GETTING kids to do anything round the house is nigh on impossible. They just don’t want to know.

I’m nearly a month into my stint on crutches – the result of a knee operation – and they still haven’t cut the grass or chipped in with thehousework, despite my regular pleas for help. Anyone would think they were the ones with a disability.

In desperation, I even found myself vacuuming on one leg last week when some friends announced they were paying a surprise visit. I nearly lost my balance a number of times – Dyson with disaster, you might say – after my appeals for assistance fell on typically deaf ears.

“I’ll do it in a minute,” said the 13- year-old. “I’ve got revision to do,” said the 16-year-old. “I’m just going out,”

said the 18-year-old. (The 19-year-old’s at university but he’s never mastered the “on” switch on the vacuum cleaner anyway.) The 16-year-old, who’s in the middle of his GCSE exams, really ought to think about doing a degree in emotional blackmail.

“Dad, do you really want me to waste valuable time doing housework – or do you want me to get good grades?” he asked.

In my dreams, it won’t always be like this. One day, when they’re older, they’ll be more considerate, I tell myself.

They’ll pop round to help their old dad with the garden and the household chores to show their appreciation for everything he’s done for them.

Alen, a fellow dad at work, harbours similar hopes and he recently had cause to believe that the long-awaited moment had finally come.

He told me how he was having a rare lie-in on a Saturday morning when his wife came into the bedroom and asked if he had £20 to spare.

“Why?” he asked, wiping sleep from his eyes after a long week at work.

“Oh, Fergus is going to paint the kitchen,” she explained. “He’s bought the paint and I want to give him £20 so he doesn’t go short,” she said.

Painting the kitchen was one of those dad-jobs on a long list that Alen had to tick off, so he was naturally delighted that his grown-up son had popped round to do it for him.

“What a good lad,” Alen thought to himself as he rummaged through his wallet and happily handed over a £20 note.

“Oh, is that another £10 you’ve got there?” asked his eagle-eyed wife. “I’ll give him that as well because he bought some brushes and white spirit.”

It was the last tenner Alen had left in his wallet but, hey, £30 was a bargain to get the kitchen painted.

He gave his wife his last £10 and was going to turn over for another hour’s kip but it just didn’t feel right, lying in bed while his son did all the work.

He decided he’d better show some moral support but when he got downstairs, Fergus was just leaving.

“Hiya, son,” said Alen. “Where you off to?”

“I’m going home to paint my kitchen,” came the reply.

Alen still has his own kitchen decorate – but it’ll have to wait until he can afford the paint.

THE THINGS THEY SAY (AND WRITE)

AUDREY Wood, of Carrville, Durham, remembered the time she was teaching Ushaw Moor Junior School and the project for that term was the Tudors.

The class had got as far as Anne Boleyn and, by this stage, Henry VIII was already sick of her and had his eyes on Jane Seymour.

When Anne gave birth to a stillborn son, which was all the king wanted, her fate was sealed and she was thrown in the tower to await execution.

For their creative writing that week, the class was asked to imagine they were Anne and write a letter Henry, pleading for her life.

One little lad wrote: “Dear Henry, do not kill me. It wasn’t my fault the baby died. The milk was too hot.”

AND when she was teaching Neville’s Cross Primary School Durham, two boys who’d been messing about were told they’d have miss PE and finish work they should have done during the morning.

Ten minutes later, one of the boys came into the hall with all his work finished but there was no sign the other boy.

“And what is that other naughty boy doing?” asked Audrey.

“Nothing,” replied the boy. “He just said ‘bugger this for a game of soldiers!’”