Pottering about with my bit on the Ambleside

An envelope, addressed to me in children's handwriting, had landed on the doormat two days before my fortieth birthday. Inside was the voucher, colourfully home-made on the computer.

Four children were looking at me with big smiles: "Happy Birthday, Dad," they said.

"A romantic weekend in the Lake District. WOW!" I said with genuine excitement. "But who's the ravishing teenager?"

"Better get a bag packed, handsome," said my wife with a cheeky wink. "It's just me and you."

An hour later - the kids having had a quick lecture on the Trades Descriptions Act, and left in the care of their auntie and uncle - we were on our way.

By early evening, we were sipping Chenin Blanc in the afternoon sunshine on the lawn outside the Wateredge Inn, overlooking a gently lapping Lake Windermere, as two devoted swans floated effortlessly by to complete the picture of perfection.

We ambled, hand-in-hand, up to Ambleside, had a meal, and ambled back. No kids to get to bed. No "I need a wee" interruptions in the middle of the night.

A lie-in, breakfast with no fights or spilled drinks, then a bracing boat trip up the lake to Bowness. With no-one moaning about being bored, hungry or needing the toilet, we dipped in and out of shops, peered in windows, and had little rests in tea rooms when we felt like it. Up the hill to Windermere village and more of the same. No rush, no particular aim.

"Isn't it nice, just pottering about," said my ravishing teenager.

POTTERING! The word cut through me like a knife. We were pottering. We'd become potterers.

This was serious. My parents used to potter and us kids used to hate it. Pottering is a middle-aged occupation.

One more day and I'd be 40. MIDDLE-AGED. A middle-aged potterer.

My middle-aged reflections were interrupted by an exclamation of excitement from my ravishing teenager.

"Oh look! It's Lakeland Plastics."

"Eh?"

"Lakeland Plastics - I've had stuff out of the catalogue for years but I've never been to the actual store," she gushed.

And so began an hour and a half of concentrated pottering around Lakeland Plastics, the place where you can buy all kinds of 'essential' implements you dont really need but mums can't resist.

Things like a flexible scone lifter, expanding toast rack, spoon rest, potato hopper, butter curl maker, gravy skimmer, cast iron round bacon crisper, chrome banana tree, tea-bag squeezer, ceramic egg separator, jar scraper, tea infuser spoon and my personal favourite - the Salt and Pepper Wobblies: "This smart looking cream and chrome-plated pair will rock and roll but will never topple, providing guests with a giggle all through dinner parties," we're told.

They must have some really exciting dinner parties in the Lake District, mustn't they - having a good giggle over their wobbling salt and pepper pots? One day they'll discover charades, and sales will plummet.

Anyway, by some minor miracle, we managed to resist the Salt and Pepper Wobblies, but we did emerge with an ultimate tin-opener (even though we already have at least two perfectly good ones), a posh potato-peeler, a flexible spatula and a professional splatter-guard - all for my birthday.

My ravishing teenager was a very happy woman indeed. And, on a romantic weekend away to celebrate my coming of middle-age, that's really all that mattered.

THE THINGS THEY SAY BETTY Desborough was teaching at St Peter's C of E school in Brotton, East Cleveland, a while back and asked the children: "Who can tell me who lives at Buckingham Palace?"

Met by a sea of blank faces, she gave them a clue: "She's the most important lady in the country."

A little boy called Michael immediately had the answer: "My Gran!"

MANY moons ago at Dodmire Junior School in Darlington, a ten-year-old girl called Ann was writing an essay about what she wanted to be when she grew up.

She'd written passionately about her ambition to be an air hostess but her teacher, Muriel Jones, told her it needed a pithy ending. That's when Ann added the conclusion: "Adultery here I come."

"I think you might mean adulthood," said the teacher.

REGULAR contributor Ernie Reynolds, of Wheatley Hill, County Durham, writes with another two little gems. . .

They were learning the alphabet in the infants class.

"Billy," said the teacher, "what comes after Q?"

"Cumber," replied Billy.

A little girl was standing on the kerb with her head going left to right rapidly and then finally bursting into tears saying "I can't do it, I can't do it."

It turned out that her mother had told her that before crossing the road she must look BOTH ways.

...and finally, a postscript to the last column about Max, aged five, being determined to marry his Mum when he grows up.

He's now decided I can still live in the house after the wedding - and so can the other kids.

Published 25/04/02