Janet Christie: Mum’s the Word

I HAVEN’T had parents for more than 25 years so I generally regard myself as an adult, but as far as my aunty and uncle are concerned I’m still about ten.

I’m not saying I don’t love it when people parent me, I’m just not used to it.

We’re staying in a remote farmhouse up a dale, our annual family get-together with the Essex lot, the Yorkshire branch and us. Without mobile and internet access the cyber cold turkey has pushed the boys to their limit, so I undertake a mercy mission to call the owners and ask for the Wifi password.

After driving around the countryside for an hour, having a lovely time smiling at lambs and wind-blasted hawthorn shedding blossom, I hit an oasis of reception.

They’re not in, so it’s back to the farmhouse. I burst through the heavy front door. One flagstone in, my uncle demands, “Where have you been?”

“Er, to the phone.”

“What time do you call this?” he asks.

“Ten to eight?” I smirk. My cousins, some of whom won’t see 50 again, snigger. Will he give me a crack?

“It’s just … we were getting worried.”

Worried? Aw. I like being ten. Just then some scary neds approach. I hide behind my uncle.

“Password?” they growl, menacingly.

“Sorry, can’t help you. It’s way past my bedtime.”

Why can’t I be ten every day?