Crime and Punishment

I don’t claim to have the key to bringing up children. But those who are having problems with the behaviour of their kids can do worse than get themselves a “jart”.

Is your daughter refusing to get dressed in the morning without a tantrum? Stick it on the jart.

Is your son going into the shower and standing 1 mm from the arc of the droplets from the showerhead for ten mins then claiming he is thoroughly washed and ready to face the world? Put it on the jart.

The jart works thus. Take one piece of paper and draw a series of vertical lines. Call these lines Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and, yes, even Sunday. Every time your child conducts a misdemeanour put a sad face on the jart. For periods of nonsense free activity or gasp, actual acts of kindness, consideration or normal behaviour, stick up a smiley face. To enhance the learning aspect of the enterprise, stick a little wordage underneath each symbol, so that you can all remember what they were for. Junior Misssy’s jart reads thus for yesterday:

Went to school without nonsense

Walked past park without tantrum

Put wrapper in bin not behind couch

Wouldn’t do what she’s told

Made fun of Mum talking and was cheeky

Said she couldn’t care about the jart

Now the jart isn’t going to work if there are no consequences behind it. How many sad faces (or frownies) are you going to allow before a punishment kicks in, and what should these punishments be?

Perhaps you’d like to take inspiration from my system which works over the period a week?

10 frownies: No story at bedtime for three nights

15 frownies: exclusion from most looked forward to social event. In this case it’s “The Rainbow’s Disco” (think Studio 54 but in a village hall, and with the minister instead of Andy Warhol)

20 frownies: The cooler (see below)

25 frownies: The cooler with no baseball and glove

30 frownies: Being forced to watch a brain washing film whilst strapped to a chair to break spirit (illustration below)

50 frownies: Siberian labour camp in the 1950s

Alexandr Solzhenitsyn: Would get passed over

by publishers today in favour of the

Prison Diaries of Paris Hilton.

The problem comes when the kid turns the table on you. I got this* through the post yesterday.

I’m doing OK, but am terrified of what punishments Junior Misssy has in store if I screw up.

*NB: I want to point out two things:

1. Look at my daughter's instinctive, correct and fastidious use of an apostrophe- these things are clearly genetic.

2."Jart" is of course chart but spelled by Junior the way she says it.

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Unrecommendation of the Week!

Nick Leeson job reference: "Good with numbers. Trustworthy"

A very long time ago when I worked at a theatre I ruined someone’s chances of getting a job there. I did this because I felt they couldn’t be trusted. If someone gets a job on your recommendation and then they don’t work out, you are tainted. Think of the person who wrote Peter Sutcliffe’s reference for that long distance lorry driving job, or banker Nick Leeson’s reference for Barings Bank. Do you think they felt they could show their face at the company picnic that year?

On the night this person applied for the job in the theatre bar they came to see me whilst I was working in the tiny box office. We had known each other at school, but that was all. I opened my side door to chat to them and before I knew it they had barged their way in. The office was a tiny broom cupboard of a thing and really anymore than one person in it and it was a squish. Yet in squished this overly friendly person who proceeded to tell me excitedly and a little too close to my face that they had put me down as a referee. Without asking me. That night as my shift ended and I counted my takings I noticed that we were £20 down. I could never be sure, but it just seemed a little odd. My arithmetic isn’t Rain Man standard but I was never usually under.

Peter Sutcliffe's reference: "Keeps himself to himself. "

When the time came for the boss to ask for my opinion on the chap, I told her I couldn’t recommend him, and that I didn’t really know him at all. For months afterwards I felt a little guilty but I knew I had done the right thing. You can't take any chances in the vouching game. Recommend someone and it's like you've become responsible for them.

George W Bush Reference: "Competent, literate, and intelligent. A peace loving man."

