A lightbulb moment

That soon changed, of course. It wasn’t long before the boys came to the view that their old mum and dad were pretty clueless about most things.

This isn’t helped by the fact that we need to call for assistance every time we want to play a DVD or when the printer won’t recognise one of our laptops.

While the boys embrace the fast advancing world of new technology, we are being left behind. Everything just seems so unnecessarily complicated.

We have never used the expensive special, advanced timer control system that we bought for our range cooker. I am sure only someone with a PhD in electronics could understand the manual.

And some of the symbols that flash on my car dashboard leave me baffled. Even the salesman who took us for the test drive was taken aback when I asked him what the ‘Diff lock’ button was for. Having thought about it for a bit, he announced confidently: “That locks the diff,” before quickly changing the subject.

The dials and controls on our sophisticated new hot water and heating system look like something from the flight deck of an aeroplane, or the engine room of an ocean liner. The engineers explained how it worked when they put it in. But since then, I’ve forgotten and have to rely in the ‘auto default’ button.

But I never thought the day would come when we couldn’t change a lightbulb.

Both the family bathroom and the bathroom off our bedroom have bulbs set into the ceiling, ten in each. And, over the past few months, they have started to blow.  Four have gone in our bathroom, and three in the main house bathroom.

Both rooms have been getting darker, and darker. I did eventually manage to release the casing of the bulbs in our bathroom, which are held in place with a metal clamp. Three friends all had a go at trying to get the bulbs out. Nobody could do it.

“If it gets any worse, we’re just going to have to use a torch in there,” I told the boys. “Either that, or we’ll go back to candles, they’re much more reliable.”

I even toyed with the idea of calling an electrician. But getting an electrician in to change a lightbulb? That is ridiculous, even for us.

Eventually, a friend whose husband is an engineer came to visit. He had a look and got the dead bulbs out of the sockets in our bathroom.

But he couldn’t work out how to release the bulbs in the main bathroom: “They just won’t come out, I can’t understand it,” he said. He came to the conclusion that we must need a special tool.

I got back in touch with the Leeds-based company that installed both bathrooms and they confirmed I can’t change the bulbs without a special mini rubber sucker gadget.

I asked for advice about what new bulbs I should buy, explaining that the replacements I got for our bathroom – the only ones the supermarket stocks of the same shape and size - have a strange, orange glow, unlike the originals, which are bright white.

Then things got even more complicated.

They would have to come to the house to work it out, they advised in an email: “If you have purchased bulbs of a lower wattage or of a different k value, ie warm white instead of cool white, then you will see a difference. The bulbs come in 12 volts, 240 volts, 3 different wattages, 2 different caps, 2 different sizes, many different degrees of spread and many different colours, not to mention the LED versions, the list is endless. And the shower area bulbs can be different.”

I’m off to buy some candles.

I AM sure my friend Laura’s husband meant well when he bought her a new Dyson cordless rechargeable vacuum cleaner for Christmas.  After all, it’s the thought that counts. But he probably shouldn’t have announced proudly, first thing on Christmas morning: “I’ve even charged it up, so that you can use it straight away.” Can anyone beat that?

None of the above (from The Northern Echo, October 30, 2014)

WE thought we’d treat the younger boys to a few days in London during half-term week, meeting up with their older brothers while we’re there.

It turns out, according to 12-year-old Albert, that this is the worst idea, ever. In fact, we are the worst parents, ever, for coming up with it.

“London? London?” he moaned. “But absolutely there’s nothing to do in London.”

Samuel Johnson would have been outraged. But when I began to quote: “When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life…” it was clear that the famous 18th century writer’s sage words were wasted on Albert.

The truth is, Albert is annoyed that going to London means he will miss football practice, as well as a match. He would also rather just muck about with his friends during half term than go to the ‘most boring place on Earth.’

“We could try and get tickets for a musical,” I suggested.  “Musical? A musical?” he spat out the words with all the gusto of a leading west End actor playing Oscar Wilde’s Lady Bracknell with a handbag thrust under her nose.

“I do not want to go to a musical,” he declaimed. I got much the same reaction when I suggested visiting a museum or an art gallery.

“Boring, boring, boring. Why do you always want to waste time walking round boring galleries and museums?”  he complained.

I had an idea: “I know someone who might be able to get us tickets for the Houses of Parliament. We could even get to hear a debate, you might see David Cameron.”

By now, Albert was apoplectic: “But he’s just so boring. Why would I want to see a boring man giving a boring talk?”

I felt I was making better progress with his 15-year-old brother, Roscoe, when I asked him if there was anything in particular he would like to do in London.

At least he was much more enthusiastic than Albert, which isn’t difficult, I know.

 “Not bothered,” he replied.

I texted their older brother at university in Manchester, who’s coming with us too, asking for his ideas: “Musical? Theatre? Exhibition? You say.”

He responded instantly: “None of the above.”

Finding something that all the boys are happy to do together, given their ages range from 12 to 23 years, always proves difficult.

Pointing out that Albert and Roscoe will not be able to go clubbing with them and that an evening down the pub is not an option, I asked the older boys, who have been living in London, for their advice.

“Musical? Theatre? Exhibition? You say,” I texted again.

The 21-year-old, whose main obsessions are football and partying, responded: “Me and Will were genuinely talking the other day about how it would be good to go to a musical.”

I think he was joking.

I gave Albert 24 hours to come up with two things he would like to do in our vibrant and buzzing capital city: “That shouldn’t be hard,” I told him.

“I’ve thought about it,” he said. “And I want to go to London Zoo. I’ve never been.”

I reminded him that he had been to London Zoo a couple of years ago: “Don’t you remember? We all went because you were so keen to go, even though no-one else was. And all your brothers said they’d never go again.”

We parents spend a small fortune on treating our children to experiences like these, because we think it’s a worthwhile thing to do.  But if they can’t even remember it two years on, you do begin to wonder.

“What’s your second choice?” I asked him. “The cinema,” he replied, as if it is perfectly sensible to travel all the way to London and pay to stay in a hotel just to go to the cinema and watch a film which is playing in your home town, ten minutes’ away from where you live.

“Well, you asked me what I wanted to do, and that’s what I’d like to do,” he said.

There is one thing I do know they all enjoy – eating. So I expect we will be able to keep them happy, momentarily, every time we stop to feed them.

And, in between, we will just have to drag them, kicking and screaming, around as many ‘boring’ museums and galleries as we can…