I am no guru, but I think I have existed long enough on this earth to know what is

boring.

You, me, and most others on the internet are advertising our businesses, sharing posts we wish others to react positively to, and highlighting the skills we have that has produced a product or a service.

Some of you are cake makers, others are artists, fitness trainers and dieticians, offering weight loss/muscle gain plans. Some are into interior design, and others do amazing things with wool, thread, card and glue. Then we have nail technicians, fashion designers, furniture sellers, hairdressers and other services pertaining to health and beauty.

But here’s the thing. I know quite a large bunch of book writers and they are not in such a fortunate position as those of you in the professions above.

You see, a photographer can display their shots. A carpet fitter can show you their rugs and underlay. A cake decorator can show the designs they have done and anyone looking at their photos instantly know, “I want something like that for myself.” The same is true for those displaying nail art and hairstyles. It doesn’t take much viewing to know if what they have is what we want.

But books, sweet books. Nobody wants to see pictures of an author stood holding copies of their latest novel. 

“Good for you.” I think, when somebody piles their books high and takes a photo. It doesn’t serve to spur my interest because – and here’s where I agree with the business gurus – it’s boring.  I want an excerpt – better still, the entire chapter, so that I can have a full understanding of how they write and what they write about.

I am so fed up of LinkedIn posts from authors showing us the snazzy front cover of their latest title. It doesn’t give me any idea that I will enjoy what is written inside and to be honest, as much as I admire the artwork, I’m tempted to fetch my bouncy pillow and have a  good kip.

“Open the pages and let me into your world!”

People need to know:

“What’s in it for me?”

“How is this going to help me?”

“Is it going to entertain me, or make me laugh?”

“How do I know if this is a good service/product to give to a loved-one or friend?”

“Will it solve a problem of mine or will it help somebody I know?”

“Is this something that’s going to benefit my life?“

If people cannot visually sample a product online (okay, you can’t smell perfume or taste food, but you know what I mean) they have no obligation to hang around. I certainly don’t linger where there are no juicy tasters.

For those of you who write books and are scared to let people prod and poke, please stop worrying about having your work stolen from you. Even if you placed watermarks on your pages, an avid plagiariser would painstakingly just copy out your page. Book stealing doesn’t happen that often, but when it does, there are ways around proving you are the original master of your work. To Christian writers I simply say, take it as a compliment, leave the problem with God and move on.

But you really must cease getting into a flap about copyright, ownership and the like. Just give people samples of your book and if they read the entire thing online instead of buying it, so what? One day they may be inclined to purchase a copy for a friend when they remember how it blessed them – in the meantime, quit feeling cheated!

So this is why I take immense pleasure in sharing my books with you. You can dip in and out, viewing snippets that take your fancy, or you can go full steam ahead and read an entire volume, from Preface to Epilogue. You will probably find that some chapters are more applicable to you than others. These you can happily share with people who you feel will be blessed by them.

“But I don’t want people just reading my books online for free!” says the author who ardently disagrees with me.

My gracious reply to you is, firstly, how are you going to know what anyone is up to, and if you do find out, how are you going to stop them? When Christian singers share the songs from their albums, have you then gone and purchased all their CDs? It’s nice to be blessed in this way, but if somebody’s offering something for free, they are ultimately relying on the Lord to bless their ministry, not mankind. There’s one more response to this angst:

You are not a cake decorator – nobody is going to point to the art on the front cover of your book and say, “Ooh, I want that!” Your icing flowers are your quotes, chapters and snippets of prose and without them, people are just going to see a proud writer who thinks they are sassy because their name is in print.

I want to thank you for being here right now, reading this. It has given me immense pleasure creating this excerpt website for you and I want you to know that I am happy to be able to provide you with a cost free way of sampling my books or reading them entirely. There are no grubby finger-marks for me to worry about and there will be no dog-ears because you’ve lost the umpteenth bookmark.  You don’t have to worry about who sneezed on the page before you touched it, or forking out a shed-load of cash to purchase a Kindle. So grab yourself your favourite beverage, cosy blanket if you are somewhere chilly, or parasol if you are somewhere that makes me jealous.

Happy browsing,

I see nothing wrong with the photo above, and neither did her friends. Well, there was the odd one or two things they spotted when holding the snap up close to their face, but all in all, they appreciated the effort she made in thinking to bless them with this surprise gift.

