The Wrong Funeral

The thing about black comedy is that it seems wrong but somehow you just can’t help sniggering.  Just the title of this blog episode has probably conjured up a scenario to many of you who, I’ll bet, are half wincing but with a smile on your face.

Those who know me will be aware that, via my day job, I am surrounded by death on a daily basis and one has to find a coping mechanism; for me it’s humour.  If I allowed myself to feel the grief every time I was advised of a clients passing then I’d be permanently in the depths of depression and ready to swing from the nearest tree.

So, with what seems like a season ticket to the crematorium, I get to attend more funerals than most (lucky old me) but I have to say that there is usually something that happens to cause a giggle. This has been especially noticeable at funerals within my family (which may not come as a total surprise to some).

Firstly, there was an Uncle, a practical joker in his lifetime and also apparently afterwards.  My family are spread around the country and we had all gathered at the house, having made combined journeys of several hundred miles which meant that none of us were familiar with the local geography.  The Undertakers had provided two cars which led the procession through the main town, but sadly got separated from the convoy at a set of traffic lights.  The lead car tried to follow but the hearses were out of sight, so instead he simply followed the signs for the cemetery.  This resembled something out of Transylvania, with the graveyard being fit to burst with tombs, moss covered crosses and broken headstones.  The road became a lane and then a tracks which began winding between the plots themselves.  A graveworker, with a look of astonishment at the posse of cars, pointed out that this was the old cemetery and it was the new one where all burials and services took place. Imagine if you will, the sight of half a dozen motors trying to do 3 point turns in a tightly packed graveyard and then heading for the new cemetery at speeds more befitting of a mercy dash.  I think the speedo hit 60mph as the cars raced down the long church drive, eventually confronted by the sight of the sweating and straining pall-bearers, coffin in place on shoulders, who had been waiting patiently outside the door for the mourners to arrive for at least 10 minutes.  We were sure my Uncle had “arranged” that little incident and was probably looking down on us, laughing his head off.

Then there was the funeral of an Aunt (sister to the aforementioned Uncle) who lived in a small village which had a tiny Baptist church.  The funeral service had been booked in the big Cathedral in the town which was a Catholic church, and the Priest had rather bizarrely requested the assistance of the Vicar of the Baptist church (my Aunt was Catholic but never attended either church anyway). This was a mistake. The Priest delivered his opening address and prayer, which ended with the line “May God be with you” to which the Vicar, who was a double for Benny Hill’s small, bald sidekick, bellowed “AND WITH YOU!” at a volume that made everyone jump out of their skin.  From then it went from bad to worse.  Every statement or sentence made by the Priest was repeated half a second behind by his helper, a bit like an echo. A request for the incense burner led to some comedic indecision from the Vicar that wouldn’t have been out of place in a Laurel and Hardy film before a bit of helpful direction enabled the vicar to finally bring the burner to the Priest.  “No, I wanted something in it” the Priest said patiently and this was the cue for many of the mourners to cover their faces with tissues and handkerchiefs, trying to make their tears of laughter appear to be the more acceptable tears of grief.

But it was a recent event that inspired this episode.  Last month, I had to sadly arrange the funeral of a man who no-one knew very much about.  His family had disowned him back in the 1980’s (no-one had a clue how to contact them or even what their names were) and he had spent the last 15 years of his life absolutely convinced he was going to die imminently. He had basically given up on life, refused to communicate and confined himself to bed, his only occasional visitors being ex-neighbours plus a friend and her husband who had also taken on the role of being his Attorneys in his lifetime.  I was his Executor and had to register the death but no-one for certain even knew what his occupation was.  The Minister did a sterling job of the service considering that the only information we could give him was that he had once built his own house and hated everybody and everything except Country & Western. The funeral congregation numbered seven (me, the ex-neighbours, the attorneys and their adult children), plus a gentleman who sneaked in at the last minute and sat at the back and who, I had assumed, would be operating the piped music.  After the service -  which was amazing considering there was so little to work with - we went to look at the flowers and after a minute or so, the Minister came rushing across with this “extra” gentleman who had been sitting at the back.  He then announced that he thought he had worked with the deceased up until the early 1990’s.  He had seen the notice in the paper and thought that it must be the same person (it wasn’t a very common name but it was more the initials he remembered).  For a few minutes he regaled us with tales of the deceased’s life and provided much more personal information than we had ever had before, which prompted much “oooing” and “aaahing”.  Then he mentioned something that made the ex-neighbour look quizzical… noticing this, a thought suddenly occurred to me and I asked “What did this chap look like?”  The description he had given us was nothing like the deceased at all and it then became clear that not only had we had been discussing completely the wrong person but he had taken an afternoon out to attend the funeral of someone he had never met.  At such a sad occasion, when there was a fair amount of guilt that perhaps no-one did more to try and make the last few years more enjoyable for him (although it’s very difficult to help someone who so clearly doesn’t want to be helped), this provided a moment of light relief and hilarity for all concerned.

