I missed it today.

I never get anything very interesting in the post. Bills, junk mail, a load of baby catalogues I never managed to get off the mailing list for, plenty of “To The Householder” letters. If I’m lucky, a parcel containing something I probably shouldn’t have purchased. Even so, when the post hits the mat (later and later in the day, these days…) it’s a welcome sound, a bit of excitement.

Today there is no delivery, however, and deliveries have been suspended for a week while two 48-hour walk outs by postal staff follow in quick succession. In practise, I can’t see things getting back to normal again for at least three weeks.

It’s irritating – an inconvenience. I’m waiting for some yarn from the US to arrive, I had to send my niece’s birthday present by special delivery to get there in time as I heard about the strike too late for proper contingency planning. Annoying, but nothing serious. But I know others, desperately waiting for an important cheque, trying to send stuff to ill relatives, or book something important that this is more than a mere inconvenience for.

I do have sympathy for the workers and I also have sympathy for the employers – from all accounts, Royal Mail just isn’t profitable and they’re struggling. Post Offices all over the country are closing because they’re losing money – a shocking situation when you consider how much of a community lifeline a post office is in many rural and hence unprofitable locations.

The inescapable question is, why was the Royal Mail ever privatised? We’re told that a privatised company is much more efficient than a government owned service, but how can that be true when we used to have an enviable postal system with two deliveries a day, first class used to mean something and buying insurance in case the parcel got lost was actually much less of a necessity?

What I, and many others this week, have discovered is that there is no genuine competition for the Royal Mail. Couriers are much more expensive, inconvenient and don’t deliver as quickly unless you pay silly money. For letter post, sure I could send an email, but there are many things you can’t use email for. The Royal Mail is a monopoly to all intents and purposes. Even if you could get viable competition, how wasteful would it be to have several letter deliveries from different companies throughout the day? And having so many different collection points for different companies dotted around, with (presumably) different stamp systems – because door-to-door collection of letter post would be completely cost-prohibitive as we can already see with courier post now.

So, the solution isn’t to give in to all the workers’ demands, or even to allow the Royal Mail to make the changes and hike up the prices to be more more profitable. I think the only sensible solution is for the government to buy it back.

Any party willing to make that promise?

This morning, like most other mornings this week, the first thing I do after switching on the computer is to check Sky News to see if Madeleine has been found.

I can’t say for sure why this case has affected me so much, I suspect (like so many parents who are constantly refreshing the news page) it’s due to a strong feeling of “there, but for the grace of God, go I”. What’s stunned me though, is how so many parents appear to blame the parents for Maddie’s disappearance.

Most, I’m sure, are reacting out of a primaeval defence mechanism. “I would never do something like that” is an immediate comfort – a way of proving to yourself it would never happen to you.

And yet, what the McCann’s did was not in any way unreasonable. Mark Warner actively discourage (and in some cases ban) young children from attending the restaurants in the evening. Their baby listening service involves nannies patrolling corridors and only listening at the doors at certain intervals – not much different from a parent checking at regular points in the evening – and a parent would go right inside to check, not just rely on hearing something at the door in those few seconds.

At that particular resort, due to its unusual layout, the nanny patrols weren’t even available – the choices were to take your child to a crèche where they would sleep on mattresses on the floor or to have a babysitter inside the room. Neither option is ideal with young children set in their sleep patterns.

I can’t say I would have made the choices they did (mainly because we’ve never been able to afford that type of holiday, so it’s never even been a risk assessment we’ve made – and obviously hindsight is now coloured by the events on the 3rd) but neither can I fault their reasoning.

One eye-witness report I’ve read (admittedly on a message board and not widely reported in the news, so not a certainty) suggests the McCann’s were also using a baby monitor that night – a system which would have made it superior to many hotels’ baby listening services. Either way, it’s a risk that thousands of parents take every year without incident.

You see, every second of every day as a parent you are making a risk assessment. There is no such thing as risk free, just a balance between benefits and risk.