Similarly, you may have received a free copy of one of my books back in 2019 or 2020, and likewse, it was a total surprise. However, I must ask you to forgive me for sounding rather blunt. Please bin it.

“Why on earth would I do that?” you say with fathomable alarm.

I hang my head in the shame of having been too impatient and too unobservant to have noticed errors or things that just didn’t seem right. Maybe I’m a perfectionist like the woman in the photo, but if something is amiss, I have to correct it.

Typos have been found and grammar mistakes corrected, but more significantly, changes have been made to the content whereby several passages or chapters have been added or edited. Therefore, unless it says on the ISBN page, ‘Revised Edition: Dec 2023’, it’s an old copy.

That is why I’m politely asking you to throw it in the garbage – toss it in the trash.

The beautiful lady on the far left is called Clara. Her daughter is Emily and her husband is Arthur. Most people call the old lady, ‘Grannie’. Clara seems reasonably content and that fur stole looks stunning on her frame. But like me, she’s fretting over that freebie she sent out last month.

Firstly, she wanted to be indoors. It was a chilly January afternoon, but there was a ray of sunshine overhead and it was reflecting on the camera. This made everybody squint and she doesn’t like it.

“Why oh, why didn’t I notice this before I sent out all those copies to my friends?” she wails. “My Arthur looks Japanese!”

The background was wrong too. She wanted to be standing in front of a wall decorated with a light strip of flowers.

She was not keen on her hat either. It was too far down and cast a shadow that made her look sleepy – and she forgot to remove the feather. Flapping about in the wind above her head made her feel like a giant ostrich searching for pilchards.

It had been her daughter’s suggestion to let Grannie join them for the photoshoot, but she wasn’t satisfied with her mother-in-law’s pose because she had insisted on holding her umbrella. Why couldn’t she just put the wretched thing down? When she had confronted her about it, the curt reply had been that her son was doing the same, so why wasn’t she bothered about him? It almost caused an argument. Arthur was holding an umbrella for a totally different reason. It was his cane. A gentleman looked distinguished when he walked along with a black sticking swinging in front of him, but she just couldn’t get his mother to understand that.

Then there was her own face. Others would have said it looked fine, and indeed, that was true, but she felt pasty and wished she had pinched her cheeks before the picture was taken. She had removed her gloves to do just that, but the photographer had shouted at her to stop moving. The flash made her wince and she had to steady herself by holding onto her husband’s shoulder. Thankfully this was one aspect of the photograph she didn’t mind. It made her look more loving. But, how she wished they had all positioned themselves in a different way. Given the chance to do it again, she would have made Emily lean against Grannie and moved Arthur to her right hand side.

It takes time to get things right, and I guess this highlights my haste in pressing the “publish” button too early. Please forgive me for my *promptitude. Thankfully for you, there is no need to replace your copy because you can now read all my chapters online, right here. You also have the advantage of having learnt a new *word, which I could have not shared with you had I not needed to write you this little note.

“I already knew what that meant.” you reply rather wrly.

That’s great. You’re more learned than me, because I confess that I had to look it up. It’s not a word I have been familiar with. I don’t like to use big vocabulary at all, and I have an article on that. But I’m going off topic – this post was just to let you know that I have failed in being able to produce a perfect copy of any of my books the first time around. Or the second. Or the third. And now I am paying the price by having to ask you to discard your freebie to the rubbish cart and placate you by suggesting an alternative action would be, to make paper aeroplanes. Origami is a fantastic way of easing one’s guilt for disrespecting trees.

There is one consolation for me in all this woe. I love to laugh at myself and I enjoy learning from my (many) mistakes. Also, thankfully for me, I do not suffer from kakorrhaphiophobia.

Happy shaping.

Much love,

Now here’s a funny thing.

When people ask me what I do in my spare time, I tell them that I am a writer and then, more often than not, I regret my hasty speech.

Being connected to over 1000 writers on LinkedIn, I’m aware that most of them have self-published at least four books apiece. Therefore, to them, my hobby is no cause for surprise.

Non-writers however, always seem aghast when they learn of my penchant for words. This is particularly true of Christians. The conversation often goes something like this:

Person: “So what do you do?”

Me: “Well, I er…I am I’m a writer.”

Person: “Oh really? What do you write?”