Fast forward to my time as a lecturer and I would be in a position of being asked to refer students all over the place. I decided a personal rule on this was in order; students come in many flavours and not all of them palatable. If I couldn’t heartily recommend someone, perhaps if they had been a lazy or less than conscientious student, I would tell them that I couldn’t give them a good reference and since I didn’t agree with giving bad references that they should find someone else who could write about them more favourably . In amongst the hosts of great students I have been pleased to recommend for jobs, university places and work experience there were a few hurt and astonished faces along the years from those who couldn’t believe I couldn’t tell the world how wonderful they were . On the whole my policy served me well.

Until now.

Harold Shipman reference: "Great with the elderly. Lives and breathes the Hippocratic Oath"

A couple of weeks ago I decided that my days of recommending people for jobs were well and truly over. I vouched for a few former students for a job in my field. I am going on my experience of them from two years ago when I left my college lecturing post ,and felt fairly confident that they would be ideal candidates. What I did not expect was that, at interview, one of those people would turn up unwashed, dandruff bedecked, dirty finger-nailed, disheveled, reeking and in possession of a video showreel of work which included naked images of themselves.

I am now retired from the business of giving people a break.

Sir Fred Goodwin reference:"Selfless, generous and a man of the people"

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Bum Ass

Last week I tore a strip off some teenage lads in a public swimming pool (a swimming pool, yes, although not as you know them; Aberdeen’s public swimming pools are 1C away from ice rinks). My Victor Meldewesque admonishing was in response to extreme swearing in front of my kids.

“Hoy there!” I said shouting a phrase that is universally only used when chastising teenagers, ”That’s enough of that!” (ditto), “Not in front of wee kids, eh?”

The effing and jeffing momentarily stopped and later, as the boys were being turfed out of the pool by similarly aged attendants for stabbing small children with metal forks that they had secreted in their Speedos (true!), I smirked in their direction with a “that’ll learn ya!” self satisfied smirk. They hadn’t seen me get out of the glorious Mini, so my paintwork couldn’t be associated with me and my middle-aged finger waving ways.

Later, I was telling the story to a friend and I realised that my kids and their associates have come out with their own choice phrases on their own, and didn't need any coaching from teenagers. Some of it possibly in response to hearing other family members (not me, just my Mum and my husband*)slip the odd colourful phrase out.

Here’s some absolute beauties:

Junior Misssy

Situation: On being assaulted by a jumping Black Menace whilst sat on the sofa minding her own business.

Phrase: “Fuxsake Sonny!! Get down!”

That was last year. I blame her father.

Darling Curly Niece

Situation: Called her Dad this a couple of weeks ago in a fit of rage.

Phrase: “You hairy bum-ass. You worm licking bum-ass!”**

Indy

My two year old (but now 10 year old) toddling son shouted “Bloody flies!” as a bluebottle bombed its way into the kitchen one summer; a hall mark catchphrase of his dishtowel wielding gran.

Jnr. Misssy's chum

Then last week, I asked my daughter’s friend why they didn’t have their Jack Russell anymore. “Because he’s a complete pain in the arse,” she said very matter or factly, like she was discussing a canine medical condition.

Small party guest with Tourette's Syndrome

A small boy from my daughter’s nursery class stole the show last year when my husband did his, now legendary, magic show at Junior Misssy’s birthday party. Already reeling from another boy’s heckle of “You’re not magic!” Meeester was verbally assaulted by a small blond boy who, apropos of nothing, shouted “You’ve got shitty shoes!”. And then once the adults in the room did a “Did you just hear what I just heard?” glanceathon, he piped up, “You’ve got shit on your shoes” as if to clarify his initial statement. Aside from this slander( Meeester patently did not have shit on his shoes. In fact, I doubt he was wearing any shoes, as this would be a breach of our “No Shoe Policy”) it was the randomness of his comments that surprised me most.

In consideration of all the above infant transgressions, I feel an apology coming on to the fork wielding ASBO dodging orators of Inverurie Swimming Pool. Ah...nope, the feeling’s gone...yes, that’s it.... it’s away now. I’m fine. As you were.

