Sport Relief

The foremost reason I love school uniform (and, before you say it’s a great leveller, if you believe that all kids look identical in schooliform then you are still living under Deng Xiaoping in 1979 - wearing the same clothes does not make you any taller, shorter, fatter, slimmer, less blonde or less plain) is that, for the majority of term time weekdays, everyone in La Famiglia Lane is in agreement on what needs to be worn.  There is sufficient material already in the Parenting Handbook to encourage dialogue in the mornings: who is winding up who? what is acceptable breakfast fare? whose turn it is to drink the last of the smoothie? where is the elusive PE bag/music wallet/homework? are teeth brushed yet? without festooning this most special of family times with sartorial indecision.

I’m afraid that I do not share the excitement and anticipation of my small uns when they hear they are to have yet another amazing day at school, with normal lessons suspended for specially prepared sessions on Florence Nightingale or Pudsey Bear.  For me, there is a ripple of loathing whenever I open any ParentMail beginning “Next week the school will be holding This Day or That Day”.  Why?  Am I Mommie Dearest who cannot share in her children’s joy?  Do I really, truly, madly, deeply love uniform that much?  No!  It’s just that none of these standalone schooldays can actually be stood alone without a small amount of forethought and fortitude from yours truly supporting them.

Tomorrow is Sport Relief – please dress as your sporting hero.  Next Wednesday is Geography Day – we would encourage everyone to dress up in the colours of a certain country or a country’s flag.  A fortnight or so ago was World Book Day – please dress as your favourite book character.  History Day. French Day. Comic Relief. Children In Need. Jeans for Genes.

Taking into account our straitened finances, I cannot justify spending the HusBank’s hard-earned dollars on any prêt-a-porter fancy dress outfit which can be aesthetically mimicked by a bit of subtle snipping, stapling and sticking at 2am accompanied by a glass of Disaronno.  Poverty breeds creativity and I have pulled together Sam I Am, Hiccup Horrendous Haddock, Emily Wilding Davis, Charles Lindbergh, a cow, a mouse, an innkeeper, a shepherd, star, angel, clown and much more – many a breaking dawn has witnessed me sewing ox horns, wire into mice tails, Moominpappa’s top hat, Easter bonnets, rosettes, spots on trousers – does anyone know why there are hardly any spotty clothes for boys – are spotty things sexist?

All this I would do, albeit with a smidgeon of resentment, a hundred times over for my kids’ elation and the fervour derived from a piece of felt cunningly crafted into a pair of cloven hooves.

But this week I’ve been additionally discouraged by the lack of enthusiasm from my babies.

My children are not interested in sport and sport is not interested in them.  Give them a spelling test or a piano recital and they are in their element.  Our fridge and pin boards are covered with Outstanding Achievement Awards for This and That, Work of the Week, Star of The Day, Merit Award for Rapid Recall of The Seven Times Table, but, sadly, there is little to congratulate in their limited sporting prowess.

I am all prepped for Geography Day but hopes for any sports-related outfit are far abroad.  There is no handy Chelsea kit or England rugby shirt in our wardrobes.

Naturally, I blame myself.  Research describes a clear correlation between a sporting mother and her athletic children.  My sporting potential was clipped early on, when I discovered a group of influential peers at school, smoking Sobranie Cocktails on the railway bridge, half way round my school’s cross country route.  With my first or second puff, I left the athletes and built substantial and lasting ties with the aesthetes.

It’s not even that the children are reluctant to exercise or hateful of the outdoors –regularly dragged over hill and glen with our petit chien in all weathers, they will also joyfully scoot from Here to Kingdom Come and can bounce for Queen and Country on country cousins’ trampolines, but they have a strong congenital disregard for anything defined as “sport”.

Not one Olympian or celebrity sportsperson could extract any endearment from either child.  A brief flirtation in Google Images with Tom Daley was the closest hit, but can they spend a whole day at school in just trunks?

Finally, with only the night and early morning hours to go, a rummage through my wardrobe and I have discovered something to tempt one of them into sporting fever tomorrow morning.  Thanks to my brief flirtation with the Euro Tournament in ‘96, when patriotic pride, spurred on by several Smirnoff Ices and Messrs Baddiel and Skinner, provided the foresight to buy myself a vintage 1966 football top, Jules Rimet will gleam again courtesy of Number One Son.

And Baby Girl?  Well, it’s not for nothing that she has been a passenger for seven years, experiencing the skill and dexterity employed by her mother when driving around London Town.  My youngest’s flair on the Nintendo Wii driving game is second to none, and, anyway, I think this late in the game we can be little lateral with our interpretation of sport and hero.  So I’d better pour myself a nightcap and cobble together something resembling overalls, and perhaps, tomorrow morning, Mario and her Kart will be screeching into school in the Works Golf.

So, maybe I have not encouraged my progeny to be sporty types, but I do know they will have the charm of being good sports.

Let's call them Sports Relief Chocolate Chip Cookies

After a late night sticking and sewing, who can be bothered to bake from scratch?

Buy a packet of Sainsbury’s chocolate chip cookie dough (in the readymade pastry and butter display).  Don’t take any notice of their instructions to roll out and cut pretty shapes.  Just break off the dough into chunks – about 20 depending on how big you want each cookie – place the pieces on a baking parchment lined baking tray, keeping at least 10cm space between each one.


Place the tray in a pre-heated oven to 180°/350°/Gas mark 4.  Check at about 8 minutes – if they look golden and turning teensiest bit brown at the edges remove whilst still a tiny bit soft in the middle.  Let cool for 5 minutes and they are ready to eat.