NOW that they’ve all flown the nest again, I miss my children in all kinds of ways. (I can’t think of any at the moment but I’m sure there must be some.) But there is also a lot to be said for the freedom of going into autumn without any offspring being at home.

For a start, I’m able to go for my daily run round the village without spies reporting on me almost daily.

During the summer, while Jack was home from university, I got sick and tired of being grassed-up by his mates.

I’d get back from my run, sweating profusely, and check the stopwatch. Within seconds of declaring that I’d clocked another personal best time, a text would be sent to one of my sons: “Think you should know - just seen your Dad out for his run but he was walking!”

That particular text was from one of Jack’s friends, Ben, who’d been sneakily watching me from behind a tree. Well, he’s a Manchester United fan, so what can you expect?

And if it wasn’t Ben spilling the beans, it would be one of Jack’s other friends.

“Don’t say I told you - just seen your Dad out running but he was having a sneaky sit-down on the on the village green,” revealed another text.

Armed with this covert intelligence, Jack asked me if I’d set a new personal best time and, of course, I said I had.

“Liar! How could you run a personal best when you were lounging around on the bench on the village green?” he replied, with a self-satisfied smirk.

It quickly became clear that I’d never get away with an affair in our village, even if I wanted to have one.

The spies were at it all summer long and the final straw came when I ran past the village cricket ground after gallantly jogging up a killer of a local incline called Blind Lane. I fully admit that I stopped to lean against the boundary fence to watch a few overs while I got my breath back.

The Hurworth cricket team features a motley combination of ageing dads, pretending to be Ian Botham or Shane Warne in their prime. I swear to God, I was only watching for 15 minutes but I saw three easy catches dropped.

Breathing evenly again, I carried on with the homeward leg of my run, which is downhill all the way.

Before I even made it home, Jack had received the following text: “Saw your Dad watching our cricket match. Tell him I might join him on one of his ‘runs’ – they look quite leisurely.”

Was it from one of Jack’s mates? No, it was from one of their dads – a chap called Simon Williamson, who should have been concentrating on his dodgy fielding rather than sending underhand text messages.

If us dads are going to start snitching on each other, what hope is there? It’s not clever, it’s not right - and it’s not cricket.

(For the record, yes, it was another personal best.)

THE THINGS THEY SAY

THANK you to Malcolm Rolling, of Durham, for remembering the time he took his children camping at Frosterley. They had a fire by the stream to cook sausages and beans and then an ice cream van turned up. Malcolm’s two children were taken for an ice cream and while they were in the queue a sheep wandered over. Mark, aged seven, shouted in a loud voice: “That’s the bastard who ate Bridget’s ice cream last time!”

BECKY Ketley, of Aycliffe got in touch to tell me about her little boy Daniel’s school visit to church to learn about the harvest. When his Aunty Helen asked about the visit, Daniel looked disappointed and replied: “Well, I didn’t see Jesus!”

THANKS to Martin Wood, of Darlington, for recalling the time his son Sam, aged five at the time, piped up: “I had a really lovely nightmare.”

“GRANDAD, what does gerrinthehoose mean?” – from an anonymous source, via Twitter.

AND FINALLY AS I write, there is still no sign of our first grandchild, who was due to arrive last Monday. Hopefully, I’ll have some happy news next time and this long-running column will have a new name: “Grandad At Large.”

Fingers crossed.