Why is it so funny when you come across something that isn’t the size you think it ought to be?

No, I’m not talking about that - get your minds out of the gutter. Tut tut … can’t take you anywhere, can I? No, I’m talking about ordinary, everyday things. For instance, I bought a spring cabbage recently. It was a sweetheart cabbage and they’re usually pretty good, with a sweet, mild flavour and a nice tight cabbage heart, and usually, you can count on them to feed two people for two meals. But that’s my sweetheart, in the picture. Now, wouldn’t you think that spring is the time when cabbages are getting bigger, and brussels sprouts are getting smaller? Yeah, me too. But this time it seems to be working the other way round, and for some reason, when I was sorting out my vegetable drawer to put that cabbage away and found the sprout lurking in there, I was so struck by the size thing that I stood there convulsed with laughter and had to wipe tears.

It got me thinking. Why is it that a big dog trying to fit into a cat bed is so hilarious? What is it about those dinky little motorbikes that make you gasp and wheeze? Why does the sight of a large man trying to fix something tiny cause everyone in the room to make such peculiar faces as they try vainly to smother giggles? And when does ‘too big’ cease to be funny and become ridiculous?

I know, it’s juvenile, isn’t it? But I’m clearly not the only one who finds this sort of thing so amusing. Go and read the story of the Giant Remote and see if you don’t laugh.

I came across this brand new ladybird in my garden yesterday. It’s a variation of the Ten Spot, called the Faint Ten Spot, for obvious reasons.

I love his cheerful colours on the bright spring green!

When I took the dogs for a walk around the park, this blackbird sat watching us. He seemed totally unafraid and let us pass quite close. He even watched curiously as I took his picture - and was still there as we walked on.

And later that day, I spotted a robin clinging to the brick wall as he tried to figure out how to get to the feeder. I didn’t know they could do that!

There. A few happy pictures to counteract the bad stuff going on in the world.

I’m having flashbacks today. It’s all The Goth Mom’s fault, because she did a piece about bullying and suddenly I’m ten years old and the only kids who will talk to me are the other ‘outcasts’.

What was my crime? I’d just been moved out from an inner London primary to a small village school. My accent was different, my clothes were different, I didn’t know the local slang, I was at a different stage in almost every lesson, and boy, did I suffer for it.

There was a children’s home in the next village for short-term fostering and respite care, and these kids, these other outcasts, were friends with me because I was one of the few who would talk the them. We got pushed around a lot by the village kids, but I learned a valuable lesson, because when I passed the necessary ‘11 Plus’ exam and was accepted at the Girls’ High School, one of the bullies - who was also destined to attend this lofty institution - suddenly wanted to be buddies. I hung out with her gratefully, but did I consider her a friend? No, of course not, because I knew it was pure self-interest.

Things got worse. At the new school, my outcast status continued. Why this time? Who knows. Maybe it was because I struggled with the lessons and never had quite the right uniform. Maybe I just wasn’t very nice when I was that age - or maybe I had a sign on my forehead which said ‘Pick on me - I make a great victim!’ but the result was not just ‘outcast’ status, but systematic and very demoralising bullying. It wasn’t physical - no-one hit me or tore my clothes or anything like that, but my tormentors would do things like refuse to touch anything I’d touched. They whispered behind my back. They uttered vague but terrifying threats. They constantly did their best to trick me into getting into trouble with the teachers - and sometimes succeeded. And they played endless and very unpleasant practical jokes.

I never told my parents, because my brother was also being bullied at his school, in a much more serious and physical way, and I guess I didn’t feel that what I was suffering was bullying at all. I remember quite clearly a kindly teacher taking me aside one day and asking me if everything was alright, and I said yes, everything was fine.

What I experienced is nothing compared to what some go through, but damage was done, because it caused me to leave school as soon as possible, with few qualifications, and it left my self-confidence so dented that it has really only recovered fully in the last decade, and that’s a whole lot of years to waste.

Many kids suffer so much more. Some are physically injured, some threaten suicide, and some actually do kill themselves, and I’m very concerned that many schools are not succeeding in stopping it, despite having strong anti-bullying policies. But you know, it isn’t only up to the schools - it starts at home, with parents instilling self-confidence and respect for others in their offspring, and maybe this is where things are breaking down.

So what can we do? How can we protect our children? What works?

A rather wonderful Cambridgeshire lady has just won the Daily Mail’s Inspirational Woman of the Year Award. Carrie Herbert is the founder of The Red Balloon, an initiative to help bullied children to recover and continue their education in special learner centres. As a charity, it is outside the official system, and it succeeds - for some - where the mainstream educational system fails. Why? Is it just numbers? A willingness to think outside the box?

Whatever it is, I’m left with two conflicting emotions.

1) I’m thinking how wonderful this venture is, and how marvellous that it’s helping to save the sanity of these kids and release their potential.

2) I’m depressed that such a thing is necessary, and that it is able to reach so very few.

A post on Drowsey Monkey about Wade figurines got me thinking today about favourite childhood toys. Now I was born a long time ago, so there were no electronic gadgets or computers or even Lego, poor deprived child that I was…

So what did I play with? Well, I had dolls, of course, but they weren’t my favourites. There was no Barbie or Sindy, or I might have liked them better. I mean, all those little accessories, and changes of outfit and growing hair and such? Yeah, I’d have loved those. But anyway, I was the youngest child, and I had no sisters, so the toys I coveted most were boys’ toys. I wanted the meccano! I wanted the little shiny model cars with diamonds for headlights and doors that opened and everything! I wanted the guns! And my parents wanted a girlie girl and they didn’t let me have any of those things. My next oldest brother kindly swapped me a cap gun for a doll one day (he didn’t want her, but he couldn’t just give me anything, it had to be a swap), but when it was discovered, we were made to give them back. Boo hiss.

But there were things that I was allowed that I did like, very much. I loved Plasticine, even though it smelled bad and it was so hard that it made my hands ache, and I had a mosaic set which I adored. It was a round tray with a lot of dimples in it, and hundreds of metallic balls you could make patterns with. Sadly, I ended up with very few balls and a very unhappy mother, because the little balls were made of clay and they broke when you trod on them, and apparently that wasn’t a good look for the carpets. See? Old as dirt, me.

Oh, and I had a building kit called a Bako Builder or something. OH had the same kit as a child too! You had a base plate with holes in it, and a whole lot of little metal rods. Then there were bakolite ‘bricks’ which slotted onto the rods, and windows with cellulose panes, and roof tiles and little front doors and you could build yourself a dream house. Of course, in time the rods bent and the window panes popped out or split, but I loved that building kit. I’d have loved Lego even more, but it hadn’t been invented so I didn’t pine for it.

I didn’t have a cycle or a scooter or anything, because we lived in a flat on the eighth floor. I did have a magnificent coach-built doll’s pram, but it was such a pain getting it out that it was used only rarely. I desperately wanted a pony, but Mum said we couldn’t keep a horse on the balcony and no, it wouldn’t like to ride in the lift, so tough luck, kid.

I had stuffed toys though. They’re pretty universal, aren’t they? Who didn’t have stuffed toys? Who didn’t love them? I slept with thirteen of them in my bed, in a very precise order. I don’t remember them all now, but I know I had Larry the Lamb, and Blackie, the little black velvet kitten with a squeak in his tail - those were two favourites. Blackie got lost on a bus trip one day and I cried for weeks.

So, what memories has this stirred for you? Did you ever lose a favourite? Did your brother cut your favourite doll’s head off? Did you crash a model airplane into the Sunday roast?

At least tell me someone else remembers that far back?