I’ll bet that the old boy wouldn’t in his wildest dreams imagine he would be the subject of a blog post read by a few hundred people.  In fact, he probably didn’t even know what a blog or even the internet was.  But if it wasn’t for him, then this incident wouldn’t have put a smile on my face and neither would I have been able to share it with you all, so many thanks to him for that. 

The day I went to France and it was closed

In the opening post of this blog, I promised stories relating to dating disasters and experiences.  The one I’ll share with you now made me laugh at the time.  Ok, it’s not side-splittingly funny and many of you will probably find it downright obvious, but the issue just didn’t occur to either me or my date when it happened.

This particular lady I had seen on the dating sites and liked both her picture and the way she wrote, which was articulate and funny (when I told her that she looked lovely, she corrected me and said that “stunning” was the correct description, obviously).  A big turn on is that, well, for me, anyway.  Obviously there has to be a little physical attraction too otherwise it’s a complete non-starter.  I used to frequently get messages from people whose profile I used to look at and think “Is that really the best picture you’ve got?  Really?”  Anyhow, I digress.

After a few funny and occasionally flirty emails, I established that she was a smoker, which was a no-no as far as I’m concerned.  But the emails and messages continued as we both made each other laugh, and we decided that maybe we should just have a date as it was sure to be a fun evening. 

So, we actually arranged for me to go to her flat and between us, we’d cook a Thai meal.  I would do the starter; she would do the main course.  She was 4 years older than me and had arranged a chaperone to also be in attendance who turned out to be a 30 year old single female from the same block.  Now don’t get too far ahead here… it didn’t turn out to be one of THOSE type of nights… but she did dismiss her chaperone after dessert and I seem to recall that she pulled a muscle in her neck as she moved in for some serious lip action.  It also transpired that she had apparently been pleasantly surprised when I turned up as she’d been looking at my profile on the dating site and thinking “Is that really the best picture you’ve got?  Really?” I’m apparently not that photogenic.  It’s funny how we see ourselves so differently from how others see us and after all, beauty is in the eye of the beer-holder.

Anyway, she actually gave up smoking (Result! – Snogging an ash tray was never my thing) and we saw each other several times on and off for a few weeks.  She kept referring to me as her “toy-boy” (funny the first time but gets a bit tiresome with every introduction) and really had not much in common with my circle of friends, all who seem to be younger than me but nowhere near the declaration she made when she met some of them at a pub quiz night (“Look at your friends! They’re all about 12!”).  But the main trouble was that she’d never been married or had kids herself and therefore probably didn’t fully appreciate the demands on your time when you have three of them.  As any parent will know, a child isn’t just for Christmas and when you don’t live at home with them you tend to want to make the most of the little time you do get.  She also was incredibly impulsive… she asked me if I’d like to go to see her friends in Majorca as they had a spare apartment we could stay in and no sooner had I said “Yes, that’d be nice” it was booked!  No checking whether I was available or anything like that!  Bang.  Two flights from Stansted. Be there or else.  The relationship didn’t last until departure date so that was a wasted exercise.

But onto the point of the story; she also had two free tickets for Eurotunnel. This trip did need a little co-ordination and we agreed to go on a Sunday (some of you may already see the flaw in the plan) as around that time neither of us were able to take any time off during the week and Saturdays were really busy.  Her flat was kind of on the way so it was arranged that I’d go to hers, stay over and then we’d go to Folkestone from there on Sunday morning. 

We had to take her car for some reason that escapes me, but it was a Fiesta and therefore the opportunity to really stock up on the booze was a non-starter.  No matter, it would be a nice day out and we figured on some shopping, a nice lunch in a fancy restaurant, maybe some people watching as we supped coffee at a pavement café whilst basking in the sun (it was summer and in the mid-20’s) before heading home at about 9 o’clock.

