Open Writing

How dare anyone suggest that television toy commercials ought not to be shown? According to one daily newspaper, youngsters are being switched on to luxuries no parent can afford, causing discontent among the tinsel.

Rubbish! Don’t they realise children were tuned in to the ‘can’t afford’ message long before the teatime gifts appeared. Banning implications always make me abrasive. As if saying ‘no’ was beyond our control. Any purse-bearer worth the title knows ‘no you can’t have it’ is much easier to inflict on your own hearth rug.

It cuts out all the veiled threats concerning ‘When I get you home,’ which accompany most departmental visits. Toy-lovers lose their appeal much faster without the benefit of a shop audience.

On the other hand ‘the wait and see’ ploy can work miracles during Advent. Most children are receiving this treatment one way or another, but they still love the gift-wrapped season, looking and longing is all part of the fun. Let them loose in a toy department and watch them gallop from counter to counter, little wet eyes and noses running everywhere. It always brings a lump to my throat as I watch – from a suitable hiding place. Any parents who can’t cope can always switch off, burn magazines and take up astronomy.

I once heard a lady doctor on the radio condemning the spanking of children. She would never dream of laying a finger on any of her three children. My rebels were revolting for weeks following her rebuke. Right up until I discovered she employed a nanny to tutor hers.

These paragons are almost as nauseating as those who bring out their children’s ‘good as new’ toys every year sending us into paroxysms of boredom as they relate the virginal history of their perfect replicas. The only toys that remain intact at our house are the ones nobody likes. Most of ours have had their insides fully analysed and ‘mended’ by ever-curious fingers before Santa has regained consciousness!

American novelist Mary McCarthy gives a heart-tugging account of her life with a cruel parsimonious aunt in her ‘Memories of a Catholic Girlhood.’ Every year she was sent a beautifully dressed doll by her grandmother, which remained in its wrappings and was only brought out on the rare occasion when a relative visited. It was then returned to the top shelf as soon as the visitor, beaming with satisfaction at the ‘happiness’ of the orphans, departed.

I believe that toys were made to be played with. Our son’s train set has given hours of endless amusement and one Christmas when dad was particularly exhausted, he even got to play with it himself!

I suppose we all have a weakness in our character. One of mine is viewing television commercials. The periods in between are sometimes a yawn, but I agree with ‘New Faces’ panellist Micky Most, the adverts are supremely entertaining - not to be taken seriously, of course.

A recent report from America states that even the famous Colonel cannot stomach the chicken sold in one of his celebrated ‘Fries.’ But I confess the latest margarine epic has affected me. After seeing all those hungry relatives grouped round a ‘supermum’ even the effervescent Bruce Forsyth could not induce me to use it.

Who could eat those magical chocolates after watching the man in black leap from precipitous rooftops and ford raging rivers to deliver the goods, only to find she has fallen asleep in the meantime? They just don’t taste the same when they come from the corner shop. ‘He couldn’t do that if he worked at our place,’ remarked non-chocolate buying husband.

Those rib-tickling ‘Angel Mums’ are my favourite. The neurotic washing crazed mother who dresses her son in a white T-shirt and then sends him out to play with a bicycle chain. Then, nothing else to wear, he has to sit and wait while she washes it, before he can go and get oiled again.

I love the martyr who crawls to the car with her mountain of shopping only to be confronted by a know-all who starts boasting about his toothpaste. Instead of sending the interfering menace or the much-filled child back to the shop – she promptly thanks him, puts down the shopping and runs back herself. It’s as stimulating as Monty Python.

‘Bum, by dose is blocked’ says malingering son on exam morning. We all have ways of dealing with this complaint, which can strike scholars from Monday to Friday. But a sniff of nasal spray is enough to send a reluctant son over the doorstep.

We had this emotive process in reverse last week when our eight-year-old was invited to a party. ‘But bum, by throat is better,’ she croaked, all white faced and marble-eyed. ‘Sorry love, you are not fit to go.’ ‘But bum’ – unfortunately with no nasal spray to hand I had to resort to my regular stand by, ‘Oh shut up.’ But apart from the ‘I can’t believe it’s a girdle’ agnostic who sounds as thick as two banana teacakes, our family favourites are the disconcertingly familiar looking chimps. I forget what they sell, but the way they sell it never fails to amuse. It’s a shame Katy the beef cube girl has retired, I used to enjoy watching her handle Phillip’s moods. As long as he got plenty of gravy, everything ran smoothly.

How deeply are we affected by television, I pondered the other night during supper as a Chinese man ran across the screen with a bloody dagger stuck through his neck? Perhaps penicillin is not the only drug we are building up a resistance to.