HELP. I'm turning into my dad. No, not just the greying hair - it's more to do with the things I say.

Telling my daughter to turn her music down the other day, I found myself saying: "That's not music, it's a noise."

It was scary because that's what my dad used to say to me when David Bowie or T-Rex were on Top of the Pops. Now the record's turned full circle.

To my horror, I hear his favourite phrases coming out of my mouth all the time. Ridiculous statements like: "You lot don't know you're born."

He was always telling us we didn't know we were born, but I did know because I could see and hear things and feel my heart beating.

Now I'm saying it too and it doesn't stop there because I add things like:

"When I was your age, we had to do jobs round the house."

If I'm really feeling grumpy, I give them a blast of: "You lot get away with murder."

And last week, I came close to saying: "While you're living under my roof, you'll do as you're told."

Another of dad's favourites is: "You must have more money than sense."

This is largely because he lives in the past when it comes to the cost of living. He's obsessed with how much things cost but he's clueless because mum does all the shopping.

He still thinks you can get into the pictures for sixpence. He wouldn't dream of paying more than a tenner for shoes. And he'd be amazed to think the weekly shopping bill could possibly top £15.

He nearly had a heart attack this summer when he asked how much it had cost me to rent a villa in Menorca for a week.

"Six hundred and fifty pounds? You must have more money than sense," he exclaimed.

It was the same when we took the kids to the cinema: "How much did that cost you?" he asked.

"Thirty quid with drinks and popcorn."

"Thirty quid? To go to the pictures? You must be raving mad."

I've finally learned the lesson mum learned years ago - never tell him the truth when it comes to prices.

When he asks how much anything is - anything from a new telly to the Sunday roast - she lies in the interests of his blood pressure.

So when I took my wife to a nice restaurant for her birthday, and he asked how much it had cost, I told him it knocked me back £12 - including the wine. "That's not too bad I s'pose," he muttered.

Final confirmation that I'm turning into him came when Jack celebrated his tenth birthday and ended up with £104 in his piggy bank.

I'm 41 and I don't think I've ever seen that much loose cash. When I was his age (there I go again) we used to save copper in Coke tins. Now they need Securicor.

A few days after his birthday, he rang me at work to tell me what he'd bought with his birthday money: David Beckham Adidas Predator footie boots.

"How much?" I asked.

"They were in the sale."

"How much?"

"They're silver."

"How much?"

"They're mint."

"How much?"

"£55."

"£55 for football boots?"

That would have paid for boots for the entire team in my day.

"I've still got nearly £50 left," he argued.

There was only one thing to be said: "You must have more money than sense."

I just have to make sure his Grandad never finds out. In his day, £55 would have bought the team bus and a year's supply of petrol.

THE THINGS THEY DO

PEGGY, a former teacher, recalled the time, 30 years ago at Lawson School, Cargo Fleet, Middlesbrough, when six-year-old Jamie arrived wearing a carrier bag over his head.

"What do you think of this?" hissed Jamie's mother, whipping off the bag to reveal a chamber pot, handle facing outwards.

Apparently, she'd been too embarrassed to march the child through the streets with a chamber pot on his head, though she could presumably cope with him wearing a carrier bag.

"He was round me mother's and went upstairs to play soldiers," she explained. "He put the chamber pot on for a helmet and it won't come off. What am I to do Miss?"

"Let's try Vaseline," suggested Peggy, as a crowd gathered round.

"On no account must you break it mind," interrupted the mother, "it's Royal Doulton - been in the family generations."

They tried a shoehorn, they tried a spatula. Despite the Vaseline, the boy was getting redder and redder. In the end, there was no other option but to take him to hospital at North Ormesby. A young doctor eyed the boy and his pot: "Tip him upside down and put ice round the rim," he decreed. So the boy was turned upside down while packets of frozen peas were held round the pot.

"Sister, you pull and I'll hold him," the doctor instructed a nurse.

"I can picture it now," said Peggy. "He came like a cork out of a bottle."

"You won't do that again," Peggy whispered to the boy, who was to have a red ring around his head for weeks.

"No, I'll use the other potty me nan keeps under her bed," he replied.

As told at a meeting of Stokesley Ladies Group.

Published: 06/11/2003