Keir Royale

We’re back to the pocket money question.

It’s been more than a year since we first experimented with the concept, but we gave it up because Ben said he didn’t want pocket money any more, and Hannah was too young to care.

He claimed he no longer wanted it because “Daddy already spends too much on me”.

I suspect it was so we couldn’t dock it for bad behaviour.

But now, he wants it again.

He goes to a junior youth club on a friday evening and wants more of the readies to spend on Haribo horrors.

So I decide to come over all American, and demand chores in return for cash.

I know they should do the chores anyway, but we haven’t managed to insist on it yet and I think this is a good opportunity to move things in the right direction.

And I always find bribery much easier than the more time-consuming methods of persuasion.

So we discuss which chores are up for grabs and they agree which ones they’ll take on.

Hannah - laying the table for breakfast and washing up (meal unspecified)

Ben - clearing the table and sweeping under it (after tea)

Day 1
I come down to breakfast to find a grinning Hannah, standing next to a table replete with bowls, cereal, a pot of tea for Daddy and a cup of white frothy stuff which looks like milk.
For me.

I don’t much like milk. I drink coffee for breakfast, and I have shown her how to make it.

I enquire further and discover that the cup contains half cold milk and half hot water, carefully frothed up.
No coffee.

“I forgot about that,” she explains.

I show her again, and take Mike’s tea up to him before it goes cold. It is, apparently, delicious.

At teatime, Ben gulps down his food, removes his plate and then stands by the table, hovering over the rest of us enquiring - “Have you finished yet?” every time we swallow.

A minor eruption occurs when I make it clear he doesn’t get to claim the cash immediately after the first day’s chore is accomplished.

Day 2
Breakfast is ready again, this time with frothy milk and coffee.
I wonder how long this will continue, as it’s a step beyond our agreement.

Tea-time goes more smoothly, with Ben claiming he hasn’t fogotten to sweep under the table. He’s just waiting until we’ve all finished, otherwise he’d have to sweep up all over again.

My regular lectures about time management are obviously beginning to hit home; if not in relation to homework/getting dressed/undressed/ready to go out - at least in relation to something.

We’re onto Day 3 tomorrow, and by Friday they will feel they’ve earned enough sweets to rot not only their own teeth, but also those of every other child in the school.

Whether or not sweets will make up for many minutes wasted on tasks they’d rather sit and watch Mike and me do - we will doubtless discover.

I don’t suppose many people have spotted any similarities between Brixton (South London, not Devon) and Jersey (Channel Islands, not USA).

I’ve lived in both places (and quite close to the alternatives in Devon and USA too) and I can tell you there is at least one.

It’s not that Jersey’s beaches are replicated in Brixton market; it’s not the striking similarity between the Barrier Block (where I lived for a few months) and the Waterfront.

No - it’s the drivers.

If you were to take a short trip down Brixton Road, past the tube station and then along Stockwell Road, you may opt to indicate your intention to turn left.

Well if you did you’d be on your own.

Indicating in SW9 is a sure sign of a lack in the cojones department.
A sign that you’re a namby-pamby, lackey of the Peelers, who feels it necessary to signal your intentions.

It is not the Brixton Way.

No, the Brixton way is to lurch dramatically across the road in front of mere law-abiders, to pursue your innate right to swerve about all over the place in your BMW until everyone else gets out of the way.

The Jersey Way is not dissimilar.

There’s less lurching perhaps, and markedly fewer BMWs (the island’s drivers seem to prefer Porsches and Mercs) but there’s a comparable lack of indicating.

There is, on the other hand, a lot of pulling up short to veer onto the nearest pavement to pop into a shop, as walking more than five steps from car to retail outlet is anathema to your true Bean.
I know this, as it’s an impulse I have to fight myself.

There are, however, differences in driving attitudes - the main one being the average approach to a T-junction.

Pull up at a main road on any street in central London, and you sit there whistling until you decide to risk your bumpers.
You just have to grit your teeth and stick your car out into the oncoming traffic until someone is intimidated into letting you out.

It may seem foolhardy, but it’s the only way you’re going to get out of the minor road before midnight.

Drive like this in Jersey, especially with English number plates, and abuse is all you’ll get.

In Jersey, commuters motoring down main roads at a top speed of 40mph with 3 or 4 cars pootling along behind them, will happily stop to let out a motorist waiting at a T-junction.

Had the main-street commuter not stopped, the waiting motorist would have had to sit a mere 5 seconds longer before being able to exit the minor road without disrupting the journeys of 4 or 5 other people.

But this is another example of the Jersey Way.

It may not be logical, but it’s quite sweet - as long as you’re not one of the 3 or 4 motorists stuck in the queue, who are forced into politeness when you’d far rather bully your way to work.

And don’t get me started on parking.
I think the photo above speaks for itself.

I’ve blanked out the number plate to spare any red faces… although I’m not sure that Range Rover drivers have the capacity to feel embarrassed.