Me: “I have a couple of blogs. And I write books.

Person: Oh. So have you published any?

ME: Yes.

Person: “Ooh. What type of books do you write?”

Me: “Christian books.”

That is the moment when said Person physically recoils. Almost every time, I notice a jerking of the head backwards and a sharp intake of breath, followed by a quick change of subject, or a rapid wave across the room to an imaginary best buddy who has suddenly come into their view.

Seriously, the amount of aparitions that make an apearance in those moments is quite astounding. One minute they have no physical body and cannot be seen. Then, mention you publish Christian material, and a ghost emerges with their index finger extended and curling upwards, drawing the person to finish our conversation and come towards them in a flurry.

I am left in a haze of bewilderment, as I quickly recap my behaviour, manner and tone of voice.

Did I sound cocky, arrogant, proud? Did I seem smug? I never detail the amount of books I’ve published, but does the fact that I mention I write, still register as boastful and totally unacceptable speech?

It is Christians who act this way, so there wouldn’t have been any fear that I was going to pin them up against the wall and preach to them about their soul salvation.

As I am never given the chance during the expeditious conversation to explain what my books are about, I can only come to my own conclusions as to why each person reacts in such an abashed manner.

I am assuming therefore, that there is a stereotypical connotation attached to the term ‘Christian books’ and that it may seem to the layperson that I am saying I consider myself to have delusions of grandeur, whereby I believe I am called to lecture, preach, condemn and reprimand all those within my reach.

Maybe Christians who don’t feel called to put pen to paper, but are given authority by their church to stand on a lectern and deliver a sermon or lead a house group, think I am unqualified to write down things pertaining to godliness and living a life with Jesus. They haven’t done so, so why should I?

Or, is it the fear of being pushed into a corner and being bombarded with a choleric sales pitch?

Maybe, at that point, there is an imaginary, dreaded conversation that is playing in their minds that goes something like this:

Person: “So what are your books actually about?”

Me: “Well… that would be too difficult to explain, so you’ll have to buy all of them in order to find out. I tell you what, give me your number and I will send you the links to Amazon where you can download them, or for a small fee of such and such, you can get the physical copies. Have you got a bookshelf at home? Ah yes, I seem to recall that your relative said you did.

Well, they will look wonderful complementing the rest of your bibles and commentaries. In fact, why don’t you give me your e-mail address and I’ll put you on a mailing list and every two weeks I will send you 5 spams telling you about the new ideas running around my brain. And just think, if you get copies for your brother’s birthday and your dad’s anniversary and your cousin’s christening, you would make me very wealthy indeed – and aren’t we called to bless one another?

Not only that, my friend, but you will have the chance to become a writer yourself, by doing me a whole load of spiffing reviews, on the internet.

Oh how exciting this is! You could become my greatest fan! Thank you so much for offering to help me in this way. I’m so glad I bumped into you today – must have been a divine appointment.”

Person: ” Er… I am not er…I haven’t…didn’t…”

Me: “No worries, no worries. I know what you were going to say and that’s fine. I understand. I am  so deeply grateful!”

Yup. I am sure this is a dreaded scenario running around in the mind of some.

Moving on, this kind of reminds me of times in the past when my sister and I used to go on holiday together. We would meet up with a lovely couple and at some point, they would ask the inevitable:

“Are you both working or at college? Oh working. That’s nice. What do you do?”

I would hesitate, while my older sister would reply:

“I am a nurse.”

Sweet couple: “Ah, how lovely!”

Sister: “A neonatal nurse. I work in the Special Care Baby Unit because I look after premature babies.”

Sweet Couple would hold their hands up to their heart and inhale slowly, then their eyes would moisten as they exhaled an emotional,

“Teeny weeny babies! Fragile mites! What an amazing job! How compassionate and caring! You’re an angel!”

They would then turn to me with such expectancy that it seemed they were hoping I’d say:

“And I’m a mortician who embalms the ones who don’t make it.”

Instead, they would get a simple:

“I work in a bank.”

Now…no matter how sweetly I tried to put it, I would always get the same response 100% of the time:

“Which bank?”

Never have I seen such instant fear in the eyes of a stranger. They would push their neck forward like a pigeon and not blink until they had received my answer.

Me: “HSBC”

Sweet couple: (sighing with relief) “Phew! Not my bank!”

