THE Easter egg hunt has been a family tradition since they were toddlers. Every year, on Easter Sunday morning, we devise a little treasure hunt in the garden which guides our four children to their chocolate eggs.

This year, I spent most of Saturday carefully writing the cryptic, rhyming clues, each on colour-coded pieces of paper, ready to be hidden in the garden the following morning.

The cunning clues would lead each of them to a magic word that was the key to them getting their eggs. As usual, the riddles got progressively harder, from the youngest up to the oldest.

I was particularly proud of the challenge I'd set Christopher, our first-born, now aged 15. In fact, it was probably my best effort yet.

To give you a taste of the kind of standard we're talking about, the last of his five clues ingeniously read as follows:

The world's most famous doll it's true,

That's the first part of this clue,

Add her name but take your time,

To the word for folk who stand in line.

In case you're struggling, the answer was Barbie-queue because his magic word was hidden under the barbecue. Get it? Told you it was clever.

"Hey, this year's egg hunt is really going to bamboozle you," I told him when I'd finally finished all the clues.

"I'm not doing it," he replied, firmly.

"Eh? What do you mean, you're not doing it?" I asked, shocked to the core.

"Dad, I'm nearly 16 - I don't do Easter egg hunts anymore," he declared in a surly, teenagerish kind of way.

I was devastated. He'd been doing the egg hunt since he was little. Now, just because he's a year off being able to drive, he was saying he'd had enough.

"Christopher says he's not doing the egg hunt this year," I told his mum.

"Oh, you're joking," she replied, understandably looking sad.

There was only one thing for it. I had to appeal to his ego - turn it into a battle of wills.

"You wouldn't be able to do it anyway. The clues are too hard this year - you're not smart enough," I teased.

"Yeah, right," he grunted. He says that a lot these days.

The next morning, the other three were up bright and early, eager to get to their clues. But their big brother was still in bed with no sign of stirring.

Max, aged nine and by far the most excited, was sent up to try to coax him down. Max still believes in the Tooth Fairy and possibly Father Christmas and, to my genuine surprise, he managed to persuade Christopher to join in.

"I knew you wouldn't be able to resist," I said as he came downstairs, bleary-eyed.

"Anything for a bit of peace," he muttered.

It's great when you see a plan come together and they had great fun, working out the clues and running round the garden, squealing with delight.

All except Christopher. He didn't run or squeal. He ambled round the garden, desperately trying not to look interested, determined to be cool.

"Ha-ha! You'll never get this one," I said when he got to the Barbie-queue clue.

He got it straight away: "Barbie...queue," he groaned. "Dad, that's pathetic - it's under the barbecue, isn't it."

He found his magic word, grabbed his egg, and disappeared back to bed.

Next year, the clues are going to be really, really hard.

Published: 20/04/2006