Sometimes, we cock it up (at least in hindsight). Can any parent lay their hand on their heart and say that they never let go of their toddler’s hand while paying in the supermarket, never looked up while chatting in toddler group to realise you haven’t actually seen your little one for a good ten minutes, never let your older children play out the front with their friends unsupervised, never lost them for a moment in Soft Play because you were talking or reading a book, never stepped outside to remove a spider from your house only to have your toddler lock you out for the next 45 minutes until a locksmith could be found (the last should be a dead give-away that I’m guilty as charged for all of those).

Most times there are no repercussions for our misjudgements. Except when there is. If something had gone wrong on any of those occasions, I would not have been a bad parent, but I would have taken all the blame upon myself. Forever. That’s what parents do, that’s our job.

I’m sure Kate McCann would give everything she owns to turn back the clock and not leave Madeleine that night. That does not make her a bad parent. It makes her a human one. She does not deserve our blame.

The blame belongs solely to Maddie’s abductor.

It must be my week for receiving enticing and delicious packages in the mail.

However, on this one I had some forewarning. A couple of weeks ago, I was sent an email asking if I would like to be sent a free Hotel Chocolat Signature Egg, in return for reviewing it here on the Prattle.

I have to confess I did a slight double-take at the implication that I might actually refuse free chocolate, but soon recovered from my shock, got in contact and sorted out details.

For the sake of transparency, I should at this point out that I am not in anyway affiliated with Hotel Chocolat, I don’t get squazillions of chocolate if you all rush out and buy one (more’s the pity) and I’m completely free to say what ever I like in the course of this review.

I just got to eat lots of luxury chocolate to give you the inside scoop – but you know how it is, I’m always prepared to go above and beyond the call of duty on your behalf. With that cleared up, on with the review…

I’d heard of Hotel Chocolat before, associated the name with a luxury chocolate brand, but had never got around to trying any of their products. Even so, when I received the parcel I couldn’t help but be impressed. Right from the start, the packaging just screams quality and high-class chocolate (in a very understated and refined way, of course).

I’m usually bitterly disappointed with Easter Eggs; after all the excitement and hype, you spend ages taking off about 20 layers of packaging, find a tiny little egg inside with wafer thin chocolate and if you’re lucky a minuscule little bag of sweets inside. Not so with the Signature egg.

On removing from the cardboard outer, the egg is reassuringly solid and heavy.

The egg itself is two distinct halves – one side plain chocolate and the other milk. The shell is thick and makes a nice substantial “crack” as you break a slab of chocolate away from it. The plain side is tart, without having that residual bitter after taste you get in some dark chocolates. The milk side is rich, creamy and substantial. No disappointment in sight.

But the most impressive part of all is the filling. The egg is crammed with mini “egg” truffles. All potently alcoholic. I’d describe them all to you, but they are very rich and I have eaten only the amaretto one which was divine. I shall be eking them out over several days so I can fully appreciate them and not get chocolate fatigue.

The only downside (you knew there’d be one, didn’t you?) is that at £19 plus postage, this is not a cheap Easter Egg. However, unlike the cheap and tacky ones stacked to the ceiling in Tescos, this egg really feels like it’s worth every penny.

If your budget still can’t quite stretch, then you may be glad to know that Hotel Chocolat are currently running a competition to win one of 20 Easter Hampers with enough goodies to make even the most hardened chocoholic squeal with joy. Visit The Online Easter Egg Hunt for more details – but hurry, I think the competition ends tonight…

Oh, it was good to see Richard Hammond back on the set of Top Gear. He looks tired and gaunt but otherwise seems his normal chirpy, cheeky self. The Hamster is intact.

It was quite impressive that Akra and I managed to watch Top Gear at all, actually. We rarely watch the telly, and the new season of Top Gear had been put on the calendar weeks in advance so we wouldn’t forget. But there we were, tuning in fifteen minutes early with a bowl of cherry pie and custard, settling in for an evening’s viewing.

