The birds and the bees have reached Buckingham. Sex education hangs in the air like an inflatable foil question mark in my daughter's household.
Ah, memories.. My own sex education from my mother was proficient, unremarkable, and mainly supplemented by many happy hours spent behind the settee reading Marje Proops's Problem Pages in piles of Woman magazines.
My brother received the talk from my father who elected to deliver it while driving. An excellent plan, as he told me later. It was great, because it meant he was able to keep his eyes on the road ahead, and concentrate on his driving at critical moments while he thought of sensitive phraseology, or checked his mental filters.
My brother at the end of it apparently said, "Well, Dad I'm glad you told me; if anyone else had, I'd have thought they were joking!" Mission accomplished.
My daughter decided to prime her daughter for the big moment in school. She recalled her own school days when a teacher at the end of tortuous explanations asked if there were any questions.
Some bright spark wanted to know how birds had sex.
"How do they have sex?" I asked her, suddenly realising that here was a serious gap in my own sex education. "One flying upside down, the other on top, with a lot of synchronised flapping," she said seriously.
Well, I never... I'm glad I asked.
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