IT was going to be a carefree Sunday afternoon - meeting a friend down the pub to watch the Carling Cup final between Middlesbrough and Bolton.

Kick-off wasn't until two so there was time for some fun in the snow first.

"Who's coming sledging?" I shouted.

Hannah, 11, wanted to stay home in the warm, but the two younger boys, Max, six, and Jack, ten, eagerly went in search of their wellies. Christopher, 13, was more reluctant but was persuaded by my promise that we'd have a great time.

Over the field there was a part of the hill - not being used by the other kids - with an exciting-looking ridge halfway down.

"Go down that bit and you'll take off," I suggested.

"No way," said Jack.

"I'll give it a go," said Christopher.

Down he went, gathering pace nicely before flying over the ridge and landing off-balance. The sledge wobbled and he came off, rolling two or three times in the snow.

It was an innocuous-looking tumble but we could hear the cry: "Me ankle, me ankle."

Now, this is a child who has perfected the art of making a drama out of any triviality. The boy who cried wolf was restrained in comparison.

"Get up - you'll be fine," I yelled down the hill.

"I can't - me ankle, me ankle," he moaned.

I ran down the slope, more concerned about the racket he was making than anything else. Ignoring his "ow, ow, ows", I pulled off his welly and his sock and told him to wiggle his toes.

"You're fine," I said, seeing the toes moving freely. "Up you get."

"I can't," he insisted.

Still convinced he was being a drama queen, I managed to get him upright, with his arm round my shoulder and he started hopping up the hill towards the car. It was no good, we just kept sliding down.

I manoeuvred him onto the sledge and tried pulling him up the slope, but a couple of feet was all I could manage with a growing teenager.

In the end, he tentatively crawled up that hill on his hands and knees and managed to climb over a fence while I fetched the car.

Back at the house, Mum insisted that he went to hospital for a check-up.

"There's nothing wrong with him - I'm supposed to be going to the pub to watch the match." I thought it but didn't dare say it.

So there we were, back in the casualty department, where we should have our own chairs because we're such regulars. Memories of the button up the nose, the glass in the foot, the sliced finger, the infected eye and - the most delicate of them all - the penis trapped in the Thomas The Tank Engine train track flashed through my mind.

The x-ray was taken just as Boro and Bolton would have been kicking off. We got the results just as they would have been approaching half-time.

"All clear?" I said to the doctor, confidently.

"No. The x-rays actually look suspicious," he replied.

"Suspicious?"

"Mmm," he confirmed.

After more scans, it turned out that his right ankle was so badly broken that the boy had to have a lengthy operation under general anaesthetic and screws inserted. His post-op x-rays looked like an advert for B&Q.

The screws will probably be there for the rest of his life. Every time he goes through an airport security check, there'll be a reminder of the day his dad persuaded him to sledge over a ridge. The day his dad refused to believe he was really hurt. The day his dad left him to crawl up a snow-covered slope. The day his stupid dad screwed up.

Guilt is a terrible thing and it weighed heavily as I watched him waking up from the anaesthetic and being as sick as a dog. The fact that I never saw a ball kicked in the cup final is the very least I deserve.

He'll be in plaster for six weeks and I am destined to be his slave for the duration. We've all signed his pot. My inscription comprises just two simple words in big black capitals: SORRY - DAD.

THE THINGS THEY SAY

PAUL Hunt, eight, of Darlington, asked mum Moira if she knew what the next day was.

"It's to do with Jesus," he said. "It's the start of lentil - I'm giving up the PS2."

(PS2, for those not in the know, stands for the Play Station 2 computer game system.)

But once Paul realised he'd have to give up the PS2 for 40 days, he changed his mind.

"I've decided to give up drinking - like Tony Blair," he then announced.

When his mum asked him how he knew Tony Blair had given up drinking, he just rolled his eyes and sighed.

"You know, Mum," he said. "We saw him in the glass box above the Thames!"

(He might just have been thinking of David Blaine.)

THE THINGS THEY WRITE

THE ladies who meet every month at the Salvation Army Hall in Acklam, Middlesbrough, are a happy bunch. Lovely singers too.

Audrey Sharp recalled the time grandaughter Alex, six, lost a tooth during a squabble with sister Emily, ten.

"The good news is that the tooth fairy will come tonight," said Grandma. Alex's dad didn't have any change so, knowing he couldn't get away with leaving nothing, he reluctantly placed a fiver under the little girl's pillow.

And there was a letter from Alex, saying: "Dear Tooth Fairy, Can I keep my tooth? Tick Box A for yes and Box B for no."

Even the tooth fairy has to move with the times...

Published: 11/03/2004