But what WAS that dreadful show on before Top Gear?! Meerkat Manor – it looked more like Big Brother for rodents than a wildlife documentary. The voice over was particularly cringeworthy and saccharine. Can’t say that we were terribly impressed.

I think next week we’ll have to set an alarm for the television to be switched on at 8pm precisely.

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The thing that mystifies me most of all, out of all the conundrums that life regularly throws at me with abandon, is why … if it’s going to rain at all in a day … WHY do the heavens always open just around three o’clock in the afternoon?

Don’t believe me? Then ask a parent of a school age child and you’ll find them nodding away in complete agreement.

Three o’clock is that magic time of the day known as “pick up time”. The time where every second ticks slowly by as you stand in the playground waiting for the home-time bell, shivering and usually wet, trying to make intelligent-sounding conversation while avoiding playground politics with other parents (most of whom you have nothing else in common with other than the fact their offspring goes to the same school as your own).

Conversely, it hardly ever rains at 9am. Why is that? If it rained at 9am rather than at 3pm, I get to send Akra Jr in early (they let them go straight in – heaven forbid they get a chill and lower the school’s attendance records. It’s only parents who are allowed to get pneumonia in the playground), so of course it doesn’t rain then.

There’s probably some logical climatological explanation to do with the clouds forming and warming up as the day progresses before they can release precipitation, but I prefer using Occam’s Razor in situations such as these.

The simplest explanation can only be that the universe is out to get me.

Read more about things that mystify others at participating Bloghuh? blogs this week:

Aprosexic
Blue Witch
bob’s yer uncle
Changing Places
Depthmarker
In the Aquarium
Jen&HerBoat
Kitchen Witch
La Que Sabe
London Daily Photo
Purple Pen
Quixotic Evil
Santiago Dreaming
Tabula Rasa
Who Knows Where Thoughts Come From?

This story about road tolls (Motorists ‘must pay for road use’) scares me.

Since we moved from Croydon, we’ve gone from only needing one car for occasional use (at one point we didn’t even own a car) to here in Worcester running two cars pretty much all the time.

Akra works a 45 minute drive from our house and his office is in a converted building on a farm in the middle of nowhere – not a likely destination for any bus service. In fact, bus services around Worcester are getting quietly cut all the time.

House prices nearer to work are much dearer and would put us in an even more precarious position with our mortgage, even if we were willing to pull the kids out of school.

Travelling by any means other than by car is JUST NOT FEASIBLE.

We are by no means alone. One of my neighbours lives 30 minutes drive away from her work and her husband’s job is 30 minutes in the opposite direction. Both need to be on the motorways at peak times.

In the article, it mentions:

If road charging was introduced, the government would be able to examine the option of whether it could raise enough revenue to replace fuel duty and the car tax disc.

But honestly, we all know this isn’t going to happen, don’t we? It’ll be in addition to rising fuel prices and the normal road tax.

It won’t make us a more environmentally friendly nation – for those of us living outside the big cities (unlike most of the politicians, it seems) there are no other options.

Those in the benefits trap will have even less incentive to find work if all their gains in finding a job are immediately taken away in road tolls.

House prices in cities will soar as people try and live close to work or near a viable public transport network.

This isn’t about the environment. This is about taxing the populace even harder, and if it comes in I think it might just topple our already fragile financial balance.

Well, I have loaded up a bowl of funsize chocolate in case we get any “visitors” this evening, although I shan’t be encouraging with doorlights or pumpkins. Hopefully we won’t get too many and I can scoff the remains later.

I hate Halloween. It is not a tradition done well here in the UK. I could see the point of it if I lived in the US – from all accounts it seems really fun there and everyone seems to get into the spirit of it. I love reading the sites with creative suggestions for costumes and DIY haunted houses.