The trip across was fun, laughing loads as we listened to Kevin “Bloody” Wilson CD’s and then recounted the best sketches from The Catherine Tate Show (Boy, I know how to live).  When we arrived in France, I thought it seemed unusually quiet and we drove off round the surprisingly deserted streets and villages, heading for the Hypermarkets which, as many of you have probably guessed by now, were shut.  In England, we are so indoctrinated with 24 hour shopping, 24 hour TV and practically 24 hour drinking and eating so it just didn’t occur that just 24 miles across a bit of water, a Sunday would be so different.

We did find a steak house chain that was open, so we stopped for something to eat and then desperately tried to find any sort of establishment selling cheap beer, wine or cheese (no ciggies – she’d given up) before joining a queue of English cars all doing the same and coming across a “Sainsbury’s Wine Outlet” that sold… wait for it… wine.  No beer or cheese.  Just wine.

At least I had a chance to top up on the vino.  As for the pavement café, forget it, nothing was open AT ALL and to make things worse the sky clouded over and it started to rain.  Knowing when beaten, we headed to the Eurotunnel terminal to make our way home again and I seem to remember being back by 4 o’clock, which was not bad considering we’d only left at 10. 

We didn’t see each other too much after that (nothing to do with the trip) although we kept in touch by email for a bit.  She eventually found happiness and I understand is now engaged to someone who has some grown up, self-sufficient children, so I’m pleased that it all worked out well for her.  By her own admission, she really didn’t like kids (I actually witnessed her having a panic attack in a supermarket when a young child started screaming in an adjacent aisle) and so she probably learnt not to date someone who still has major parental responsibilities.

I learnt not to book day trips to the continent on a Sunday.

Something for the weekend, sir?

All of us lads have been there I guess. Late teens, on a promise, straight into the chemist with the intention of purchasing a packet of 3, only to bottle it when confronted by the assistant who reminds you of either your Mother or your girlfriend. God, the amount of throat pastilles I got through as a teenager was unbelievable...

Anyway, something almost equally embarrassing happened to me several years ago, but it’s certainly worthy of a blog entry to give you a laugh.  I know it's a departure from the promise of dating experiences etc. since my marriage broke down,  but in my mind it's funny enough to include here, so here goes.

It was back when I was married and the ex-wife was about 6 months pregnant, which dates the story at early 1999.  Are you sitting comfortably?  Then I'll begin.

Everyone snores, don't they? Well, most do, and some louder than others. I was lucky enough to have escaped the flu bug doing the rounds at that time, but I did get quite congested, and had trouble breathing at night. Consequently the result, especially after a couple of relaxing beers, was a cross between an underground train and a Howitzer Artillery gun (or so I'm told, because as everyone knows, you can’t hear yourself snore. At all.) This woke my wife, bless her, who tolerated it for a few minutes before lashing out with fists, feet or anything handy in an attempt to shut me up. This (eventually) woke me up (I slept so deeply it was like being under a General Anaesthetic) and the end result was that neither of us got much sleep, so we were shattered the following day. The cumulative effect was devastating and after a week or so usually ended with me sleeping on the couch so that she could get some sleep ready for the whole process to start again.

As a caring hubby and a "new man" and all that, I decided to pay a visit to my local chemist on the way home from work. The intention was to see if they had any of these anti-snoring herbal type remedies; they've got to work for someone, surely.  In my ex-wife's best interests, I would also get her a pair of ear plugs, just to see if they blocked out the racket enough so that she could sleep through it.

All the assistants were busy, so I started scouring the shelves. There were no herbal remedies for anything on view; perhaps they were behind the counter. Never mind, look for the earplugs. Toothpaste, mouthwash, nappies, plasters, they must be here somewhere...

"Can I help you, sir?"

I looked around, and there was the assistant who reminded you of your Mum. I was just about to explain the situation when just behind her, waiting for a prescription, I saw a very good client of my firm. Oh my God, how embarrassing!  I now had to publicly admit in front of one of my wealthiest and best clients that my snoring is so loud that it wakes my wife and drives me to purchase earplugs and herbal snoring remedies. What would this client think? (With hindsight, probably nothing, but that thought didn't even enter my head at the time.)

"Er... yes... earplugs please."