*(Y’see I say that because I know my Mum reads the Misssives. Bet you a tenner she’s called me on the phone before she even gets to this bit!)

** This is now my favourite phrase of all time. You wait, you’ll be calling someone a “Bum-ass” too before the week’s out. It’s for times when “bum” or “ass” just aren’t enough on their own.

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Sonny and I Are Innocent!

I’ve just seen the film Marley and Me. I’ve still got slightly wet hair, as I cried so much. Very confusing marketing....but that’s beside the point. I do want to talk about dogs though, and as has been pointed out recently, it’s been a while since we had a Sonny the Black Menace themed post. Believe me, just like the writer of Marley and Me did in his weekly newspaper column, I could do a Sonny post every time. This post is on behalf of me and Sonny, two innocent bystanders in the evil world of dog poo.

Last night I had a conversation with a friend about the dog poo situation in my village, which I will name and shame- it’s Newmachar, Aberdeenshire. Hang your sorry head in shame, Newmachar! The streets are pebble-dashed with an enormous amount of dog poo. Really, it is quite spectacular. It would look like the entire village had gone back in time to the Seventies if it weren’t for the fact that the dog poo isn’t white....and there’s no “park porn” rustling in the bushes beside it.

I’ve just come back from taking Sonny for his afternoon walk/lark about, and in our 20 minute fun-filled walk in the biting North East cold, I counted 23 pieces of poo lying on verge, green, pavement and road. 23!!! Twenty-three!!!?

What makes the entire situation worse is that the singularly worst location for dog merde is the school road. It is as if someone is strategically placing them right outside the school gates as an elaborate sick joke against kids and the mothers who have to scrape the offence out of the tiny treads in school shoes. (Top tip, someone invent an implement for this very purpose- you’ll make a fortune).

A couple of things are clear to me:

• This is not the work of just one dog owner (notice I said “dog owner” and not “dog”)


• Since a great deal of it was on my street, people may assume that it is the work of me and the Black Menace. This upsets me as not one of Sonny’s little parcels have even been left to even go cold before being scooped into a bag and disposed of. Not once. And I’m a Girl Guide, so I don’t lie. But I feel the stares of non-dog owners as they tar us all with the same accusatory brush. Sonny may be called The Black Menace but, really, his crimes only extend to the culling of the kids' toys* and the occasional bout of escapology.
  

So, what to do about it? My friend contacted the local council Dogshit Warden, they have a proper title like Dog Colonic Wastage Technician, but who are we kidding, Dogshit Warden is what they are. Nothing was done anyway, so quite what their duties are is unclear. They said they would "look into it". Wow, what a strategy!

Since her abortive attempts at “going the official route” my friend has been keeping vigil in her kids bedroom, watching over the park space at night after a morning when she counted seven overnight deposits on her way to the school gates. She’s not quite sat on the Grassy Knoll with a rifle, but that’s only because she doesn’t want to roll in anything unsavoury on the aforementioned Knoll. She has yet to catch anyone. Now either we’ve got dingoes or someone is lobbing Fido's offerings with a tennis racket over their back garden fence into the public arena.

Quite what my pal is going to do when she catches the perpetrator is unclear, but let’s just say she’s fairly handy and I don’t fancy their chances when she does.

The problem is that short of catching every offender and fining them, what can be done to stop this behaviour? Now, I've said before that I would gladly accept the responsibility of full police powers (and any accompanying anti-personnel devices on offer), and so would my friend, but no one seems to be taking this on board.

So what can be done? Do you have an answer (comical, useful, sadistic or otherwise)?


*You would know if it was Sonny's poo, it would have a Polly Pocket limb or head in it, or a piece of Star Wars Lego.

Update:

The very talented Keith of NotKeith has done an illustration based on this post. It's called "Newmachar resident’s final solution to dog-fouling menace ends in tragedy"

I am this close to getting it made into a t-shirt. See Keith's blog where he will be doing an illustration based on blog posts that have inspired him every day this week. Surely he will get snapped up by The Guardian sooner or later...

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