When A Facelift Just Won't Cut It

We're either get old, or we die. Or we reinvent ourselves.

 The Queen of The Netherlands - which country mystifyingly became "Holland" for handover day on Sky News - abdicated last week, handing the reins, or reign, over to her son Prince Willem-Alexander.

Queen Beatrix at the not inconsiderable age of 75 had decided that she had ruled long enough and that, presumably, her son was ready and able to succeed. Otherwise known as Prince Lager, Willem-Alexander and his family appeared as Dutch as, well, Amstel or Heineken in the TV footage. Except that his wife is not Dutch, she's Argentinian, but we won't hold that against her; a bit of breeding outside the Euro-Royal gene-pool is no bad thing.

HM Queen Elizabeth II on the other hand, at the age of 87, staunchly refuses to abdicate or, more accurately, does not perceive abdication to be an option. She is nevertheless making some concession to her advancing years, handing more responsibility over to the 'younger' Royals sic. Prince Charles, heir apparent, who is a mere sprightly 64 year old. Whether Charles will ever be ready and able to succeed in the Dutch model is not a point for discussion here, he is, however, being sent to the Commonwealth Conference later this year in the Queen's place.

And then we get to Sir Alex Ferguson whose resignation from arguably the most famous, if not actually the greatest, football club in the world, Manchester United, has sparked endless column inches and media discussion concerning his succession. I'm sure Sir Alex has had as much influence on his successor as if the latter were son-of-Ferguson himself.  The primogenitor rule. Maybe it will be the "Special One", maybe not;  certainly ManU will not be thrown a curved ball and have to retreat to the employment market - as alien to them as competing in the lower divisions.

So, the House of Orange, the House of Windsor and The Glorious Game have seamlessly managed pivotal handovers, all the while keeping their supporters on side and not hacking off the 'dis-interesteds'.

So why, after 30 years, has Kellogg's attempted to reinvent Special K, an institution all of its own? What's wrong with a discreet nip and tuck, a gradual holding-back-ageing with a larger box - maybe, more in a box - probably not? Special K specifically, and breakfast cereal as a whole, represents reliability, continuity and comfort. Who decided that barley should be added? What was wrong with the two original grains? Has a focus group indicated that the one thing holding Special K back from world domination (retail sector) has been the lack of barley?

It's like Prince Willem-Alexander showing up for his anointing in a tracksuit. Or Prince Charles greeting everyone at the Commonwealth Conference with a high-five. Or Manchester United deciding that, in view if the parlous unemployment amongst football managers, they're going to embrace jobshare and employ two managers.

On the basis that most people nowadays are accustomed to all their food being presented in red/white boxes - McDonald's, Burger King, Hardee's, KFC, PizzaLand, Wendy's - Kellogg's presumably are already doing something right. Admittedly, all those just mentioned could hardly market themselves as eat-me-for-two-meals-a-day-and-drop-a-dress-size, although I seem to remember that McDonald's tried something along those lines with their healthy salad options.

If the Royal institutions of Europe can deal with continuity, and the National Game can survive the loss of its greatest manager, surely Kellogg's could cope with Special K's reduction in popularity more sensitively.

Or axe it completely and consign everyone to a McBreakfast.

How Wrong Can You Be?

As we approach the final breathless - and airless - days of this Summer Term, I am delighted that this academic year is drawing to a close.

I recall how breathless we were, daughter and I, last September, as we made a very sad journey back to the UK where she would stay to start boarding school life, full time, all girls, from Year 9 through to Upper Sixth. We would be apart for the first time since her birth - give or take a day or two.

I remember how convinced I was that this was the right thing for her for a multitude of reasons; I also knew that it was not what she wanted, that she would be homesick, that she was 'making a fist of it', 'putting on a brave face', 'putting her best foot forward' and any other physical action necessary to see this through.

It must be said, although I had her best interests in mind, this was a perverse decision on my part. Having spent the whole of her fourteen-year life trying to ensure her happiness and security, I had decided to entrust her to the care of strangers in an unfamiliar environment, to leave her in a country which she remembered only from her early childhood.

On the scale of wrong decisions this one was simply off the scale. How wrong is it necessary to be before skies fall and chaos reigns?

All the 'wrong' indicators were flashing, ringing, even screaming - I blindly, deafly and stupidly pursued this course of action.

The reality of the first three weeks was indescribable both for her and for me. I think she was crying for all of her waking hours - she cried uncontrollably through numerous, lengthy and expensive phone calls. She cried silently during lessons and sobbed relentlessly whilst attempting to eat the revolting food. When talking to me she would be crying while laughing - her grief overwhelming, all-embracing. She cried for home, for me, for the weather, from loneliness, from hunger. Desperate, desperate stuff.

I too cried, for my loss, my inability to comfort her, my helplessness. My grief was akin to bereavement. I missed her in every corner of the house and found myself unable to enter her bedroom without taking a deep breath first. Although never a noisy child, her absence was in the absolute silence - as if the house was holding its breath until her return.

I didn't want all the 'free' time - I didn't know what to do with it. Would I have known what to do with it were she happy? Who knows.

But the ending is happy. I pulled her out of boarding school at the end of the Easter Term. She is at school here now - not boarding, not all girls, not many things which I had in mind for her; but she is happy.

So the hot Summer months beckon. We are going to sweat, swim and enjoy.

The skies are back where they should be - high, wide, and oh, so very blue. To paraphrase my daughter, nothing that life can throw at us will ever be as bad as those weeks. Nothing.

This blog was written at the end of the Summer Term 2009.