The assistant acknowledged the request, raised one finger skywards, adopted this "you-won't-find-them-out-there" posture and headed off behind the counter. I smiled sweetly and meanwhile made polite conversation with my client, who asked was I well, were we busy, how was my wife coping with her pregnancy? Fine on all three counts, thanks...

"Are they for you, sir?"

"No, they're for my wife"

"What for, may I ask?"

Horror number two. The one who would have reminded you of your girlfriend appeared out of a room at the back. Except that she was actually my wife's best friend's daughter. She smiled and acknowledged my presence and looked at me in that "Have-you-come-in-for-anything-juicy?" type way. I now had the complete and undivided attention of both assistants and the other customer, all looking at me as if to say, "Well?"

"Er... flying. Yes, that's it, she has trouble with her ears when flying."

Got round that pretty well, I thought. All seemed satisfied and the motherly one showed me the range of earplugs, some wax, some foam, and some on special offer. I was just about to get the special offer ones when she said "Or there's these..." and then produced this box from the back of a drawer with what I'll swear had Masonry Rawlplugs in it. I wouldn't put them in my garage wall, let alone anyone's ear.

"These are specially formulated for air travel. These will do the job nicely. They're called Ear-planes."

These Ear-planes looked downright brutal… more like Ear-PAINS. I just wanted something to help keep the noise out, as I was fairly certain that our bedroom wasn't pressurised and my wife wouldn't be coming in for any rapid descents (Well, she was pregnant, come on…) and they were 3 times as expensive!

"Can I see the special offer ones again, please."

"But sir, these are formulated particularly for air travel, and if your wife has trouble when flying, then surely it makes sense to use the product specifically designed to relieve the problem, does it not?"

The motherly one had hooked me in with the "Don't-be-a-cheapskate-your-wife-is-worth-it" ploy. Top call. I had no option but to go for the Ear-planes now. OK, I know when I'm beaten.

However, it wasn't over. My wife's friend's daughter, knowing our family situation extremely well, went for the jugular.

"I didn’t know you were planning a trip.  Where are you flying to?"

Well, I couldn't have dug a bigger hole with a JCB than the one I was just about to finish off right now.

"Errr... I... don't... know..."

It was one of those bizarre Simpson-esque moments. All three characters - the client, the motherly one and the best friend's daughter - stood stock still for a couple of seconds looking at each other alternately out the corners of their eyes. God knows what was going through their minds. The motherly one then laughed and said,

"All I can say is that most people start with the travel brochures."

Ha-ha-ha. Say nothing, just let it ride, smile politely, take your change and go. Just go. Say nothing. Brain to mouth, are you receiving me? Over? Over?

"Well, you know how it is. I was just passing and thought I'd pick up the earplugs.... "

I could hear my voice trail off into nothing. What an absolutely pathetic comment. Can you imagine any sort of conversation between husband and wife like this:

"Where shall we go on holiday, darling?"

"I don't know, but I'll get some brochures on the way home."

"Good idea - don't forget the earplugs."

At the very best, they were going to think I had lost the plot. The client probably thought I had been working too hard and obviously needed whatever holiday was being planned. In a worst case scenario, they were probably trying to mentally find some really kinky use for earplugs, and my wife's friend's daughter probably thought I was having an affair and jetting off to sunnier climes with my secretary.

Maybe I should have taken that holiday...

Uprising - aka "Why kids shouldn't have facebook"

"Rise up and take the power back” says the song “Uprising” by Muse and just recently that is exactly what I’ve felt I needed to do.

As a father (three kids that I know about and am admitting to) and a "common law step father" of a further three I think I’m more qualified than most to comment on issues with children as they grow up.  Pre-kids, we are all pretty judgemental, aren't we?  My offspring certainly weren't going to behave like the spoilt brats raised by <insert bad parents names here>.

Oh, if it were so easy.  But, when you have to work so hard to provide the phenomenal amount of cash needed to raise a family, you really don’t have the energy for all those battles. One child is a handful and more than one is a houseful.  The third and upwards make no difference; you can only get exhausted to a certain level.  We therefore tend to take the easy way out and sit the children in front of the TV just to get some peace.  It's such hard work to be a strong parent and so easy to give in so you can preserve your sanity.

But do we actually know what our kids are watching?  With so many channels these days, 99% of programmes are absolute garbage.