But what if it had been? On the rare occasions when Unfortunate Sweet Couple hadn’t been astute enough to move their fortunes to Barclays, and did actually have a bank account at HSBC, they would either begin to explain why they were overdrawn, or try to justify why there was so much money sitting in their current account.

Panicky Sweet Couple: “My aunt’s just died you see, and she left us some money in her will. Plus we’re in the process of selling her house, so we can’t put it away in the savings until that’s sorted. We’re not greedy people. We’re not rich. We’re just in the middle of working with the probate.”

No, did I know any of this previously. No, there would not be any ways I could have found this out by myself. Indeed, people seemed to think that if they had a bank account with the same company where I worked, that somehow, I had an internal database that detailed the entire customer base and with just one blink, I could recall their every financial transaction, even if we hadn’t yet exchanged names.

Here’s another illustration: At school, there was a boy in my class called Andrew Stewart, who was interested in explosives. Each time a career teacher asked him what he wanted to do when he was older, he would reply with a big grin:

“Bomb disposal.”

Teachers gave him a wide berth, and those who couldn’t move out of his way quick enough, gave funny looks as he walked by.

I don’t know if young Andrew got his wish, but what I do know is, in the 30 or more years since we left school, there has been so many attacks of terrorism, that governments from all across the world would have been crying out for people like Andrew, who in reality, had a noble yearning to support humanity. His desire in life was to detonate weapons in order to save the lives of millions.

My conclusion to all this is, when someone tells you what their job is, what they enjoy doing in their spare time, or what they desire to do in the future, don’t judge them on their words or your stereotypical view of what that means. Instead, I challenge you to ask them some more questions and you may find out that their answer isn’t so terrifying.

For me, my answer is: My books were written to encourage fellow Christians on their journey with Jesus, especially the depressed, the lonely, the confused, the rejected and the hurting. Some contain stories about my own failures, mistakes and silly things I’ve done. Some stories detail deep hurts and explains how God turned every single one of them around for the good. There are evangelistic chapters designed for those who do not yet know Jesus, and there are sinners prayers dotted around to give them the chance to get right with God immediately. Some books include difficult subjects such as, civil war, growing old, gang rape, burglary, abortion, singleness, dating, child abandonment, child neglect, racism, church snobbery, fears, insecurities, long-term sickness and parenting fails.

All done in a loving way to help readers to fall in love with Jesus, or have their hope renewed.

There are humorous tales of what life was like working in a Christian bookshop and my ex colleagues who all got a free copy, loved it. I also have a humongous volume of Christian drama sketches based on bible stories and they are all in rhyme. I’m not bragging, but it is a fantastic book for Christian drama teachers. Okay, so maybe here, you would want to do the ‘change subject, walk away, wave to imaginary friend’ thing, because I admit I’m beginning to sound a little sales-pitchey.

All in all, they were written to bless you – not to make me look good, or to line my pockets. And boy, did I have fun making them! I love what I do and I’m not ashamed that my verbosity has lead to me putting things into print.

So, if we meet face to face one day and you ask me what I do, I’m not going to back you into a corner. I promise.

I have never done that, and if per chance, I knew what was in your bank account, I wouldn’t tell a soul.

Much love,

Welcome Video (from Homepage)

About Me

The Benefits of Reading (How To Boost your Memory & Stimulate Your Brain)

Why You Make God Smile (despite your faults and weaknesses) Volume 1

God Loves Children

Life In a Christian Bookshop

Why You Make God Smile (despite your faults and weaknesses) Volume 2

A Manly Man – What is this book about?

A Manly Man – Chapter 1 (Part 1/8)

A Manly Man – Chapter 1 (Part 2/8)

A Manly Man – Chapter 1 (Part 3/8)

A Manly Man – Chapter 1 (Part 4/8)

A Manly Man – Chapter 1 (Part 5/8)

A Manly Man – Chapter 1 (Part 6/8)

A Manly Man – Chapter 1 (Part 7/8)

A Manly Man – Chapter 1 (Finale)

Instagram videos

“This world is fading.”

“Characters from my books”

“Parenting is hard.”

“Laughing at myself.”

“A Godly man.”

“I hate sales pitches.”

For videos on DEPRESSION, click here.

