I KNEW it was a mistake the moment the words emerged from my mouth. I should never have said them out loud.

When Albert's older brother William came back from hospital with his arm in a cast after breaking his wrist playing football, I uttered the fateful sentence: "That means Albert, you're the only boy in this house who hasn't broken a bone."

His school was on the phone within the week: "Albert's had an accident. We think his hand needs looking at. Could you come for him?"

Albert, who had been in goal and grabbed the ball as another player went to kick it, has added a broken finger to our collection of family fractures.We have suffered four broken wrists, three broken elbows, one broken shoulder, two broken collar bones, one broken thumb and at least one broken toe. There may be a few more I've forgotten and perhaps others which went unrecorded because I mistakenly told the boy concerned that he seemed fine and to "run along and play".

I don't blame readers who may now be thinking that a few broken bones in one family may be regarded as a misfortune but, to misquote Oscar Wilde, to shatter this number looks like carelessness.

In my defence, I have five boys. Six, if you count their dad. They are all sporty, adventurous and fearless.

Bones have been broken playing rugby and football and quite a few have snapped hurtling off bikes at high speed. One cracked when a heavy weight fell on it in a gym, another was shattered while sledging and two were fractured in a sleepwalking incident.

When the radiographer called up Albert's X-rays on screen she looked at them and then said she couldn't tell us anything until a doctor had seen them. She wasn't to realise I'm an old hand (sorry) at this.

By now, I can interpret an X-ray from 100 yards away. In fact, if ever the fracture clinic was short-staffed, I could probably provide cover.

From looking at the film, I could tell Albert's finger was broken - a complicated break, on the joint, with a fragment of bone snapped off. The growth and development of the finger would obviously be affected if it wasn't set properly. It might need an operation.

Albert was devastated. Having recently turned 11, he was looking forward to his football birthday party on Sunday. "I think we're going to have to cancel it, " I told him.

I know the nurse was trying to cheer him up when she suggested he be referee: "You can be in charge, " she said. "And watch all your friends playing." His face fell. I'm guessing she doesn't have boys.

Then it dawned on him, he was also going tomiss the school football tournament next month, and playing for his village team every week for a while. The thought made his eyes well up more than the pain in his finger had done.

"Can I still go to tennis lessons?" he asked. No, I told him, you can't play tennis with one arm. "Can't I even do swimming?" he said. I shook my head.

While he's waiting for the operation, the nurse advised to keep him off school, to avoid his hand being jostled or knocked. "Try to keep him quiet and still, " she said.

It's proving every bit as difficult as it sounds. I have got him some new books and DVDs but, increasingly fidgety and restless, he is easily bored. "What can I do now?" he repeatedly pipes up every half hour.

But, as I told the mother of little Alfie, the boy who kicked Albert's hand by accident, worse things could happen. He'll be fine, I told her at school before we went to hospital.

Once there, of course, I realised I would have to contact her and the other mums of the boys invited to the party.

I quickly sent a round-robin text to say the party was off because Albert needed an operation. But, knowing how bad Alfie felt about it, I sent his mother a separate one.

It wasn't until last night I realised, in my haste, that I had left a vital word out: "Tell Alfie at all his fault."

"Lucky it was only the 'not' you missed out, and not the 'at' as well, " said Albert's dad when I showed him.

The boys are always telling me my texting is appalling, even with allmy fingers in perfect working order.

I should have asked Albert to do it. He'd have done a better job.

MY 14-year-old was dressed in a suit, shirt and bow tie for his big night out. "We're having a Made In Chelsea-style dinner party for Sophie's birthday, " he explained. "Everyone's getting dressed up, it's going to be really posh." When I dropped him off at the house, other boys in suits and girls in gowns were arriving.

"What are you going to be eating?" I asked him. "Pizza, " he said.

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