SOMETIMES we need to be reminded of what it's like to view the world through the eyes of a small child. Of course, we've all been there, but it seems such a long time ago.

As a child, you may recall, you had no sense of irony. Young children don't understand figures of speech, exaggeration or much of what passes for adult humour. They tend to take things literally and, all too trustingly, believe everything grown-ups tell them.

That is why I was forced to spend hours on the beach recently digging a huge hole: "We have to try to get all the way to Australia. Lewis did it on holiday in Jersey," my six-year-old insisted.

"I'm sure he was joking," I said. "No, his mummy told me. She's a grown-up. It's true," I was told with great certainty.

I can still remember my own confusion, aged four, while playing at a friend's house when the Eurovision Song Contest was on TV. One of the singers was called Audrey, like my friend.

"Audrey, quick, you're on the television," someone called. Everyone laughed as the two of us ran to look. "Where is she?" I asked. "There she is, look, singing on the television," I was told.

I looked between my friend and the screen, wondering how the Audrey in front of me, dressed in shorts and T-shirt with her hair in a bob, could possibly have been transformed into this grown woman in a ball gown with long, flicked back hair: "Is that you?" I remember asking her. She looked just as baffled as me.

What was confusing us was that grown-ups said it was true. After all, we accepted unreservedly everything they told us about Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy. So, we thought, even though Audrey singing in the Eurovision Song Contest seemed ludicrous, somehow it must be so.

My next major adult-induced state of confusion occurred when I was bitten on the bottom by a dog. A neighbour laid me on the kitchen table and ripped off my trousers, pronouncing: "It's OK, it hasn't drawn blood."

To a six-year-old, she made it sound like dogs sucked blood from people. For years afterwards, I was convinced dogs were vampire-like creatures. (Is it any wonder I am still terrified of them?)

Having been a child myself, I should have thought before repeating my mother's favourite expression: "Careful, or you'll fall and split your head wide open," to my own children at every opportunity. Inevitably, when Charlie fell out of the car onto the pavement and gashed his head, they all panicked.

"Mum, it's happened. Charlie's head has split open!" his brothers shouted, while Charlie, blood streaming through his hair and onto his hands asked, through the tears: "Will my brains fall out?"

The others crowded round: "Let me see, let me see," while I reassured him, before whipping him off to the doctor's to have the small, superficial cut stitched.

Another time, I forgot just how literally young children take adult instructions when Patrick fell and split his lip at playgroup. As with most mouth wounds, there was much blood, and his teeth caught on the gash when he tried to speak, making it worse.

So, on the way to hospital, I told him he mustn't make a sound. There was complete silence for about five minutes and then he put his hand up, begging permission to speak.

"What is it, Patrick?" I said. He blurted out the words between muffled sobs: "Am I allowed to cry?"

I really should have known better this weekend, when the boys wanted to camp out. I didn't think Roscoe, at six, was old enough without me or his dad. And we didn't fancy it.

But Roscoe's 11-year-old brother Charlie assured me he would look after him. I gave in, my one stipulation being that if Roscoe, who suffers from a severe reaction to wasp stings, was stung, Charlie must rush him straight inside.

"But how will I know he's been stung?" said Charlie. Roscoe, number four in the line-up, has always had to shout to be heard. He possibly has the loudest voice in the north of England and is responsible for giving us all regular, earsplitting headaches.

"You'll hear him, he'll scream." I told Charlie. "But what if I'm asleep?" he said.

"But Roscoe's scream would wake the dead," I replied. And then I saw the terrified look on Roscoe's face. Tugging at my legs, he asked in a trembling voice: "Mum, might I really wake the dead?"

It was then that I remembered Audrey in the Eurovision Song Contest and the dog that didn't draw blood. And although I was sorely tempted to pronounce that, if he ever raised his voice again, the dead would, indeed, rise from their graves, I knew I had to tell Roscoe the truth.

Published: 23/06/2005