When I was younger, I vowed that I would never wear bi-focal spectacles and I would never get to the top of the stairs and wonder what I was doing there. Those pledges have come true, for I am in the living room wondering why I came downstairs and I’m peering over my glasses at a piece of paper, not knowing what it is doing in my hand.

This is a good reminder for me, that we don’t have long here on earth and that each day, we are one step closer to our demise.

With this in mind, I don’t want to waste my time chasing the wrong things.

While I am trying to cultivate a close relationship with my Creator, there is a constant battle to avoid the distractions that have crept into godly circles, such as, cravings for applause, fame, appreciation, social media followers, royalties, subscribers, and awards.

We are living in an age where it seems that so much focus has been placed on getting earthy rewards for heavenly pursuits.

Some of you will find me boring and that’s okay. Others will think they can do a better job and you are correct. Others still, will not agree with things I say or the way in which I’ve said it and that’s fine too, because we are all different.

The reason I am sat here churning out another book, is because I love inspiring people to see how God is constantly trying to communicate with us using every-day situations.  But millions of other people are doing the same thing in their own special way. It’s great to know that we are all part of a bigger picture that is unfolding into a masterpiece that says, ‘God loves you.’

Also, I think I am one of those people who are a little bit slow in getting the message. When Jesus made-up stories to illustrate a divine point, it was for brains like mine. I’m so glad his mission wasn’t to reconciliate with the intellectual, the quintessential and the holy.

He came into this world to connect with ordinary folk like you and I –

– those of us who are well aware that despite all the good we do, inherently, we are scumbags.

Knowing what our nature is really like is a good starting point. God loves to use the simple and understated things to reveal his majesty and glory. He warns us:

Therefore, let the one who thinks he stands firm, immune to temptation, being overconfident and self-righteous, take care that he does not fall into sin and condemnation. (1 Corinthians 10:12)

Maybe that is why he uses children so much. We have a lot to learn from them and a lot to learn about him, from them.

I stood in the bus station awaiting my coach to London. A middle-aged man in a chequered flat cap and long, beige raincoat plonked his suitcases down next to mine and began talking to me about the impending journey. Underneath his raincoat was a smart tweed jacket and trousers that had crisp, vertical folds running down the middle; looking so sharp, that I’m sure one could use them as a guillotine blade.

He had a posh, southern accent, reminiscent of somebody who has spent their weekends dining with the Queen. His friendly, jolly manner made me warm to him and we chatted happily for several minutes.

Two toddlers were running around the waiting area while their parents sat together on the metal benches.

All of a sudden, the man glared at the tots and grimaced. Eyes that once displayed joviality, narrowed like they were peering through blurred binoculars. His once mellow tone changed to a gravely, fearful voice as he leant towards my ear and whispered,

“I’m going to wait and see where those children sit and then choose a seat as far away from them as possible. I hate bl***y kids!”

“You were one once.” I mused.

“That’s why I hate them.” He retorted. “I prefer dogs.”

He is not alone. Many people would indeed prefer to be in the company of a canine rather than a child, but I wondered what triggered this irrational fear in such a distinguished English gentleman. Were his school years plagued with bullies? Did he come from a large, boisterous family where there were not enough rooms to retreat to his own space?

Observing his guilty glance towards the ceiling, encouraged me to assume a different theory.

He had been the tormentor. The annoying little brother, the stroppy older sibling or the irritating infant whose bad behaviour tested the nerves of every adult who crossed his path.

Yes, no doubt he was remembering what he had been like and maybe up till now, he felt he hadn’t suffered full retribution for his past felonies.

This was the time, he pondered, that the gates will be swung wide open, and a torrent of torture will pour down on him in the way of these two children, who will turn into little imps as soon as he sits down near them.

I watched the youngest child fling a Jelly Tots packet to the floor and push his sister out of the way so that he could be next to his mother. He then extended his forefinger and shoved it so far up his tiny nose that I’m sure I spotted the fingernail protruding out of his left eye.

Umm… maybe this man’s fears were justified. But people, no matter how undesirable they may seem while in their juvenile years, can reform beautifully.

My travelling companion may well have been a tiny terror, but hadn’t he resisted the urge to pull my hair, stick chewing gum under the seats, cough in my face and wipe his runny nose across the length of his tweed jacket? He possessed a handkerchief which he used, he possessed good manners which he used also.

