IT was on the aeroplane, on our way to Ireland last week, that I first noticed the three-year-old scratching his head. There were just the two of us, and when he fell asleep on my lap during the two-hour coach journey to his granny's house I was able to confirm my worst fears.

After a thorough search, I found two disgusting, black, ugly nits crawling among my baby's gorgeous golden curls. I knew from bitter experience there would be more. And, all the time, they would be breeding and laying eggs, to deposit even more nasty little creatures in his hair.

Just the thought of it was enough to start me itching. This is what happens to us all at the mention of head lice. I suspect you're itching just reading this.

By the time we arrived at my home town, I was desperate to get to the chemist's to buy some bug busting lotion. But before I could treat Albert's hair, my younger sister arrived at the house, keen for a cuddle with her youngest nephew.

She adores him and he adores her. Before I knew it, she had swept him up in her arms, tickling him as she nuzzled his neck. While I didn't want to spoil the moment, I had to tell her.

"He's got nits," I whispered when I managed to drag her to one side: "It's probably best if you don't touch heads." "Oh, it doesn't matter," she said as she noticeably backed off. Within seconds, she had started to itch.

"It's very unlikely you'll have picked something up in those few seconds," I said trying to reassure her. "Oh, I hope I haven't," she said, reminding me she was going to a wedding the next day.

Now I had visions of these little black nits hopping their way from head to head throughout the wedding reception until they had colonised all 150 heads, some of them with lovely new hairdos and expensive, new hats. What if the bride and groom ended up with a few uninvited guests in their honeymoon bed?

And all because little Albert had arrived with nits in his hair. It wasn't his fault, of course. He'd caught them from someone else, probably at playgroup where there has been a notice up warning us of cases of nits for two weeks now.

We have also had letters from the primary school, saying much the same thing. We seem to get these missives so regularly now it would make more sense to send out an announcement on those rare occasions when there aren't any nits around.

I have no doubt they are on the increase.

During my first 14 years of motherhood, I came across nits only once, when two of the younger boys got infected about nine years ago.

We never saw a nit again until last summer. Since then, one or other of the boys seems to pick up the little bugs every few months.

Perhaps the fact the boys wear their hair longer now doesn't help, but I seem to have been locked in an all-out chemical warfare with those blasted nits ever since.

I have used all sorts of nasty, strong-smelling poisons, one of which even made the seven-year-old's face swell up, to the point where he could barely see, his eyes were so puffy.

As well as fine-toothed nit combs, I use an electric comb, which kills the insects with small, high-pitched electrical charges, although the way the boys scream when I use it, I'm sure passers-by think I'm prodding them with a stun gun.

It's not the sort of thing we talk about much at the school gates. No one wants their child treated like they've got the plague.

But I do know of two furious mothers who marched into the headteacher's office once, offering to come in and treat the heads of everyone in their daughters' class after they repeatedly came home re-infected.

School may not have taken them up on the offer, but the incident did highlight just how strong feelings are.

The day after I treated Albert, a scientific survey revealed 80pc of head lice are now resistant to the insecticides used to eradicate them. That explained a lot. Most parents probably suspected it. Still, I've been combing through Albert's hair ever since and it appears to be clear.

My sister can't stop itching, though. And, once I returned home, I checked all the other boys and found the seven-year-old is infected now.

Like something out of a horror B-movie, these apparently indestructible creatures, seemingly hell-bent on world domination, are back.

The thought of them used to just make me itch. Now I am left, literally, tearing my hair out...

MY friend Gina didn't know where to look after hastily grabbing the wrong child in the playground the other morning, kissing him on the cheek and announcing: "I love you" before realising it wasn't her son. "I don't know who was more embarrassed: me, the boy I kissed or my son, who just stared at me, open-mouthed," she said.