Ruth Walker: 'The phone calls start around mid-day, they'e just woken up and need money'

There's a strange, upside-down quality to my days that has thrown my body clock out of sync with the rest of the northern hemisphere. Bedtimes have lost their meaning as the school holidays have gathered pace. Xboxes and laptops remain glowing bright long into the early hours; hammered warnings to "go to sleep NOW!" go unheeded while the demands of Fifa and COD take precedence over a mother's need for a decent night's kip.

Then, come morning, after my too few hours of slumber, the house eerily silent. I don't have to do battle for the television. Bill and Sian broadcast freely, without regular interruptions courtesy of the Wizards of Waverly Place or Sonny With A Chance. No one demands a cooked breakfast. No one throws a hissy fit when they can't find their favourite jeggings or a matching pair of socks. For a few short minutes, it is pure, unteenagered bliss.

The phone calls start around mid day. They've just woken up and can't find the hairbrush. Or the straighteners. Or there's no milk left. And they need money. And The Wild One's friends are being annoying. And The Mild One left without washing the dishes. And The Teenager is being bossy. And there's a wasp in the bathroom they're too scared to kill. Oh, and did they mention they need money?

One night, in a moment of freakishly uncharacteristic weakness, The Wild One manages to persuade me to agree to a sleepover. Four friends. Count 'em. Four 13-year-olds. "You can stay as long as you're quiet," I tell them.

It's like telling Tigger he can accompany Winnie-the-Pooh to the honey party as long as he doesn't bounce all the way there. Or the Glee kids they can put on the show right here in the barn, as long as they don't burst into song every five minutes. Or a shark that it can have a little taste of a surfer's bleeding thigh, as long as it doesn't take the whole leg off.

The wall is hammered a lot that night.

Next morning, the silence is more eerie that normal; the air more thick with boy fug. Stretching with my cup of tea in front of breakfast TV, there's a curious sound from beyond the door. Life. Human existence. At this time in the morning? I wait a while, assuming whoever it is will eventually join me and demand a cuppa/breakfast/a hug/the Disney Channel.

The noise stops. Then starts again. I go to investigate. A sleepover guest is standing confused, like a pale, ginger ghost, attempting escape from Fort Knox (you can't be too careful these days - three locks and a chain on the door isn't unusual, is it?).

He's late for his paper round, and apparently people still like to get their Scotsman before lunchtime, even in the holidays. And just think, it's only ten weeks till summer.

This article was first published in Scotland on Sunday on 24 April 2011.