THE feeling of camaraderie is one of the nicest things about writing this column. No sooner had I described how I'd nearly frozen to death helping my 12-year-old son on his paper round, than messages of support and advice started to pour in from other poor mums and dads who are caught in the same trap.

It seems none of us can bear to watch our offspring trudging round the streets, in the cold and rain, delivering papers. We want them to be independent and understand the value of earning, but we can't help feeling sorry for them.

One letter arrived from mum-of-three Ann Hogg, who unashamedly describes herself as the oldest paper lady in Bishop Auckland. Ann's children are now aged 21, 19 and 14 and they've distributed the Wear Valley Advertiser in their neighbourhood for 12 years. Well, they got paid for it, but it was their unrewarded mum who did most of the work, of course.

"It's a very good way to meet people and keep fit," she says. No, Ann, it's a very good way to get savaged by dogs and get wet. "Just think of the fun you'll have in the winter, when you can deliver papers on a sledge!" she adds. "If you'd like any tips on the easiest way to organise your papers and leaflets, I'm happy to oblige. Now that you have one week under your belt, you have the pleasure of looking forward to the next 623 (12 years). Good luck - you'll need it."

Well, I won't need it because my paper-delivery days are over - especially after the latest episode... The kids had been playing cops and robbers which meant the little 'un, aged five, was wearing a pair of his mum's tights over his head, with the legs hanging down either side of his face like a demented dog.

It was time to deliver the papers so Mum shouted them all to get ready. But no matter how hard she tried to persuade him otherwise, the little 'un refused to remove his tights. They therefore ended up venturing out into the evening darkness with the youngest helper looking half-sinister, half-comical.

It wasn't too much of a problem while he was helping to deliver to normal households. The paths were dimly-lit and, although a few curtains twitched, no one came out to find out why a child looking like a cross between a Great Train Robber and a bloodhound puppy was coming to their house.

It was when they reached the chip shop that it started to get really embarrassing. There wasn't a letterbox to shove his paper through, so try to imagine the scene as he insisted on walking past the queue of bemused customers and hand-delivering his paper to the assistant behind the counter. He was asked if he wanted a bag of chips but he remained tights-lipped (fishnets would have been more appropriate) and made his exit.

They found themselves in another tights-spot when he and the others arrived at the village pub. Mum did her best to persuade him to let one of the others go in but - encouraged by the stares of amazement he'd been given in the chip shop - he marched in, ignored the comments of several drinkers who must have thought they'd had one too many, and left a paper on the bar.

There are only two positives I can find in all of this. Firstly I'd learned my lesson from the previous week and stayed at work. And, secondly, he was heavily disguised so, hopefully, no one will know he belongs to me.

THE THINGS THEY SAY

"DAD, can we have a 40 per cent rise in our pocket money like the firemen?" asked our Christopher, aged 12. "Not likely," I replied. "Well, we might have to go on strike then," he said. And, what exactly will this withdrawal of labour mean, I wondered, given that they don't do anything apart from leave their bedrooms messy, leave their lights on, eat us out of house and home, and grow out of their clothes before they've been worn half a dozen times. Go on strike - that's what I say. Not a penny more!

THE Dad At Large Roadshow reached the Townswomen's Guild in Hartburn, near Stockton, where former children's nurse Audrey Peace recalled the time in the mid-70s when she was working at North Riding Infirmary in Middlesbrough. A little girl had been brought in with a bead in her ear and had it removed under general anaesthetic. Surgeon Frank Fleming knew from experience that it was always worth checking the other ear - and wasn't too surprised to find a tiny string of pearls inside.

IN the 1950s, Audrey was working at Bradford Children's Hospital where a little boy had allegedly swallowed his mum's front door key. They x-rayed him "back, front and sideways" but there was no sign of the key. Audrey tried the softly, softly approach: "What did you do with your mum's key?" she whispered to the child. "Don't tell anyone," he replied, "but I've hidden it under the doormat because I like it in here."

THERE were 250 women in the hall at Askham Bryan College in York for a meeting of the Yorkshire Countrywomen's Association and a shy one, who wanted to stay anonymous, told me how Michelle, aged eight, was playing on the settee with her Dad and jumping on top of him. In a pause in the game, she suddenly asked: "Daddy, when you love Mummy, do you go on top or does she?" "Why are you asking that?" replied her Dad, understandably taken aback. "Because I've been down the dyke watching the frogs," she replied.

Published: 21/11/2002