By Douglas Kruger
I FINALLY figured out why Jersey kids start school at four-and-a-half. Between holidays and teachers’ strikes, it takes an extra year-and-a-half just to catch up.
Am I the only one who feels like my child has received nine days’ education this entire year? I just get rid of the little domestic terrorist, and the school informs me it’s time for another holiday. Or another strike.
So I was wondering whether he could get a full-time job. Sure, he’s six. But he’s got the free time.
Parents, by contrast, do not. And because I work from home: Tag, I’m it.
That’s fine, I’d lay down my life for the little guy. But have you ever tried to concentrate on producing whole sentences when you are verbally overwhelmed by a bored six-year-old? Someone recently told me that their kid interrupts them every 11 seconds. All I could think was, “Huh, lucky!” We average seven. And it’s a new topic each time:
“Dad, what are yellow marshmallows made of?”
Pause… Pause… Wait for it!
“Dad, do whales snore?”
It’s like trying to think under sustained machine-gun fire. And what do single parents do? That must be like Night of the Living Dead, but with a village full of little people who all want a snackwich.
I’m busy writing a novel now, and I’ll give you a privileged glimpse into the creative process. It’s terribly glamorous. Goes like this:
‘Just then, Jojo turned around and saw…’
“Dad? Can I watch something?”
“Sure, bud. Go for it.” Where was I? ‘Jojo turned around and saw…’
“Dad? Can I have something to eat?”
“Grab a yoghurt. I’m trying to write.” ‘Jojo turned around and saw…’
“Dad, can we go play at the park?”
“I thought you were watching this.”
“I’ve seen it. Can we go?”
“Nope, park’s closed.”
“Why?”
“The storm, remember? Seriously. I’m trying to write.”
“You never told me if whales snore!”
“Writing!”
“Oh, okay… Dad, do you wanna build Legos with me?”
“Finnne!” ‘Jojo died suddenly. The End.’
We thought long and hard about paying for a couple hours’ daily child-care, but the money’s better spent on a mansion overlooking Gorey.
As for strikes, November has been riddled with a sort of “will they, won’t they?” dynamic, as we hear whispered talk of walk-outs, go-slows and shut-downs, distant rumours of cook-outs and singalongs. One sympathises. But one is also beginning to lose one’s sense of humour. To the extent that one’s YouTube browser now reflects a growing interest in Maggie Thatcher and her unique approach to problem-solving.
I’m also left with unresolved questions. Like: how is it that schools can alternate between displays of great moral indignation when a parent wants to take their kid away for travel abroad, and a blasé shrug when their own gates are closed?
I will say this: over a badly disrupted year, we’ve discovered some ingenious business models for child-minding in Jersey. I’m not just talking about Sports Burg or Surf Camp. Those are clever. But they’re not evil-genius clever. Evil-genius clever is when you enlist free child labour, plus get the parents to pay you for the privilege. It’s so cunning that I wish I’d thought of it.
During the summer, my boy spent several outrageously happy days as an unpaid farm labourer. Picking weeds, feeding piglets, working the land. Ordinarily, that would be illegal. Except – and this is the genius part – if the parents pay the farm for the privilege.
Right?!
I have nothing but admiration for them, and my son loved every second of it. But tell me that’s not Machiavellian!
Here’s another: Foraging parties!
The business model is simple. You charge a flat fee, regardless of the number of kids, and lunch goes like this: “Oh, look, a berry! First come, first serve.” Then you wish them good luck. Your overheads are a pair of wellies and the script for The Hunger Games.
Once again, I genuinely admire the audacity. And honestly, the kids love it too. They come home slathered in moss and memories.
But it is necessary to pay for something of this nature, because we’ve also had one major resource knocked out of the equation, and that’s the public parks. Post Ciarán, they’re closed.
And even if they weren’t, our current weather is best described as “favourable, if you are a fungus”.
So, with soggy weather, loads of time off school, and very little in the way of public resources, may I venture a proposal? I’ll do this as carefully as I can, because I’m still new here. How badly do heads explode when someone utters the word: “mall”?
(Winces. Protects face).
I’d love to see a proper indoor mall. It solves a similar problem in the hostile climates of places such as Canada. And I don’t believe it would be the apocalyptic ruination of our island. We already have cinemas. And we now have a nifty little ice rink. We also have mini-golf and, for a while there, we had an arcade.
But each one is in a different place, and most don’t have parking. Lump it all together, give it several stories of subterranean parking, and you could actually increase the productive output of a big percentage of the Island, even as you solve baby-sitting issues for those who need to work during those endless desert-crossings that we call school holidays.
A full English breakfast with my laptop beside me, as my kid plays with his friends nearby?
Jojo might even become a full manuscript.
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Douglas Kruger lives in St Helier, and writes books to keep himself out of mischief. When the seagulls aren’t shrieking, he records them too. They’re all available from Amazon and Audible.
