Diary – 9 April 2011

Less than a week after explaining in words of one syllable that we were broke, I saw my husband’s hand held high above his head at a charity auction. I assumed it was the gesture of a drowning man; but the auctioneer took it as a bid and the gavel fell. We, whose outgoings exceed our income, paid handsomely for a day’s labour from six young people from Youth Action Wiltshire — a charity that supports disadvantaged young people. A very good cause, I didn’t doubt, but was the man mad? The six kids arrived last Sunday, three girls and three boys, between 13 and 17, all responsible for a parent or a sibling with some kind of serious disability or addiction. Their task was to plant trees in the paddock, and not one of them looked fit for the purpose. They were almost as slight as the saplings and the soil is solid clay. But that’s the last time I judge by appearances — they worked their socks off and could not have been more cheerful. One boy had had only two hours’ sleep the night before, because he had been up with his mother. He left shortly ahead of the others to go to work as washer-up in a pub. The next day, he’d again rise early to look after his mother, before leaving for school. He was 14. The most recent survey suggested there might be 700,000 young carers in the UK, some as young as five. Youth Action helps them cope with the problems that follow including terrible isolation. One in three regularly misses school, and over 70 per cent are bullied because of their caring role. I baked a cake with jam and cream by way of thanks, and they went away exhausted but clearly thrilled by what they had achieved.