𝓤𝓷𝓲𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓝𝓮𝔀𝓼

Come on Keir Starmer, grow a pair. Parents are clamouring for guidance on screen time for tiny tots while successive governments dilly-dally and drag their cowardly heels.

We all know under-fives are lulled into a state of semi-sedation by the whizzing cocktail of bright lights and supersonic sound effects concocted in Silicon Valley expressly to seduce them into soporific submission. We are well aware that the Titans of tech, Zuckerberg, Bezos, Musk, et al, won’t let their precious offspring anywhere near devices. They know infants – just like adults – are powerless to resist algorithms constructed by wily wizards to keep them dangling online.

We’ve disappeared so far down the deep dark hole of doom-scrolling that our heels are barely visible. What chance do kindergarteners have, pitted against the world’s most ruthless boffins?

We need leaders to speak out and save us from ourselves. Tentative hand-holding is a waste of time. We’re long past the point where a kindly whisper of muted advice will suffice. Our children need rescuing.

SOS – We’re crying out for something pithy, direct instruction, no ifs or buts and absolutely no “think about showing some self-discipline if you can possibly manage to get around to it, and you’re not too busy doing something else you prefer”.

The instruction and public service messaging must be crystal clear: “Keep little kids away from screens – or else!”

While claiming to be taking control, Starmer and Streeting give us flannel and flattery. We need clarity and urgency. They provide “key tips”. We need rules. Under-twos should avoid screen time “unless it encourages bonding, interaction and conversation”. Tosh!

Under-twos should never be exposed to screens. Talk to them. Sing to them. Play with them. Read to them. Why on earth would you need a screen – or any money – to do any of those?

The suggestion for under-fives is “try to keep screen time to no more than one hour a day”. Talk about vapid and vacuous. This isn’t about trying. Succeeding is crucial. Failing damages your child’s development, linguistic ability, self-esteem and social skills.

Why don’t Starmer and Streeting tell the truth? It’s easier to palm your kid off with technology. Screens buy you peace and quiet, but at what price?

Taking the path of least resistance wreaks untold potential damage on the mental and physical health of the people you are supposed to love more than yourself. Find the moral fibre to resist!

Fifty-six percent of parents say their children refuse to help out with household chores. It was the word “refuse” that got me.

Let’s put this way – “refuse” did not feature on the list of permitted responses when my dad pointed at the washing up and said: “Jump to it!” Also forbidden were dragging one’s feet, sulking and “coming up with excuses”.

Money did not change hands. My father expected team spirit and, if enthusiasm showed signs of waning, invoked “the family war effort” – though I wasn’t born till 1962.

We took out the rubbish, dusted and vacuumed, washed up after Sunday lunch and didn’t dare utter a single moaning syllable. Did I seethe inwardly with raw resentment and mutter under my breath about “child slavery”? You bet!

Were the chores excellent training for running my own life in my parents’ favoured “shipshape and Bristol fashion”? Superlative.

It’s time these lily-livered cowards took their offspring by the scruffs of their grubby necks and told them to scrub the skirting boards, whether the ingrates relish the prospect or not. That, would you believe, is the essence of worthwhile parenting.

Friday was simply bliss. My 12-year-old grandson Zekey and I had an entire day of leisure in beloved East Cork to while away as the fancy took us. What to do to satisfy an adventurous tween and his inquisitive grandma?

How about a trip to the mind-blowing Inniscarra Dam, key energy generator for County Cork? A quick Google looked promising. I revved up the Jolly Green Giant, our ancient Toyota.

Sweeping in through the open gates, the voluminous wall of cascading water thrilled us to the core. We jumped out and explored without a care in the world until a charming engineer gently explained this was strictly a no-entry secure zone, absolutely forbidden to members of the public.

We’d only gained effortless entry because of a fault in the vast electric gates. We apologised and very slowly exited, still drinking in the sensational vista.

Where next for a couple of illicit thrill-seekers? Only the Poison Garden at Blarney Castle. Think hemlock, digitalis, arsenic and mandrake root. Don’t worry. This time we bought a ticket.

There’s an anxiety pandemic. I host the “Help My Child’s Anxious” podcast with child therapist Saskia Joss, and we have listeners as far afield as Taiwan, Poland and the Solomon Islands. Anxiety paralyses sufferers.

They can’t be bribed, shamed or punished out of it. Somewhere deep in their brains, a fear for their basic survival has been triggered, and they can’t function until it has been dealt with.

Nevertheless, I applaud wise Judge David Jeremy, who bracingly dismissed school fee fraudster Gareth Sowter’s pseudo-exonerating claim to be living with anxiety and depression, thus: “Of course you do. You have been living the life of a fraudster for years. That is a depressing and anxiety-making way to live. You brought it on yourself.”

Solomon himself would have smiled as Judge Jeremy banged up snivelling Sowter for 26 months.

If you were Andrew Mountbatten Windsor what would you do now? Seriously, put yourself in his handmade Lobbs loafers for a minute. How would you spend what could be – his Grandma lived to 101 – the next forty years? He’s effectively in perpetual lockdown. So should he learn to play the banjo and bake banana bread?

There’s no point learning a language if no one will speak to you. Now paedophiles, possible Chinese spies, fake (and real) sheiks and dodgy oligarchs have been ruled out, he doesn’t seem to have any pals to hang out with.

His daughters seem to be giving him a wide berth and he can’t exactly redeem himself by “rescuing fallen women”. So how is the disgraced ex-prince who, for the record denies all wrongdoing, to fill what must seem interminable days?

I think I’d start by facing the music in the USA. That could be building block 1. Then I’d flog some paintings, antiques and jewellery to fund rehabilitation for trafficked women – obviously administered by others.

Next I’d have a bash at gardening, taking advice from expert King Charles. Weeding soothes the soul and exorcises the demons. Finally, I’d spend as much time as possible with bracing big sis Princess Anne. One weekend at Gatcombe should banish the blues and set any lost soul on the path to usefulness.

None of my generation can read the feel-good story about pandas Bao Li and Qing Bao flirting their furry socks off through the window of a Washington DC zoo without a severe pang. We were raised on sorrowful news bulletins about the abject lack of chemistry between pandas ChiChi (female) and AnAn (male).

The whole world was desperate for baby pandas, but ChiChi didn’t fancy AnAn, and even when they pumped her full of hormones, flatly refused to entertain him.

In 1966, zoologists tried to ignite a spark in Moscow. In 1968, they attempted to turn them on in London. I was six.

The disappointment endures. This saucy twosome make us wistful for what might have been and wasn’t.