X is for X Rated - which is probably what your language often gets like as you negotiate life with boys. They could make a saint swear, never mind an ordinary mortal mum.

Under your breath, of course. Because we are all sensible, responsible parents and must Set A Good Example, we will never allow such words to sully our children's sweet little ears.

Not that they need to learn them from us. These days, even infants' class playgrounds can be an education for those of a sensitive disposition. So by the time they hit their teens, they could be teaching you a thing or two.

Don't let them.

Give or take the odd minor expletive (mainly, it has to be said, from me), our house is a no swearing zone. I've overheard them talking to their friends and have been appalled at their language. (Where did they learn such stuff?) And I have pointed out that in a public place, at the very least, such language is strictly forbidden.

At least they know that, whatever their friends and some television programmes think, many people still find foul language unacceptable. Think of your grannies, I say. And they have the grace to blush, well, almost.

And now the wheel's come full circle. When they were little, I bit my tongue to protect them. Now they are big, they watch their language for fear of upsetting me.

A friend once commented that that was hypocritical on both sides. Nope, I said. I prefer to think of it as good manners and a bit of restraint. No bad thing.

X, OF course, is also their cross on the ballot paper. Soon, your little boy will have a say in running the country.

Now there's a thought to chill the soul.

There is a move afoot to bring the voting age down to 16. Are these people mad? As soon as he was 18, Senior Son had a very nice letter from William Hague, who happens to be our MP. He asked the lad to use his vote and to use it wisely.

So Senior Son went out and voted for the Monster Raving Loony Party.

"It was a political statement as to the hopelessness of everyone else," he said. This is what is known as democracy and I suppose we should treasure it.

AND the other X is for X-ray.

At various times, both boys have had just about every bit of their bodies X-rayed. There are files full of pictures of their insides at Darlington Memorial Hospital and another drawer full down at the Friarage, in Nothallerton. Over the years, we have worn a little track to A&E.

Boys are accident prone. All boys in general, but mine in particular. Apart from violent tackles in football or rugby, or the odd cricket ball or bat in the face - ouch - they fall off things, drop drawers on toes, crash skateboards into lamp posts, walk into doors, ride bikes into trees and cars into hedges; fall off bikes, trees, walls and - in the case of Senior Son - fall off skis, spectacularly. Twice.

Invariably, your instinct tells you that something is wrong. You feel uneasy and then the phone rings and a boy's voice says "Mu-um..."

And before he's said another word, you know there's been another accident, another trip to casualty. Another X-ray. Possibly another patient at home to be waited on hand and foot and more crutches for everyone else to trip over

"Oh * * * *!" you say.

But under your breath, of course.

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