Here in the UK, though, Halloween is groups of teenagers knocking on doors, occasionally buying a cheap “Scream” mask from Tescos and mumbling “Trick or Treat” unenthusiastically before putting their hands out for cash. All with the underlying threat that with lack of co-operation your property is likely to be floured and egged. (They’ll also be back for “penny for the guy” in a few days time (Bonfire Night) and in a month with a crappy rendition of “Good King Wenceslas” again expecting monetary reward) Understandably, many vunerable pensioners in particular find this a frightening time of year – effectively a license for doorstep mugging.

Unsurprisingly, I will not be taking my two boys out begging for sweets, although they’ll both be getting a funsize treat after dinner and maybe when they’re older, a Halloween party – but only to minimize the peer pressure.

I guess that makes me a killjoy.

It seems that it is the season for serious celebrity accidents at the moment. First Steve Irwin‘s tragic encounter with a stingray while filming an underwater documentary and now Richard Hammond has been seriously injured (but fortunately not fatally) while performing a high speed stunt for BBC’s Top Gear.

Dicing with death seems to be all in a day’s work for a high profile celebrity, obviously.

Or is it? I was rather surprised and alarmed to read Focus: The blame game – an article in the Sunday Times written by Jeremy Clarkson (for non-brits, a fellow co-presenter on Top Gear). It appears that there have been calls for the popular car show to be axed or severely neutered in light of the recent accident. There have also been quieter mutterings in the press and public comments (and I noticed this with Steve Irwin’s death too) that as a parent, Richard Hammond shouldn’t be putting himself in these sorts of risky situations anyway.

I can sort of see where people are coming from. When I became a mother, I did find myself being far less tolerant of being in potentially dangerous situations. I haven’t ridden pillion on a motorbike since giving birth to Akra Jr five years ago, and the thought (frankly) terrifies me. Yet I was happy enough doing so even while in the early stages of pregnancy. The thrill of riding on rollercoasters no longer exists – I now either actively dislike or am indifferent to the sensation for anything other than the tamest of rides. I’m sure I’m not the only mother that has had the same attitude reversal towards self-risk. The problem comes when you assume parents who don’t experience that attitude reversal are somehow flawed.

You see, if I don’t actually want to do those things anymore, then there’s no actual sacrifice on my part to stop doing them, is there? And yet, there is a certain smugness inherent about saying “they shouldn’t do that if they’ve got children dependant on them” when you yourself are not making any sacrifices to not take those risks. We give up a hell of a lot for our children (rightly so), often verging close to the obliteration of our own hopes and dreams – if I was being asked to give up something I felt totally, utterly passionate about … would that be a sacrifice too far? What sort of message would that be giving to our offspring? Go for your dreams, kid, but the second you or your partner gets pregnant you can never do anything worthwhile with your life again!

There’s the thing. Steve Irwin and Richard Hammond both chose/choose to live the life that the did/do (random aside: that is SUCH a convoluted sentence, sorry about that). No-one forced them to do it – the BBC didn’t tell Richard Hammond to do a dangerous stunt, he volunteered – thought it’d make a good piece. They both presumably had the blessing of their family (and if they didn’t, that’s between them and their families, not the general public). They didn’t take stupidly insane risks: Steve Irwin knew a lot about the animals he dealt with, he had respect for them, he worked with knowledge and skill; Richard Hammond had emergency backup, was using a car designed for the speeds and was driving on a private track designed for high speed trials.

They were accidents. Accidents taken while in pursuit of something with the risks accepted by the people involved and taken into account. Steve Irwin’s accident could probably have happened to any experienced diver – stingrays are not known as dangerous, might give you a nasty sting and a minor injury, but fatality was extremely unlikely. It was an incredibly unfortunate accident. Richard Hammond – well, there’s not a lot you can do about tire blowouts – I’m sure there’s more than a few deaths at legal speeds on public roads in average estate cars that actually have dismal safety ratings (with shows like Top Gear being the ones publicising and lobbying for safety improvements). Given the level of safety equipment and emergency backup he had there while filming, I don’t think you could or should fault anyone.