People change and those who appear to not look like they will ever reform, have the potential to change just as much.

No matter what negative opinions you may have towards the youngest people of our planet, God loves them immensely and sees the end from the beginning. He doesn’t just see the dross but the beauty lying beneath it.

Although this book is not about what God thinks about children in its entirety, they are the influence and inspiration behind it. Most of the accounts are true stories or based on real life events that have occurred, all of which involve children. It fascinates me how often God uses these precious little ones to speak to our hearts, even if some of them aren’t so small anymore. So, whether you are a parent of a small child, a parent whose kids are now grown up, childless, or not yet an adult yourself, I would like to invite you to sit back and enjoy the tales that have been born out of experiences with these wonderful beings, who although not yet fully developed in stature and brain,  are very significant to God, because he cherishes them dearly.

I know we should never put ourselves down, but boy, I can be right stupid at times.

Just before the birth of my firstborn, I was invited to the hospital to look around the birthing suite and to have the opportunity to ask any burning questions. At one point, the midwife began talking about nappy changing and said,

“Here’s something you need to know. As the first couple of poos are very sticky, it’s difficult to clean the baby, so use this.”

She held up a tub of Vaseline (petroleum jelly) and said,

“If you put this on first, then it will be easier for you to wipe off the poo. Put loads of it on and then you will find your job much easier.”

I made a mental note of her valuable advice and purchased a tub as soon as I got home. After my daughter Sarah was born, I awoke to a crying sound coming from the end of my hospital bed. She had been the only child on the ward to have woken up 3 times in the night and I wearily switched on my side light and dashed to her cot.

On inspection of her nappy, it was clear that the dreaded ‘first manoeuvre’ had occurred, so I rummaged through my things to find the Vaseline pot. Remembering that the midwife had instructed us to smear it on first, I dug out a large clump and popped it on top of the green stuff that was all over her bottom and up her back. As I spread the jelly with my fingers, the mess seemed to be getting worse. Wanting to follow everybody’s advice to the letter, I grabbed a bag of cotton wool pads with my elbow, placed it across my tummy and with the other elbow (my hands were covered in muck, remember) tried to get a few out of the polythene bag. For, my older sister was a neonatal nurse and had told me that baby-wipes should never be used on a new-born baby.

“Only cotton wool for the first few weeks.” She had told me.

As I smeared the cotton wool pads across the skin, large pieces of fluff stuck to the goo. This was not working!

I rubbed up and down, round and round and the goo followed my fingers and stopped where they stopped. It clung to the baby’s body and to my hands and certainly was not coming off smoothly the way I had been told it would. A lady in the bed opposite groaned because the light had been on for so long and her little tot was beginning to stir.

“Sorry!” I whispered loudly. “I’m in a bit of a mess.”

I looked down at Sarah who with so much cotton wool stuck to her skin, looked like a mouldy sheep. Fluffy, white, with bits of green seeping through everywhere. It was no use – I had to ring for a nurse.

The door slung open wide, and an agitated female entered the room. She glanced at Sarah and gasped in horror.

“What are you doing?!”

“Er, I was, I er, well I’m trying to change her nappy, but I er, I’m struggling a bit.”

“Haven’t you got any baby wipes?” She retorted angrily, still too shocked at the sight before her to move any closer.

“Yes, but my sister said to use cotton wool on new-borns and the midwife said to put Vaseline on top of the first few poos to make it come off easily but it’s er…”

Her angry glare silenced me.

“I don’t know what you’re doing, but I’ve never heard of that before. People generally use baby wipes. That’s what they are for! Use your wipes!”

I was about to ask her to help me clean myself and Sarah up, but she was gone in a flash.

With the slam of the door, (yes, for some strange reason, maternity nurses don’t seem to care about disturbing babies) she disappeared. I grabbed the wipes, cleaned ourselves up, and sheepishly crawled back into my bed.

But I lay there wondering why the midwife’s trick hadn’t worked. Did I use the wrong brand of petroleum jelly? Had I not perfected the swipe properly? Was there something wrong with my child?

It was not until my husband arrived in the morning, that the penny dropped.

“Umm…, I think what the midwife meant was, you were supposed to apply the Vaseline before she dirtied her nappy. So that there will be a protective barrier on her skin which will prevent the poo from sticking so hard. Do you see?”