With Sky (and maybe other digital TV providers), there are parental controls to stop your children viewing anything “unsuitable”.  Well, unfortunately this just means programmes with adult content and it doesn’t cover Jeremy Kyle, Jerry Springer, Embarrassing Bodies or any other daytime TV trash that deals with themes that children really shouldn’t be exposed to.  And you have to remember another pin code or password (as if we didn't have enough numbers to remember).

Then there's the internet… the most uncensored, 24/7 available source of filth and depravity ever known to man. Yet we buy our children laptops, ipads, smartphones and other devices that enable them to be online at any given time.  Yes, yes, I know that there are parental controls for that as well (with more passwords), but how many parents are computer savvy enough to a) activate them and b) make them hacker proof?  Because every teenage child will suddenly discover a friend who is as good as hacker as that girl from the film “The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo” (go see it – brilliant) and there are few boundaries that can be placed by Mr and Mrs Average-Parent that will keep children absolutely safe online.

This is beginning to sound like a rant, which I didn't intend it to.  However, just recently, we have suffered a series of events that has prompted this.  I live with my partner and her three girls, two of whom are teenagers and one is 11.   They all are addicted to faceache, sorry, facebook and have been spending so much time on it that school work was suffering.  I therefore set up a new user on the PC called “Kids” and passworded it.  Through Windows Family Safety, I have it to be logged off every evening at 10pm.  Plenty late enough I think. I have also created an unrestricted user called "Homework" that they could log into anytime for school work and it has all social networks blocked. I'm only reasonably computer literate and it was easy to do.

There were protestations initially, but then we discovered they were accessing the internet via their phones.  So we called the supplier and had the internet mobile package turned off (yes, you can) and now they can’t access facebook via their phones AT ALL.  Unless they knew the Wi-Fi password for the router… so I had to change that too. 

I'll now tell you the good reasons for this clampdown.  A few months back, one of our girls (We'll call her Alison) got into a playground spat with a girl at her school over nothing very much. In the olden days (when I was a kid) playground arguments lasted until going home time and then generally it was all over.  But now, via facebook, these disagreements continue into the evening and many, many more people can get involved, with "inboxing" all over the place, winding the whole situation up.  The upshot is that Alison came face to face with her tormentor in town (or “tahn” as it’s more commonly known) and then got beaten up.  It was bad enough to call the police and get crime photos taken.  The assailant will be arrested, probably expelled and Alison is now terrified of repercussions.  People are so brave behind a keyboard...

Added to this, another one of the girls (Betty) has that other device that is becoming a downright nuisance as well…A BLACKBERRY!  With their BBM facility (Blackberry messenger for those who don’t know), here is another medium for dramas to not only fester but develop.  She was becoming almost reclusive, totally didn’t want to be anywhere near anyone else in the family at all (‘cos it’s borin’, innit?) and spent every waking hour either winding people up on facebook, slouched across a sofa BBM-ing people or being stroppy to her sisters.  Occasionally she’d come out with some gems, like;

Betty – I’ve bin invi’ed to a par-eee (That’s “I’ve been invited to a party”, for those unfamiliar with The Only Way Is Essex.)

Me – Whose?

Betty – A friend.

Me – Which friend?

Betty – Tallulah. You don’ know ‘er, she’s like, a friend of Jasmine's friend Trixie. I like met her like las’ week in tahn.

Me – When and where is the party?

Betty – Dunno…  It’s on facebook… she’s got like 865 friends and they’re like all going.

Me – Well I don’t think you’ll be.

Betty – Aw, Sha’ up!  Thass not fair. Ohmygod.  I’ll be the only one not going.

Me – I don’t think you will actually.   A house party that size sounds like trouble and anyway you’re not old enough.

Betty – Ohmygod, AS IF!  You just wanna stop everyfing I do. O.M.G.

And so on and so on.

Anyway, we have now possibly solved the problem.  The Blackberry has been confiscated and she has been provided with a more regular “phone” – you know, one that just makes calls and sends texts.  She was distraught at first and kept saying “Ohmygod how will I get to school?” (Yes, seriously.  Like the phone has doors, wheels and drops her off.). But, after a few days, she – by even her own admission – became a nicer person, less angry, less stroppy and has started to integrate into the family more.  Also, we have temporarily banned the internet other than on the “Homework” user.   All the girls are being nicer to each other and we have just had a drama free weekend.

