The Scouting Movement  -  according to my, meticulous recent research -  divides opinion along gender lines.  Ask any individual, male/female on their scouting views and the response is either flash-back trauma, or overwhelming affection for lost memories of summer camp and unrelenting wasp attacks. None of this, however, has scared off Royal patronage - the Duchess of Cambridge- has recently become the movement's newest ambassador and champion.

I'm avoiding any cheap jibes regarding scout-masters and their woggles (a small leather clip to hold a ceremonial neck scarf in place).  How we children wept with giggles at the very utterance of that word, and how I still do. Why anyone would want to spent voluntary time with hoards of small people in uniform, is still a mystery. Let us investigate…

The Scouting Movement is, at it's best, an international agency- designed to unite young people across the miles, even if it is  to instruct them into the ways of being British, pardon the cynicism. A most incongruous sight, in India, was to see tiny Asian children dressed in their modern movement apparel as they would in Surbiton or any English suburb. The modern-day Bruce Oldfield-ized uniform is fabulous- I might have been motivated to behave 'more appropriately', if I had been squeezed into Bruce's couture, rather than the shapeless brown, stiff-starch tabard that defined my era of Brownie misery.

A few columns back, I 'spoofed' a non-existent organisation which helped 'those who holiday'. A better use of energy would have been to alert the authorities to the Scouting Movement. At the age of 8, I seem to recall founding  a counter-group, cry freedom for those held against their will for 2 hours per week- being sent to Cubs, Brownies..etc. There were quite a few of us- against the Monday night horror- not only recovering from the first day at school, but then, forced to brush our hair, clean our teeth and don the appalling costume of imprisonment (de-identifying any individual traits). Most of my fellow 'six-ers' were bribed into compliance, and undertook mindless tasks in order to gain badges which - adding insult to injury- they had to sew on their dress sleeves-themselves! (Not I, another task for poor mother, as I refused).

When I inherited my step-sons (they came fully dressed and well-behaved), I was delighted that they, too, had only a fleeting encounter with cubs- not one of them made the elevated status of Scout. As scouting is in the family, I think it was, also, closet rebellion, and I love them for it. Without any influence from me in their early years, we seemed to have formed a bond of understanding - 'uniform bad, freedom good'.

For me, it all spiralled out of control when I was asked to undertake my 'home-keeping' assessment. I sought inside intelligence and was briefed as to the pending mystery of how one achieved the meritorious badge. It involved going a to Arkela's  (Brownie leader, or 'prison guard') house and doing her hoovering, washing-up, de-scaling false teeth, and/or re-setting her wig. Our ' mole' informed us that home-made cake would be involved, so I went along for the tea and tuck, then pretended that I had an allergy to something (dust or underwear, I cannot recall), further pretended to cry at the 'sheer disappointment of failing my badge and the family shame which would follow..etc..' By some miracle, the following week, I was awarded my badge, for 'honesty and openness in a difficult situation' - I had a presidential  moral dilemma- slave to the truth, or expedient acceptance of an award which I did not deserve. Answer? Compromise- that great position in which no-body wins. I accepted my badge, but never wore it-Bingo!

Contrast that then, to the average male 'bonding' experience. Team-work, rolled-up sleeves and grazed knees. Lashing two scout-masters together to make a raft- metaphor for the Boardroom years ahead of them. The role stereo-type of my era of Brownies was a travesty to the suffragette movement. I'm pleased to report that the tide of change has now swept through the movement. The 'girls' now strip down F1 engines and can clean out a boat-sump in 10 mins (thanks to Bruce's flexible trousers). As for the chaps? They take yoga and Tai Chi classes and are obliged to scoff at the days (and acknowledge their part in it) when the 'girlies' baked sponges and wept if their pigtails were cut off. This 'individual' versus 'team' divide was an important void in my era of scouting. Competitive embroidery or the ruthless attention to a soufflé was never going to create enterprising women of the future, BUT, organising the anti-scouting campaign, would- and did. The counter-group, of course, used all the skills now found within your average MBA programme - leadership , negotiation, closing the deal, marketing techniques (you name it, we displayed it during that mini-suburban revolution). We met in secret  - under the veil of a 'homework group', telling parents that our tracts and flyers were a school project (my father almost rumbled us, but a  speech on Chartism from  quick-thinking  pal Fiona won him over, well done, that woman).

Interesting to note that the GAB-Gang (Group Against the Brownies), all went on to rather satisfying careers- BBC, medicine, civil engineering, law, university professorship - whilst the subservient 'lace-makers' (as they were disparagingly called) opted for the traditional domestic route (their choice, admittedly)- co-incidence- maybe? I'd prefer to think it was because we, the GABs 'refused to woggle'- our motto. Meeting up as I frequently do, with old pals it is apparent, I am delighted to say,  that we still do.