“Ah!” I muttered as I slunk down under my covers in embarrassment. “Of course!”

You may identify with this.

Not necessarily with the exact thing I did, because let’s face it, that is a ridiculous blunder, solely reserved for those like me, who don’t always think things through. But maybe, you are also cringing at a first-time mum mistake?

Other mothers might have got the nappy changing bit right. Perfect swipe, perfect fit. Not too big that it’s falling to their ankles when grandma rushes to pick it up at visiting time – not too tight that the baby’s navel turns blue and the umbilical clamp disappears into its intestines.

But some of the, not-so-maternally-challenged, stare at the screwed-up face of their newly-arrived offspring and think, “Well, I guess it looks like that because we were once chimpanzees.” They ponder on the apparent big bang that occurred in the atmosphere billions of years ago, producing frogs that crawled on their bellies and humans who acted like primates.

You and I have never gawped at a young child and considered that its new-born ugliness is owing to simian origins.

I looked at my sweet daughter and thanked the Creator God for making her. I knew that I had played a minuscule part in her coming into being. Somebody great and amazing formed her heart and made it start beating at only 6 weeks. Other complex organs were formed, together with limbs and multiple cells. This didn’t occur because of a cosmic accident.

So yes, I’m a fool to think that I can clean an infant’s bottom with lashings of petroleum jelly, and you may have done something stupid too. But be encouraged. Many ‘perfect yummy mummies’ believe that their kid’s ancestors were stooping apes.

 Ah, now we don’t look so daft after all, do we?

She was barely 18 months old, yet as I entered the living room, the wail sounded like it was coming from the lungs of a burly teenager.

My visit to my sister Michelle was an unexpected one. I had popped round on the off chance that her and her little lassie would be in, and I had envisaged them snuggled up together on the sofa, watching a fun cartoon.

Young Isabel, however, was sat on the bare laminate flooring, away from the plush rug, looking like she’d landed there after falling through the ceiling or been part of a magic trick where one suddenly emerges from an odd place.

With legs outstretched in front of her and arms motionless by her side, she faced the open doorway that leads into the kitchen. Inside, her mum was standing with her back to her, silently washing up a pile of dishes.

Strange.

Michelle’s arms were elbow-deep in a sink of hot, soapy suds, yet her daughter was dressed as if they were about to go out.

The house was very warm, yet Isabel resembled a snowman. A thick, woolly hat was on her head and it was fastened with a strap beneath her chin. A large lilac pom-pom bobbed about on its pinnacle like a balloon tied to the top of a tent. Every time Izzy inhaled deeply in order to exhale an even louder yowl than before, it wobbled precariously from side to side.

She had on a winter coat that was buttoned up to the neck and a scarf draped around it in a knot. Elastic that was threaded through the arm holes were attached to mittens that were hiding her hands. Thick, white tights clung tightly to her chubby legs and her shoes were fastened with shiny buckles.

“Hello Isabel,” I interrupted. “what’s wrong?”

Like an arthritic owl, Izzy slowly turned her head around 180 degrees, and looked up at me. She momentarily went quiet, but her mouth remained wide open as if she had been inflicted with Lockjaw. Stood before her was another adult who most likely would not be the desired accomplice she needed. As I was of no use to her plight, her head swivelled back round to face her mother and the howling resumed at higher pitch.

Stepping forward, I could see a pained expression on her face that indicated she was failing at getting her own way. She blinked hard so that a tear plopped onto her red cheek, but something about her posture and gaze told me that this was more owing to anger than sadness. This wasn’t a lonely moment. This wasn’t an ‘I’m in pain and need a hug!’ scenario. It was a story of, ‘I want it now!’

Her mother, who had not even dared to turn around to greet me, was doing her utmost to ignore her. By the jerky way in which she was handling the wares and the speed at which cutlery was being thrown into the plastic tray, my suspicions were confirmed.

Her firstborn was having a mighty tantrum. Another one. And my poor sis’ was doing her best to ensure that she won this round.

It was also evident that prior to my arrival, they had planned to go for a lovely mother-daughter walk in the crisp air and wintery sunshine. Something had ‘kicked off’ causing the behaviour of this cute, but strong-willed tot to rapidly decline. Michelle had decided that Izzy will have to wait, but my determined niece was having none of it. She wanted her recent misdemeanour to be instantly overlooked so that she could have her treat.

