Keir Royale

Boys have a close relationship with their pockets, and it seems this intimate bond mutates and melds as they grow into manhood.
It’s certainly the case in our house.

There are some trousers my son Ben just won’t wear, either because there are no pockets, the pockets are too small, or things fall out of the pockets too easily.

It’s a shame his Dad doesn’t take a leaf out of his book.
Mike loads up his pockets with so much gunk that it dribbles down the back of the settee whenever he sits down of an evening.

Still, that’s where I get all my cash for parking.

Then there are the trousers Ben loves, because they have pockets at the sides, the front and the back, plus handy places to hang things from – like his Swiss Army Knife.

When he was in Reception I had to frisk him every morning to check he hadn’t secreted any toys (strictly verboten at school) to take along to fiddle with during circle time.

One of my friends has to check her son hasn’t packed his pockets with loose change found around the house, courtesy of his father who regularly deposits the contents of his pockets on handy, easy-to-reach surfaces.
One day his teacher found him flashing a ten-pound note around in class, found after one of his father’s pocket-emptying bonanzas.

These days I have to make sure Ben doesn’t accidentally “forget” to remove his beloved Swiss Army Knife from his pocket before setting off for school.
I don’t think his teachers are ready for his branch-felling habit. The little saw attachment is surprisingly effective.

But he doesn’t normally ask me to leave the room when he empties his pockets.
Like he did today.
So naturally I was suspicious.

He’d just had a quick post-Dr Who bath, and he told me he had some secret spy stuff in his trouser pockets that he didn’t want me to see,
“So off you go Mummy, out of the room.”

I wanted to get his grubby trousers into the dirty washing basket, minus the remnants of a day on the beach, so I played ball (not literally) and waited outside the bathroom.
And waited.

“Have you finished yet?”
“No, go away.”

After another minute or so I was beginning to wonder what it was that took so long to extract from the pocket of a pair of sweat pants.

“OK, I’ve finished,” he said as he handed them to me.

I held them over the bath, turned the pockets inside out and watched the sand pour out.
I reached into the pocket to make sure I’d got it all out, and felt something soft and sticky and disgusting.

“Ugh, what’s this?” I asked.
“Yuck, I don’t know,” replied Ben, wide eyed with innocent wonder.

I delved deeper, and found… a piece of broccoli, followed by chunky flakes of fish finger.

“Ben!”

Even during his fussiest, faddiest, “I don’t like anything” days he’d never hidden food in his pockets,
“What were you thinking?” I asked, not sure whether to laugh or to feign feeling cross.

He looked at me, not quite sullen but certainly not volunteering an apology.

“Go on, get to bed, and no reading.”

He didn’t complain about the early bedtime. It was a fair cop.

But I really don’t want to add pockets to my checklist, which already includes random breath-smelling to make sure he’s brushed his teeth and regular hand-sniffing for signs of soap.

At least his sister’s relationship with pockets begins and ends with Polly.

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