Fighting talk in TV's war over accents My accent is now a satisfactory amalgam of Tyrone and Edinburgh: as in, a genteel Edinburgh lady enters a baker's shop and says: "Is that a sponge cake or a meringue?" Shop assistant: "No, hen, you're absolutely right, it is a sponge cake." My tone and timbre may or may not have a charming lilt, but at least it isn't Scouse. And before you start, let me quote Liverpudlian soap starlet Jennifer Ellison: "Everyone thinks that just because you have a Scouse accent, then you must be on the rob." But is that better or worse than Brummie Adrian Chiles's assertion that "If you speak with a Birmingham accent, people assume you're thick"? Or the one about the Geordie lass who goes into a hairdresser's in Gateshead and says: "Wey aye, can I have a perm please?" To which the hairdresser replies: "Of course you can, pet. I wandered lonely as a cloud... Insulting or affectionate? When it comes to accent, only a curmudgeon would get their diphthongs in a twist at someone gently ribbing them for their estuary English glottal stop or blunt Lancastrian vowels. Let it be remembered that broadcasting fashions change and Bakewell was once deemed not posh enough to go on air. And (in case I've not offended enough people already), whoever dreamed that Welshman Huw Edwards would read the news, that Robert Peston's strangulated drawl would garner him fan mail, or indeed that Christine Bleakley, as Norn Iron as they come, would be the nation's sweetheart? Perhaps I was over-hasty in fiddling with my phonemes. Hoi Noi Broin Coi, anyone? Climbing trees and splashing in puddles is never an afternoon wasted Are your cotton-wool kids sitting comfortably? Kevlar body armour not too tight? Well away from the dangers of knives and stoves, mugs of steaming coffee that might scald your face off and mother's matches and father's loaded shotgun? Good, then I'll begin. First, a child-rearing Rorschach: balloons, puppies, hula hoops, duck ponds. Does it resemble a dream-come-true wishlist? Or - come out from under the table, you short-trousered poltroons! - a memento mori of terrors and potential death-traps? As the latest dispiriting survey reveals that just one in five children plays outside every day, a nanny friend confirms that she routinely encounters weedy-and-detestable youngsters scared beyond reason by all of the above. Or rather, whose parents have presumably scared them off some of childhood's sweetest pleasures with surreal Lemony Snicket-style warnings of tiny hips dislocated by hoops and eardrums shattered by bursting balloons. Received wisdom has it that over-anxious adults are concerned to the point of paranoia about their offspring's safety, which, though misguided, is none the less laudable in a skewed sort of way. But a conversation with a childminder throws up a rather more sinister explanation. Professional parents are so obsessed with steamrollering their toddlers into reading and writing, she says, they regard an afternoon spent splashing in muddy puddles and climbing trees as an afternoon wasted. Could that be the real reason for wanting our children to stay indoors? If so, then shame on us. Why I wish I'd wed in church It gave me a glow warmer than a beeswax Paschal candle to read that more couples are getting married in church, quite possibly because I'm retrospectively piqued that I didn't. When I accepted my boyfriend's proposal, 11 years into our relationship, it seemed natural to tie the knot in a quiet civil ceremony. Our pledge was to one another and nothing to do with kitting out small girls with floral headbands. How wrong I was! Getting married is the easy bit. Staying married, though, is a different challenge and one greatly assisted by being rooted in a community of family and friends. Exchanging vows in church is a statement of spiritual intent and an opportunity for others to affirm their joyful support during what may be difficult days ahead - a loyalty that is categorically clinched if you've kitted out their daughters with floral headbands. Darling, pass me the remote... Oooh, Sunday evening, prime time togetherness, lovely. Pass me the remote - what's it to be tonight, darling: episiotomies or trench foot? Not content with serving us up Miranda bustling about with a speculum, the BBC has decided to segué straight into the horrors of the Somme. What on earth are they thinking? To schedule Birdsong straight after Call the Midwife is like screening a double bill of Sex and the City and The Guns of Navarone: an unnatural pairing destined to end in matricide. Precious few chaps will want to sit through the terrifying prospect of placenta and would rather immerse themselves in mass annihilation. And indeed, vice versa. I predict a bloody show (in every sense) taking place on sofas the length of the land.