Her mother wanted her to learn that bad attitudes are not to be rewarded with fun.

As Isabel continued with her Oscar-winning performance, I wanted to laugh. For some reason, the naughtiness of other people’s kids is far more amusing than that of one’s own – in fact, if it had been my Sarah acting in this way, I would not have been the slightest bit amused.

I wondered how many times I had hollered at God because he did not do as I had asked. How often had he withheld something from me because I had proved too immature to receive it? Like Izzy, had I refused to accept that there are consequences for bad behaviour? Had I continued to be immature and throw a dreadful tantrum?

For the Lord disciplines and corrects those whom he loves, and he punishes every son whom he receives and welcomes into his heart. (Hebrews 12:6)

I’m sure there have been plenty times when I have spiritually misbehaved.  The only thing is, when I do it, I don’t look as cute.

At the checkout in a bargain store, a toddler was sitting in a large trolley. His parents were being served and it was evident that they were purchasing many goods. One of the items on the conveyor belt was a pack of 5 Cadburys Crème Eggs. The boy’s mouth was smothered in brown sludge, indicating that he had recently consumed a chocolate delicacy. But he was shouting, “Egg!” very loudly. With both arms stretched out wide, he flexed his sticky fingers while glaring angrily at this mother. The dad was standing behind the trolley and doing nothing to pacify his son.

“Egg!” “Egg!” “Egg!” “Egg!” “Egg!” “Egg!”

This continued for several minutes.

Being strapped into the trolley seat, he was unable to do any damage, but his little body began to rock violently back and forth as he thrashed his legs against the metal bars.

 “Ehhhhhgg!”

His mother could stand it no longer and reached out for the chocolates that had not yet been paid for. She asked the cashier to scan them quickly and promptly began to open the box. Laminated cardboard in shades of purple, yellow and red, flew onto the floor as customers watched the mother frantically shove a foiled oval ball into her child’s hands.

“There you go Poppet.”

Poppet? Poppet? That’s what I call my child when she’s being sweet! He was acting like a quintessential brat.

Customers began shaking their heads and muttering things like,

“My child would be made to wait!”

“If that was my kid, he’d be getting no egg!”

A particular worry that seems prevalent amongst many parents, is the fear of scolding, reprimanding and chastising their children, because they think this will make them grow up to hate them. I’m not talking about being overly strict or abusing them, I mean, knowing when to say ‘No’ or ‘Wait’ or ‘You are not getting that now because you are behaving badly.’

It is sad when we as parents fail to realise that our children’s anger towards us is part of human nature and if we pander to their wilful ways, it won’t make them love us all the more.

In reality, our kids are more likely to hate us if we give in to their every whim.

The little boy was neither starving hungry, nor neglected. He now knows that if he makes enough fuss, he can have what he wants, even though it is not necessarily good for him. Aren’t many adults like that? I wonder how that began?

I am so grateful for all the no’s my parents gave me. Yes, I still wish I had been given that pogo stick, space hopper and Katie Kopycat doll for Christmas. Up until about the age of 11, each birthday I secretly wished that one of those 3 toys would emerge from the wrapping paper. But, my life is none the worse for having been deprived of them as a child. 

Besides, I got my space hopper in the end. On my 34^th birthday, my house mate presented me with the most amazing, yellow, bouncy ball. As I clung to its wobbly ears, I had many jolly days prancing around the living room.

The grin on my face was larger than the one on the ball, and each time I remembered that I was no longer in my primary years, I told myself it was a good workout for the heart and lungs and muscle exercise for the legs.

However, I never realised how hard they would be to steer. After knocking plenty of vases over, one day I crashed into the sofa, leaving large bruises on my shins. Ah, now I know why my mum wouldn’t let me have all the things I had asked for. We lived in a small apartment with no garden, so I would have been bobbing up and down in the living room, where the television would have ended up on the floor, and the pogo stick would have impaled the ceiling.

There are many things I still crave to possess in my life that I know won’t necessarily bless me in the way I hope they would; and I have to force myself to think maturely and accept that we shouldn’t always obtain what we want.

I am trying to be patient. I am trying to not flex my fingers at God and shout something like, “Egg!” at him in the hope that he will instantly adhere to my demands.

Nobody likes a spoilt child, but let’s be honest, a spoilt adult is even worse.