The wonder of walking

It’s a dying pastime, apparently.

Fewer families than ever now go striding out together. A university lecturer who did a study on it said: “Walking is an inclusive activity allowing families to share a common interest and spend quality time in the fresh air.”

Ha!

Just getting out of the door was a triumph.

“Do we have to?” “We’re not going far, are we?” “I can’t find my trainers.”

“My boots are too small.” That’s MY hat!” “My legs ache.” “It’s too hot/too cold/too wet.”

Once en route the boys would either run hither and yon out of sight or drag tediously, falling ever further behind. So our “quality time” would be spent saying “ Come on… ”Get a move on…” “No not in the ditch. I said not in the di...” “Yes it’s a dead rabbit. No, you can’t take it home.

And yes, you are too big to be carried.”

We would let them read the map, point out splendid views, points of interest, birds and flowers, sing songs, have quizzes, play games and arrive back utterly exhausted, while the boys got their second wind and dashed triumphantly towards the television.

Husband and I once returned to our old house and did a walk through the woods that when the boys were small used to take us an entire afternoon, or even a whole day. Just the two of us, it took around half an hour.

One of the boys once famously said: “I think ‘Let’s go for a walk’ are the saddest words in the English language.”

Still, we persevered until they were in their teens and then gave up the unequal struggle.

But it was worth it. Like so many of the things you do with your children, it’s not just immediate pleasure, but a sort of opening them up to the possibilities of life. So they realised, however unwillingly, that those things at the end of their legs have a use and were introduced to the odd concept of walking for fun.

And yes, now they have turned into walkers. They both regularly walk miles to work and also walk for pleasure – especially if there’s a pub in the middle. Sounds fair.

Of course, if I walked with them now, I would be the one dragging along behind, making them wait.

So I might do that. Just a little payback...

DAVID Beckham has had another tattoo, this time to honour the memory of his Jewish grandfather. It’s a figure of Christ.

Shall you tell him or shall I?

SO now the Government is trying to sell of some of the vast stocks of the vaccine – about £1bn worth – they bought to beat the expected swine flu pandemic, which turned out to be nowhere near as lethal as expected and not even a pandemic after all Which followed the threat of the bird flu epidemic... and the SARS epidemic...

One day we are going to have a genuine epidemic of something very nasty indeed and you know what?

We’ll ignore it, saying: “Oh yeah, we’ve heard all this before...” And then go down like ninepins.

If the Government advisers want something to read while they wait for the last of the snows to melt, they could do worse than start with the story of the little boy who cried wolf.

But it’s a pity that the people in charge of ordering huge stocks of vaccine with such careless abandon weren’t the same people in charge of ordering the nation’s supplies of grit.

Bin the books and use your common sense

SO do you bring up your baby by the book? LibDem leader Nick Clegg, right, has fallen out with babycare guru Gina Ford by saying her rules on strict routines and letting a baby cry, were something akin to following an IKEA manual and about as rewarding. Yes!

It’s not the routine, but the book that’s the problem. Fashions in childcare ricochet back and forth in every generation. In my day it was the opposite, but just as hopeless.

We all read Penelope Leach, who was so baby-centred that it always seemed there was no room or time for another child, a partner or – God forbid – that a mother should actually want some life for herself.

My mother was vastly amused by all my books on childcare. “All very helpful, I’m sure,” she said. “But the trouble is that the baby hasn’t read them.”

The books were binned. The babies and I were much happier.

A bag of plums should do it

MYLEENE Klass was apparently reprimanded by the police after she spotted intruders in her garden and she banged on the window with a knife to frighten them off. A knife that you’ve just snatched off the draining board is an offensive weapon.

And if she’d snatched up a mug?

The kettle? The frying pan?

Excessive force is quite rightly condemned, even against intruders.

But they at least have time to think and plan what they’re going to do.

Frightened householders have no such luxury and will grab whatever comes to hand.

Sitting on my draining board right now is a big bag of frozen plums.

Rock solid with lots of sharp bits, it could do someone some nasty damage.

And be nicely defrosted by the time the police arrive...

SO here’s to you Mrs Robinson...

Come on, admit it, when did you last take so much interest in Northern Ireland.

Widiculous!

SO Jonathan Ross has jumped ship from the BBC, having already offered to work for half his £18m three-year deal.

The BBC always claims that it pays its top stars ridiculous fees because that’s what the market demands and that’s what they could get if they went elsewhere.

Well, now we’ll find out, won’t we?

Terry who?

OF course Chris Evans wasn’t the same as Terry Wogan. Wogan took a million years to settle into his routine and build up his rapport with listeners and their imaginary little world. You can’t do that in a morning, or even a month.

But in 20 years’ time we’ll probably all be weeping buckets when it’s Chris’s time to move on.

And people will be asking “Terry Who?”

Give him time, give him time.