Who's Got The Conch?

I keep saying to myself... 'must sow the tomato seeds and put em on the window sill'.... and nothing seems to happen. Well, not nothing exactly. We decided that before spring sprung properly we would set to and redecorate the hall stairs and landing and so I find myself every spare or not so spare hour stuck on the end of a paint scraper with an overblown hair dryer in the other hand trying to strip this horrible cream gloss off architraves and banisters and skirting boards. Once the scraper has clogged up with a molten glutinous mess of vile smelling paint it seems to set instantly to concrete with the adhesive powers of a limpet. Then there's the wallpaper. I thought I might get lucky but no, underneath the woodchip there's a layer of plasticised mock wood panelling and underneath that there's another layer of mock wood panelling and underneath that there is, or was, some plaster. I do not see this project ending anytime soon so at some point, possibly the next available sunny day, I will have to decamp to the allotment to restore some semblance of sanity.

Must spare a thought for the less fortunate amongst us though. Victoria's major problem seems to be how to find her way from Malibu to Santa Monica. Gosh, don't some people have it rough!

It's sad (but no great surprise) that the UK is way at the bottom of the list in the child well-being stakes. Somehow it seems that Brits have almost abdicated parental responsibility now. We gave up the conch years ago and now the kids won't give it back and they seem to despise us. We, in turn, look on them (youth) with a mix of fear and suspicion and dare hardly say boo to a goose for fear of getting bladed. I know it's more complicated than that but we'd better put some effort in where it counts or it really will be Lord of the Flies territory before we know it.