Maybe we should remind ourselves that we need more risk takers. Risk taking can be good. We’re constantly being told that children are being over-protected, scared of taking risks, that our economy requires more people who know when to take risks – we’re crying out for entrepreneurs, more inventors, more innovators. There’s constant complaints in the press, blogs, message boards, in the school playground at hometime all about the Nanny State that the next generation are growing up into.

So why in the event of an accident do we immediately bay for the blood of the risk taker?

Watching Return to Jamie’s School Dinners last night and reading in the news about the mothers who were taking orders for chips to get around their school’s healthy eating policy, I despair that the whole healthy eating thing is really fighting a losing battle.

We’ve got it all wrong in this country. Totally wrong. It’s been wrong for a long time.

We’re a nation of food programme lovers instead of food lovers. Cooking is seen to be a leisure activity you do on a Saturday, after spending most of the week hunting down the ingredients and using every single utensil and pan you own. If cookery isn’t seen as your “thing” then you’re off the hook. I blame Jamie Oliver, Anthony Worral Thompson and all the other celebrity chefs as much as anyone for promoting an atmosphere where you buy a fancy cookery book then leave it untouched on your bookshelf while you buy a ready meal from M&S.

Food shouldn’t be about spending as much money as possible on a single ingredient and it being dinner party perfect. It should be every day, making the most out of everything, learning how to freeze in bulk, how to use leftovers… eking out the veg in the back of the fridge that is on the verge of getting a bit mushy, but is still alright with a bit of stewing and it still tastes great. That’s the real world. That’s what it would take for people to ditch the jars and have confidence in themselves that actually yes, they can cook.

What we need is more cookery books, more cookery programmes and proper Home Economics lessons reinstated in schools aimed at “normal” fresh and unadulterated food. Not things that take hours, cost a fortune, take ages to shop for because no bugger stocks half the stuff. I mean, even those “30 minute supper” cookery books you buy still actually take an hour and a half once you’ve chopped every damn bit of veg to stick in the “quick” stir fry.

No wonder people not confident in the kitchen and/or on an extremely tight budget end up writing the whole lot off as poncy rubbish and irrelevant to them.

I received an email from Friends Reunited today. Nothing of earth-shattering importance, just one of their monthly semi-personalised circulars used to remind you to check up on the site.

The first sentence is: “How do you compare?” and goes on to ask “Have you ever wondered how your life compares to your old friends? What type of jobs did everyone end up doing? Is everyone married? How happy are they?” and it’s made me think – how on earth do you compare lives?

Does that mean that someone is automatically more worthy than another because they ended up being a top barrister rather than a stand-up comic? Does your past acquaintances’ achievements really reflect on your life choices in any meaningful way other than to give you a short-lived ego boost (or a blow to confidence depending on perceived status)?

Of course, I do it too. I wouldn’t be subscribed to Friends Reunited otherwise now, would I? I imagine most people that visit the site have a usage ratio of around 20% catching up with old friends, 80% fulfilling their desire to be nosy (or maybe that’s just me) – but just because the kid who I always beat at science is now a top veterinary surgeon with her own practice, it doesn’t mean I’ve failed in any way. After all, is she happy? (probably, damnit).

But why do I care? I have no desire to be a veterinary surgeon, I’m allergic to fur and feathers for a start, yet I end up not filling in the little update slip for the Old Pupils’ Association each year just because my paper achievements look so drab next to all the high-flying go-getters from my school. Yet, I’m happy with my life, it’s going places at its own little pace, my two sons are amazing (in my eyes at least) and I get a lot of enjoyment day-to-day.

Of course, it’s in sites like Friends Reunited’s interest to deliberately stir up the green-eyed monster to gain more site traffic, where previously most people would have carried on quite merrily in complete blissful ignorance.

Right, must go. Want to see what my old work mates are now up to…