SO there I was in an Internet cafe in Oslo. I'd been away for a few weeks and decided to check The Northern Echo website, to see what was going on back home.

And there it was, a story about me and my travels. Well, you don't really expect to sit an a Norwegian Internet cafe and read about yourself. But I suppose not everyone's mum is a journalist.

Not only is she a journalist, but for the last ten years or so she's written about me and my brother in her column Mum at Large. Our lives have been public property.

I first noticed this at primary school. I'd be in the dinner hall, happily munching away on a packet of crisps and discussing Grange Hill, when a dinner lady would ask, "So did you find your gerbil then?"

At first it was a bit disconcerting. Well, how would you react if near-strangers randomly asked you about incidents you thought were unknown to the outside world? You know, if you were in the queue at the bank and a woman asked "So did you book that holiday to Crete then?"

I tell you, it was a little unnerving.

But I soon got used to it. I'd happily divulge more information to dinner ladies and teachers and anyone else who took an interest. Believe it or not, some things didn't get into the paper. Very occasionally, I'd peer at Mum at Large when it existed only on a computer screen and censor it. You may know about my exam results, broken bones, and sporting achievements, but there are some things you still don't know. There has to be something left for the autobiography.

She may be my mum but, every so often, she'd be like a Darlington C-list celebrity. In the middle of Safeway, total strangers would come up and chat - about their sons, or schools, or Carol Vorderman's weight. And then the stranger would notice me and I always knew what was coming next: they'd ask if I was Senior Son or Smaller Son, the big 'un or the little 'un. Then we'd all have a joke about how big I was for a little 'un. If I had a pound for every time we'd had that conversation, I wouldn't have had to badger for extra pocket money...

There are other problems being the son of journalists (Dad is one too). The phone goes about ten times an hour, so I was always taking down numbers and messages. I was effectively a secretary, just a very bad one. I always lost those post-it notes.

And as for mum's Tried and Tested column... for the last 15 years my brother and I have been the chief consumer testers for the Shoptalk page. Ketchup, biscuits, cola... you name it, we've tested it. From the top of the range to the economy versions, which were always the very last to be used up. Ten years after we tested them, there are undoubtedly some fish fingers left at the bottom of the freezer. I'll probably get them for tea next week.

And then there's my dad. He writes Eating Owt, which has involved visiting almost every pub in the North-East at one time or another. I'd happily devour my burger and chips, or roast beef, which was all fine until I had to make a constructive comment. At ten years old I was hardly Egon Ronay - all I knew was that it was better than cheapo fish fingers.

Thankfully, my friends never really read about me. Although, if there was a copy of the paper lying round, they'd helpfully flick through it and yell, "Look! It's your mum!" - like I was supposed to be surprised.

Still, in the future, Mum at Large will be a pretty good family history. In 50 years time my grandchildren will have a good laugh at how I got locked in the bathroom, or broke my foot, or fell into my own elephant trap. But, the funny thing is, I never really read the article myself - it's hardly news when it's all about things you've already done.

And anyway, I'd always hear about it all from the dinner ladies..