Abuse must be one of the most abused words in our language.

Just about every day there’s a media story about it, but just what is it?

Everyone’s against it, but there are so many kinds and degrees of abuse, actual or perceived, that the meaning is often muddied, and I’m almost ready to abuse the next person who rails against it without making clear exactly what they’re talking about.

One person’s child abuse is another’s parental discipline, and now I’m going to come out. I was an abused child. There, I’ve said it.

My father frequently abused me (with stern words) for various misdemeanours, but on one memorable occasion about which I’ve written before, he went further.

Aged about eight, and acting out a cowboys and indians scenario, I made a pretend campfire on the floor of an old wooden building adjoining our rented home, and then thought it would be more exciting if I lit it.

It was. By the time my father arrived home, it had burnt a hole in the floor and I was vainly trying to put it out.

Another few minutes and it could well have destroyed not just the shed but the lovely old Federation house.

Dad, understandably a trifle displeased, doused the flames, kicked a packing case to bits, picked up the largest board and whaled my bottom with it.

It didn’t really hurt, but I can still hear the thwacks; and I’ve been extremely fire-conscious ever since.

I’m sorry to be so out of touch with today’s right and proper thinking on child abuse, but if that was an example, I’m glad I was a victim.

As regular readers of this column would know, though I’ve long had a concern about a different form of child abuse.

Of course I’m sickened by increasingly frequent reports of sexual interference that robs children of their innocence, trust, and self-regard; or of extreme physical violence committed in drunken or drug-driven rage … who isn’t?

But where’s the outrage about the passive abuse caused by the treatment of children as mini-adults?

Childhood is so short, so precious, and every hour of it should be just that. It should never be sexualised, desensitised, premature adulthood imposed on children by what they watch, hear and read in the media and what passes for entertainment.

Think about it, Mum and Dad.

No text please!

I see that the “phone with no features” is making a comeback.

Reconditioned old models on which you can only make and receive calls and text messages are “in”, but I’d like to see one more retro step.

I neither need nor want the language-murdering facility of texting, so I still yearn for my old black brick. Bring it back, I say.

And Another Thing

By the time you read this, I’ll be taking time out, and hopefully drying out, in Tasmania. See you next month, and may your shoes not go mouldy for the rest of February.

rich.29@bigpond.net.au