The Mary Richards column

The Mary Richards column

Oh - go on - I'll admit it. I didn't see the eclipse. I was there, standing at the bottom of Liskeard's Fore Street, which bore a striking resemblance to the Marie Celeste only quieter. But I was probably lighting a ciggie the only time the heavy cloud cover broke for a second, so I never caught so much as a glimpse. But I enjoyed the atmosphere, the darkness was eerie. the seagulls noisy and the hot dogs we barbecued were delicious, thanks to Shaun who took over the cooking (don't men always, but strangely enough not the washing up) and the nice people from Stoke's greengrocers who joined us (they brought the onions).

That is the last word I shall be uttering about the eclipse save to ponder on the thought that for the next few months we may have to look out for not just the elusive Beast of Bodmin but the 'almost certainly going to be elusive' Mr Gage Williams.

I can't help feeling a bit sorry for the Duke of Edinburgh. He has a foot permanently poised mouth wise. Someone pointed out that he probably didn't mean to use the word 'Indian' at all. Somewhere in his mind he knew there was a description for a botched job, although he has never personally met anyone who offered to put tarmac down for you and then ran off with your cash after sprinkling one or two handfuls of black painted beach sand on your drive. With the old grey matter stirring he dreamt up 'Cowboys and Indians' - but unfortunately chose the wrong one. There you are - marginally better to be thought do-lally than a racist.

I was sorrier for the man in the news recently who was arrested for allegedly grabbing hold of his stroppy 15 year -old daughter when she was trying to go out to meet a friend he disapproved of.

Of course I don't advocate physical assault on even the most recalcitrant child, but it's a sorry day when a parent can't make some effort to keep a child safe during those hormonal raging days. And there are few among us who have not been tempted to aim a swift kick in the direction of the disappearing rear end of a flouncing teen.

Child, of course, is not politically correct. You must call them 'kids', or 'teenagers' or ' young people' or 'youngsters'. You must accept nowadays they have rights and if they want to go to an adult disco with six other little kids and be exposed to the risk of alcohol, drugs and other temptations you must let them unless you can reasonably talk them out of it.

I suppose I was brought up in the days when parents didn't try to reasonably try to talk you out of anything. They just said no. It's not a popular word these days, is it? In fact I often wonder if some parents ever catch on to it. Certainly the mother of the child sitting in the supermarket trolley behind me the other day had never managed to pronounce such a simple little word. As her determined toddler grabbed at the food in her trolley and threw it around and then turned to the food in my trolley, she patiently said she didn't think it was a good idea and why didn't he play with his toy? She then patiently said the nice lady in front didn't want her things transferred to the floor and if he was a good boy she would buy him some nice sweeties. This nice lady in front had to stop herself swiping the little blighter with her now dented sticks of celery and by the time I got out she was still trying to wrestle a box of cereal out of determined little fists and never once did she use the word 'no'. So there's going to be absolutely no way when that child is 14 is she going to reasonably talk him out of attending all-night raves.

I don't recall I ever particularly resented being told 'no' - or following the laid down rules. Until I was about 12 my mother's main stricture was that I should always arrive home with dry feet. 'Don't get your feet wet', she always said as I disappeared out of the door early in the morning to play happily in sunlit meadows. It never seemed to occur to her that I might be indulging in far more dangerous pursuits, like jumping off the quarry into 65 feet of water, playing chicken on the railway line or seeing who could climb to the very top of the village hall roof. Which I was. Her only worry was that I would come home with wet socks. Then almost overnight she changed her tack and started talking darkly about the dangers of hanging round street corners with boys. 'What happened to the wet feet', I used to think. 'Doesn't she care any more?' It was all very puzzling.

Apart from the warnings my mother began a campaign of meeting me.

She met me off the train and the bus, she was always willing to be waiting outside the village's once a month cinema, she would obligingly be lurking somewhere near the youth club door when I came out. She always intimated she thought I wouldn't want to walk home alone in the dark so she had left a warm fireside to come out into the cold to accompany me home. And I never had the heart to tell her otherwise.

I also never caught on for a long time that her motives might be anything else other than concern for my welfare. And years later I rather missed that ever present figure popping out from behind a tree or appearing like magic out of the gloom. It certainly kept me from sampling the hedonistic delights of our village

I would suggest this ploy is perhaps the best of all - no raised voices, no rows, no need for stomping or flouncing or threats.

There is nothing so off-putting to a teenager trying to look and behave years older in front of their friends than seeing a smiling friendly parent waving happily from the door of a disco or a pub, or outside an unsuitable friend's house calling 'cooee - I thought I'd just pop along and walk you home'. After a time you don't even need to go - just the threat of going will do.