A little shop with Horror

Yesterday afternoon, for want of any other diversion, I took Brian into town with me. For one thing, we needed to find him a new shirt to wear to the wedding we are attending in Grand Cayman (whoo-hoo) in December. A suitable item was found surprisingly quickly, in fact surprisingly full stop, in our local M&S (it was the smallest branch in the UK in 1977 and I doubt it has lost that doubtful claim to fame in the intervening years). To be on the safe side, and despite their redoubtable returns policy, Brian decided to "try before we buy". Size "L" (anno domini and all that) was given the thumbs up and I left him to get back into his own shirt and jacket while I bagged a spot in the speedily lengthening till queue (note the singular). Five minutes later he was still in the cubicle while outside a coterie of elderly ladies waited patiently to try on acrylic Christmas twin sets. With seconds to spare he joined me as I was summoned to the till. "What have you been doing?" I hissed. "Putting back all the pins and plastic packaging - it's taken me ages" says he, proudly. As well as the shirt, Brian had also (self) selected a pack of colour co-ordinated sports socks (to replace the ones he insisted I had "done something with" which were later found slowly bio-degrading in his sports bag along with the rest of his kit from Tuesday's wet run). Size 6 - 71/2? chirped the cashier. Wrong - Brian dashes back to the sock aisle and returns triumphant. Size 11 - 13? Wrong again and the crowd is getting restive. "I'm sorry, I knew it was a mistake to bring him", I smile conspiratorially at the lady behind the till who is also the mother of one of Daughter Number 3's old school friends. Finally, socks in size 8 - 10 are found and purchased. Brian feigns insouciance but trails behind me like a naughty school boy. "I could have got it right" he mutters defiantly, "If only you hadn't put me off by finding that shirt!!"

"Effective, determined and committed" is how 60 headteachers in the London borough of Haringay have described Head of Children's Services, Sharon Shoesmith, in a letter asking that she not lose her job over the Baby P affair. How, I wonder, if he had lived long enough to formulate an opinion, would Baby P have described the lady and her team of social workers, many of whom were apparently deployed in local schools and not investigating the plight of a helpless toddler held captive by and at the mercy of the sadistic tormentors who, we now learn, had earlier abused his sister? Social work is not meant to be an easy option; it takes a certain type of temperament to do the job properly. I don't think I could do it and if I were a social worker in Haringay I know I'd rather be based in a school than going, possibly alone, into the dwellings of violent and amoral individuals to check on the welfare of their children. But I hope if I had had even a suspicion of what was happening to Baby P, I would have acted to remove him from that home, secure in the support of my department and its boss. Sharon Shoesmith held the top job, was paid top dollar to do that job properly and the buck stops with her. That's the deal. She should be deeply ashamed but not only has she refused to apologise or shoulder any responsibility for the belief-beggaring failure of her department, she now has her daughter telling the media to "stop picking on my Mum" - a signal lapse of judgement which Brian, in an uncharacteristic but nonetheless welcome intervention, pronounced to be "a sacking offence in its own right, in my book." My only hope now is that the Children's Secretary finds some balls and takes action to properly protect children at risk, not their parents and certainly not incompetent, complacent public servants - and then I won't have to get these heavy matters off my chest and can concentrate on bringing Brian to book instead.