Why I'm wishing my girl many happy returns from cyberspace

My daughter has a memory stick. She's nine years old and she has a memory stick. Not only does she have it, she needs it. Apparently the file-sharing component on the server which she accesses via the portal on the school's homepage on the web is having some difficulty in being remotely accessed. I don't really know what any of that means. The frightening thing is that she does. That's why she takes her homework to school on a memory stick.

She sent my wee brother an on-line birthday card last month: she had designed it herself and it took the form of a Powerpoint presentation. It had eight different slides and it played 'Happy Birthday' on the activation of the final one. I didn't actually know we had Powerpoint on the computer. She can even do 'autosum' on 'XL'. Whatever that means.

I know they are the e-generation and all that, but she's only nine. And not being a Luddite, the last thing I wish to do is stand in the way of progress. She has asked if maybe she can have a laptop to help with her schoolwork. Now this is a tricky one. Cyberspace is a big, scary space. I find myself walking a very narrow line in the well-lit boulevards of cyberspace for fear of my computer being infiltrated by rogue elements. I once did an estate agent search for a well-known north London house-seller who went by the name 'Hotblack'. One can only imagine the images that tumbled on to my screen: they were black, and very, very hot; but what they were selling was certainly not property.

I fear for my kids, as so many do; at the thought of them venturing inadvertently on to websites where they can be duped or corrupted. But in worrying about this I have come to a fundamental realisation. Our kids know how to work computers and stuff. We don't. They are far less likely to be caught out by technology than we are. We have to trust that their intentions are good and that they will not abuse the freedoms we give them. And we have to hope that where they go in cyberspace there is no one already abusing the freedoms that cyberspace offers. It may sound a little hopeless, but what else can we do? Control their access on-line? I would do, but I have no idea how to do that. I suppose I'd have to ask my daughter.

Kerbside forests mark an epiphany

Epiphany. A beautiful word. I think possibly one of my favourites. An enigmatic word, traditionally the day set aside to mark the baptism of Jesus, but also a word that means a sudden revelation or insight.

While there seems to be an ever earlier start to the winter festivities, Epiphany is a definite and definitive end to the entire malarkey. And what could be more symbolically malarkey-ending than the taking down of the tree, the physical act that perhaps defines Epiphany more than any other.

Or, alternatively, perhaps it's the sight I've seen all week – pavements full of discarded trees and a gale biting through the city, bloody fir trees everywhere, blown over the road, tumbling into bus stops, rolling their way across a tired, overfed country. Now that's an epiphany.

Punishment should fit the crime when it comes to monkey business

At the football recently, when one of the opposition players, a Chinese international called Sun Jihai, came tight to our byline, a man behind me shouted a rather derogatory remark about the player selling DVDs, remarks shouted in an equally derogatory accent. Without thinking I turned round and suggested that those comments had no place on the terraces of the club I follow. The torrent of abuse he returned to me quickly made me realise two things:

1 I really should have taken a moment to see how big and fierce the guy was before chastising him. Much as I don't like to admit it, in these matters of social protocol it's always wise to pick your fight carefully;

2 A man that makes dodgy comments is unlikely to react particularly well to a third party questioning the veracity of his comments.

Luckily our stooshie occurred with only 20 minutes to go so I only had to put up with his sarcasm and abuse for less than a quarter of the match.

Now, the football terraces are no place for the faint-hearted or thin-skinned. But what annoys me more than anything else was not the bigoted comments of this knuckle-headed individual: he's a lost cause. It was the singular lack of response from any of the spectators around me. There are sins of omission as well as commission.

And on that point, it seems only right to look at racism on the other side of the world, in a game that appears to be from a different planet for most of us Scots. A Sikh member of the Indian cricket team, Harbhajan Singh, has been accused of making racists comments to a mixed race Australian cricketer, Andrew Symonds. He has been banned from the next three matches.

Of course, when it comes to banter – or sledging as it is better known – the Aussies are masters. But one draws the line at comments that refer to players as "monkeys". Twenty years after Mark Walters' debut for Rangers was greeted with bananas thrown on to the pitch by rival fans, it seems little has moved on. But I ask you this: although Singh's guilt is questionable, based on hearsay alone, if he was in fact guilty of such remarks, is a three-match ban enough? Surely a season's ban or a lifetime ban would send the correct message about intolerance of racism. A three-match ban would follow ball-tampering. Are we equating racism with ball-tampering? And if Singh had punched an umpire square in the face, surely his ban would be more severe than three matches? He would no doubt face criminal charges. If we are serious about wanting to eradicate racism then we need to be serious about punishing it.

How soft am I?

Overheard conversations:

Kathryn " I had you down much more as a Mac kind of a guy."

Me "No I really love Clarins; I feel it's a more effective all round skin-care regime."

Kathryn "I meant Mac rather than PC… are you gay?"