So, if all this rings a familiar tune, I do recommend that you take steps to get the power back.  Children need boundaries and also need to know who's in charge.  We must keep them safe.

What I must do now is keep these extra passwords safe too and in a place they won’t see them.  The laundry basket seems as good a place as any; nothing ever finds its way in there.

Happy New Bloody Year.

Hello 2012, Goodbye 2011.

On the one hand I can't say I'm too sad.  It was the year I finally got divorced, finally became debt free and found myself having to start again with only 15 years left until retirement.  Barely long enough to get enough in the bank to provide for my decrepitude I feel, so the chances are I'll be still working well into my 70's.

However, despite the drama, there have been worse years.  2007 and 2008 for a start, both being right up there as the worst of my life.   That was when I realised that my nearly 20 year marriage was on life support with the doctors about to switch the machine off.  A three month trial separation at the end of 2007 was greeted by a very quick decision by the ex at the beginning of 2008 to hang the "Do Not Resuscitate" sign on the matrimonial door... well, Happy New Bloody Year!   The divorce itself, whilst not acrimonious (although it has had it's moments) has felt a bit like that old TV soap El Dorado; it has just seemed to rumble on with not very much happening and then suddenly came to an abrupt end. My only wish was that the process had been as short as El Dorado, which was only aired for a year.  My Decree Absolute took over four years to get issued. 

Far too much has happened since then to be the subject of one blog post.  However, suffice to say there was a lot of fun mixed in with the pain, anguish, financial struggle and I have to say it has all turned out very well.  I'll provide little snippets and gems (including some dating disasters and experiences) through this blog, but the one I'll share with you now inspired the title.

When you suddenly find yourself on your own, with a family to support as well as providing for yourself, financial sacrifices have to be made.  With firm commitments, like mortgage payments and rent, there is only so much you can do, but I did discover the benefits of loyalty card points and vouchers.  Those little things can make quite a difference.  Rather than have loads of cards with points all spread about, I decided to focus on two specific cards; Tesco and Nectar.

I therefore started shopping at places that took the Nectar card, linked my firms office stationery order to it and built up a decent balance.  I had intended to redeem them at Christmas, maybe to get a case of wine that would act as presents for friends, that sort of thing.  My summer Nectar statement had showed a balance of nearly 50,000 points, so I logged on to my account in the November to see how many more had been added. 

It was therefore quite a shock to see a points balance of zero.

Zero?  ZERO?  How on earth...

Looking back through the account I then saw that the points had all been redeemed.  Not by me they hadn't... and then I remembered that the ex had a card also.  I rang Nectar and they confirmed it was a card linked to my account and yes, the points had been encashed already by her.

So, what to do... not much really, except cancel her card, which I did.  She eventually discovered this, presumably the next time she wanted to redeem them and was greeted by an "Unable to access this account" message.

Through some quirk in the Nectar system however, she had still been adding points on her card via her purchases, but into my account, despite the card itself being cancelled!  She had spoken to Nectar and apparently, if I agreed, then the points could have been transferred back to her card, but only on an "all or nothing" basis.  As she'd already had the benefit of all my points once, I didn't feel benevolent enough to agree to that. I think that's karma for you.  Little victories, which, generally speaking, is all men can hope for in the Divorce Courts.

So, let's ring in 2012 - an Olympic Year - and decide whether or not we will be here this time next year.  After all, the Mayans prophesised that the world would end just before next Christmas... or did they?  As the end of the world within twelve months seems increasingly unlikely, the interpretations of the Mayan prophecies have changed.  Personally, I just feel they got fed up of plotting a future calendar, or perhaps even ran out of material to write it all down on.  These days of course, the storage of data is becoming less of a problem as we are all using "the cloud" (I wonder how that affects flights?  Does this mean extra turbulence with all those bytes of data floating around up there?) and I fear for the younger generation in this modern era and the way they communicate.  The wonders of facebook, twitter, mobile phones etc. enable people to keep in touch every minute of every hour of every day.  And they do.  Now in some ways, this is a really good thing - but sadly, such devices, programs and "apps" are widely available to people who really don't know how to use them properly or, more importantly, do not know how to behave online.  Yes, I'm particularly talking about young children here - and more about that in my next blog - "Why children shouldn't have facebook."

Thanks for reading, all comments welcomed.