THEY were the words that made my heart beat with a more up tempo rhythm: “Dad, I’m going to sell my drum kit.”

Max, 15, has had his drum kit in his bedroom for the past few years and likes to practise a lot. The thought of some peace and quiet – not just for me, but the neighbours, too – filled me with joy.

Sadly, it was short-lived because in the next breath, Max added: “And I’m going to buy a better one.”

I was crushed as he went on to explain that he’d saved enough money from his paper round to buy a really good drum kit which would have “a better sound and tone altogether”. In other words, it would be a lot louder.

He has drum lessons every week and recently joined a band. They don’t have a name yet, but they are intent on global domination and the step up in the quality of his drum kit was deemed to be essential.

He’d even negotiated a deal to sell his old drum kit to his music teacher for £60 and, despite still reeling from the news that we’d be getting a louder one to replace it, I was quite proud of him for a) saving so hard and b) being entrepreneurial.

One morning before school, I helped him to carry the various drums and cymbals downstairs from his bedroom and loaded them into the car. We then drove to the other end of the village to deliver it all to the school.

“Do I get a delivery fee out of the £60?” I asked.

“No,” he replied. “It’s what dads do – help their kids.”

The new drum kit arrived a week or so later. It’s shiny white with a black trim and, as I suspected, it makes a lot more noise. Sorry, it has a better sound and tone altogether – that’s what I meant.

Naturally, with it being new, he’s practising more than ever, which means I spend more time with a pair of cushions clasped to my ears while I’m watching telly or reading the paper.

Then, a few weeks later, disaster struck. Max came home from school to announce that the deal to sell the original drum kit to his music teacher had broken down. There’d been some kind of misunderstanding over the terms of the agreement and there was now only £55 on the table.

“Sixty quid’s a bargain – I’m not moving on the price. We’ll have to go back and bring it home,” he declared.

And so we did. One day, straight after school, we drove to the music department and commandeered the old drum kit. We loaded it up in the car and carried it back upstairs to his bedroom.

Only a few weeks earlier, I’d had a surge of joy at the thought that I might soon be living in a drum-free environment. All of a sudden, I’m living in a house with two drum kits.

The new one is taking a right old pounding and the old one will be put up for sale on eBay – when Max eventually gets round to it.

In the meantime, if anyone wants to make an offer for a good quality drum kit, let me know. Depending on location, I’ll waive the delivery charge.

THE THINGS THEY SAY

AT a meeting of Cleveland Ladies Luncheon Club, at Judges, near Yarm, Inga Walker told me about the time a teacher at The Avenue Infants School in Nunthorpe, Middlesbrough, had persuaded her husband to play Father Christmas.

After Santa’s visit, the children went outside for playtime and a little boy rushed back in, shouting: “Miss, Miss, Father Christmas has just pinched Mrs Roberts’ car.”

COLLEAGUE Matt Westcott has been expressing concern that son Harvey, six, may have acquired a stereotypical view of northerners.

“Do they have porridge in London?” he asked.