IN WHICH SCRIBBLES SOLVES THE WORLD'S ENERGY CRISIS

So, it would seem that the world is running out of oil a tad quicker than we were lead to believe, yet we are still dithering about wondering whether we should go coal, nuclear or wind as if we had a few more centuries before we needed to make up our minds. At this rate we'll be building the new power stations in the dark with hand tools.

I have a better idea however. Why don't we harness the natural energy of the planet's children? Have you ever studied one? They can go on and on and on and on, with hardly much more than a bowl of coco pops, a sandwich and a few turkey dinosaurs and french fries to fuel them up.

In a futile effort to 'wear our kids out' (every parent's dream, I find) we've been taking our kids to soft play areas - huge jungles of slides, ropes and playframes - and allowed them to go mad for a few hours. But it does nothing. It hardly takes a sip of their oceanic energy reserves. They come home and they want to play bowling on the wii. Whilst Mr Scribbles and I can barely keep our eyes open during tea-time, they want to play after they've eaten, with cars, with board games, with marbles, with dolls.

They don't even need sleep. I feel myself sliding down the slip-road to the land of nod even as I read Alice in Wonderland to them in bed, but their little heads won't even stay on the pillow and they want me to read more and more and more and more.

Instead of spilling this precious natural resource in the soft play centres of the world, why aren't we harnessing it? We could build special places where the kids are wired up to energy collecting machines as they run around "playing" whilst the parents get to sit nearby reading newspapers and drinking coffee (just to keep a eye on things). These centres would be cheaper to build than coal stations, safer the nuclear power stations (as long as the kids are not fed too many E numbers), and cheaper than both. The only running costs would be supplies of Frubes and Fruit Shoots.

I can't believe no one else has thought of this before now. We can all relax and bathe in oil if we wish because we don't need it anymore.

IN WHICH SCRIBBLES BECOMES A PARENT

Oh yes, I have become a parent. Our two adopted children moved into Scribbles Towers yesterday.

I have found that children are another country, both in terms of language and culture and preferred TV programmes. I suspect that there will be parenty type posts here on STS as I try to come to terms with my strange new life and I do hope that won't come as too much of a shock to you, dear, loyal, reader.

My husband and I are giving the Kerplunk a rest tonight and watching a Jackie Chan DVD whilst our new son and daughter sleep upstairs in their new bedrooms. I hope they are having sweet dreams.

More as I find the energy and the time ...

WHO PUT BELLA IN THE WYCH ELM?

I love Halloween with all its pumpkiny spookiness. Later tonight I have one of the creepiest films I have ever seen lined-up to watch on DVD. It's called The Innocents and I recommend it if this Halloween you are looking for a ghosty film to watch made for grown-ups.

Other than that, if you have a spare ten minutes, perhaps you would like to read the fascinating if gruesome tale of Bella. It's a true story and the Hagley Woods and obelisk mentioned in the piece are local to me, and I can tell you the place is eerie enough in the day.

The story starts with a group of young boys finding the decomposed body of a woman in the empty hollow of a whych-elm tree whilst out poaching in the woods. Efforts are made to try and trace who the woman was, when suddenly the graffiti "who put Bella in the Witch Elm?" appears on the side of the obelisk near the woods. Then, spookily enough, the graffiti starts appearing in other places ....

Don't have nightmares!

BATTLE OF BOSWORTH FINDS

Your Scribbles was excited to hear on radio 4 this morning, in context of something else, that the newspapers were full of the new finds at the Battle of Bosworth. Previous best guesses at where the battle actually took place seem to have not been far off, with a huge cache of pistol bullets and cannonballs having now been found two miles down from where the battle was generally thought to have probably occurred.

Don't know what images come to your mind of a 1485 battle, but I'm seeing bows and arrows, not gun metal. Our History has been altered somewhat.

OK, BUSY STILL

OK, I was a little optimistic when I thought I was going to be able to post this week. Your Scribbles is working v hard at the moment, but if she wasn't she would have mentioned the anglo saxon loot leaving Birmingham (never did get chance to see it) and the fantastic blasting of the Daily Mail over the Jane Moir article by decent conscientious Internet users.

Don't delete me! I will write again when I get the chance!

NOW, WHERE WERE WE?

Sorry about that, very rude of me just to go off like that. No explanation. No goodbye. Just a static nothingness of a blog for you to stare at.

If I told you, dear reader, if you are still there, that I have been very very busy with something very very important, then maybe you can forgive me for just pissing off without a word.

I can't say what's been taking up my time yet, but as soon as I get a yes, I'll let you know what I've been up to.

Anyway, there may be posts over the next couple of weeks and so if you find yourself at a loose end, then come on over.

Meantime, I'm off to check out what you've all been up ...

SOME STUDY TELLS BRITISH PEOPLE WHAT THEY ALREADY KNOW

The Guardian reports that a recent study has concluded that the British are so lazy that they are "in danger of becoming too unfit to perform rudimentary tasks", which makes laziness sound like a bad thing!

And I don't know why it took a study to pick that up; it's been perfectly obvious for some time that British people can't be arsed with most things. Glad to see Birmingham second only to Glasgow as having the most slobs - I would expect nothing less. We know what's important and it's not toned tummies.

Laziness is not so bad. Seems to me that left to their own devices most people manage to be as fit as they need to be. Currently, I need to be fit enough to walk from my car to the office, and visa versa, and sit up straight at a desk all day. I don't see the need to get the dumbbells and treadmill out for that in my spare time. I'd rather have a nap.

True, some people take unfitness to extreme levels and end up stuck in bed the size of a small elephant, having liquidized hamburgers funnelled into their mouths by Feeders, but most of us manage to be unfit within reasonable limits. Whereas fit people are always in danger of spraining an ankle or something and they also move about more doing stuff, using up more of the earth's resources. Laziness is good.

And being fit isn't even sexier than being unfit anymore. Lion Bar Ice Cream say so. The only people who find people who go to the gym really attractive are other people who go to the gym. And gay men. Leave 'em all to it I say.

THE SECRET LIVES OF CATS

You might have heard about Casper the cat in Plymouth, who regularly goes for a jaunt on the number 3 service.

Mr Scribbles and I have a cat who disappears for most of the day. She's quite an independent free-spirited little Miss, and so one day I fully expect to see a piece on Midlands Today about a black and white fluffy cat who spends her days propping up the bar in the Crown and Anchor drinking Bacardi Breezers and cadging fags off people. That'll be our Betsy.

THANK YOU, MR PATCH

In honour of Mr Harry Patch, Britain's last living Tommy, who died recently.

Tommy

I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o'beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here."
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:

O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away";
But it's ``Thank you, Mister Atkins,'' when the band begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it's ``Thank you, Mr. Atkins,'' when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!

For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";
But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide,
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide.

Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap; An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy how's yer soul?" But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll, The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll, O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints:
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;

While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind,"
But it's "Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind,
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
O it's "Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind.

You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.

For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"
But it's "Saviour of 'is country," when the guns begin to shoot;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
But Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool - you bet that Tommy sees!

Rudyard Kipling