PARENTS never stop treating their offspring like children - even when those 'children' are middle-aged. My dad, as has been noted before, clearly believes that I am still a seven-year-old, as opposed to a father-of-four hurtling towards 40. He also seems to think I'm a walking liability, not to say stupid.

"Don't let those bairns put their fingers in electric sockets. Don't let them hold lighted fireworks or play with boiling hot kettles." Just a few of the instructions that regularly come my way.

When we're going off on holiday, it's even worse: "Mind those bairns don't fall off the ferry. Watch those kids in the pool. Don't let them eat anything that hasn't been cooked properly. Are you sure you'll be OK driving on the wrong side of the road with all those kids in the car?"

It drives me mad. In fact, on the eve of our two-week trip to Holland, I felt like saying: "Don't worry Dad. I'll only let the the older ones play with the propellers on the ferry; I promise to only leave them in the deep end on their own for an hour; I'll make extensive inquiries to find a restaurant that's got a strong reputation for food poisoning; and it'll be good experience for the three-year-old to see how he gets on driving on the right - he can't reach the pedals yet but he's a good steerer for his age."

We had a fantastic, accident-free holiday. I had to phone home a few times to let Grandad know all was well and that we hadn't let the kids try to swim the North Sea behind the ferry. And naturally, I phoned as soon as we got home to say we were back safe.

"Are those bairns OK?" he asked straight away.

"Yes." (sigh) "No problems?" "No." (bigger sigh) "Did you watch them?" "Yes." (even bigger sigh) "How about you and Mum?" I asked.

"Oh we're OK," he replied, matter-of-factly. "We had a bit of a fire."

The 'bit of a fire' turned out to be a brush with disaster. The smoke alarms upstairs had gone off while he was cutting the grass outside on his 75th birthday. He'd gone upstairs to find a bedroom smoke-logged and the bathroom ceiling in flames.

My Mum came in from shopping as he was desperately trying to contain the fire by throwing water at it from a waste paper bin - most of it landing back on him - having manfully dragged heavy ladders upstairs to open up the loft.

999 was dialled and two fire engines, with eight firemen, were there in four minutes to finish the job and heap praise on my Dad for his efforts.

An electric fault in the loft was diagnosed. They said it had probably been secretly smouldering for days and another few minutes would have resulted in the whole house being destroyed, along with next door.

The smoke alarms - fitted when the grandchildren started to stay with Grandma and Grandad over occasional weekends - saved the family home. Had it happened at a different time, particularly at night, the alarms might easily have saved the lives of my parents and children.

The upstairs of the house is now being largely redecorated and re-carpeted, although my Dad is more concerned about the report in the paper which said: "Elderly couple survive blaze." "Elderly! I'm not bloody elderly," the 75-year-old is said to have shouted.

The morals of this story? Have patience with those who worry about you only because they care. Worry about them back. And get smoke alarms fitted - NOW.

THE THINGS THEY SAY

"Dad, is bloody a square word?" - our Max, aged three.