsor Barclaycard, said that football was more important than anything else in their lives, including religion, politics and their family.

In which case, It's probably time they reported to their nearest mental health clinic, as soon as possible.

As for the rest, who just suffer more modest withdrawals, maybe instead of spending the winter watching football and experiencing it second hand, they should actually go out and play it.

Or would that be a bit too realistic?

Published: 04/06/2003