Boro fans look away now... Smaller Son was 18 on Sunday. My baby. Gulp. It seems only yesterday that he was born, nearly making his arrival in John Robinsons's butcher's shop in Great Smeaton. Never underestimate early influences - he's been the family's biggest meat eater ever since.

We take birthdays seriously in our house. We always used to have a banner up, presents piled up in front of the fireplace and father's last job before going to bed the night before would be to blow up lots of balloons to bob festively round the sitting room. For an 18th, we would have had a family lunch with uncles and godparents, but it was the day of the FA Cup semi-final. And because the boys' grandfather was a North London man, family loyalty means they and their father are, of course, Arsenal fans.

So we went to Manchester for the match. But first there were the birthday rituals to go through.

These started on Friday night when the lad and his friends went out on an almost-legal razz. Most of his mates seem to have given him booze for his birthday. There were many clanking carrier bags as well as a tee-shirt deemed too rude for a mother's sensitive eyes. And such well brought up young men too...

Next morning he managed to stagger downstairs before breakfast to find a card from William Hague, personally signed by the look of it, and a letter from Richmondshire Council reminding him of his future democratic duty. Being 18 isn't just about legal drinking. As well as being entitled to vote, he's also now old enough to die for his country, but we try not to dwell on that.

On Sunday, I piled up the presents, as per tradition. Smaller Son was stunned by the amazing generosity of relatives. If this was being grown-up, he could cope with that. Then we cruised down to Manchester, straight to the pub where Senior Son had booked us a table and where he arrived a few minutes later.

As I stood up to greet him I could see that flash of fear in his eyes. He thought I was going to give him a big hug and a sloppy kiss right in the middle of that crowded bar. But I saw that panic in his eyes - just like when he was five years old and I met him from school - and I desisted. I just hope he was grateful.

The pub was good, the food decent, the atmosphere wonderfully convivial. I took a photo of Smaller Son with his first legal pint, then his brother zig-zagged us expertly through Manchester traffic to drop me off for a little light retail therapy and gallery visiting, as they went to the match.

Well the result, as you may know, was brilliant for Arsenal. And I would like to thank Boro's Gianluca Festa for his very kind and generous birthday present to my little boy, His own goal might not have done much for Middlesbrough fans, but it made my birthday boy very happy.

Our native guide set us on our way again to a swift and trouble free journey home. Surrounded by cheques, presents, Arsenal souvenirs, highlights on the news and tucking into a wonderfully gooey chocolate birthday cake, Smaller Son agreed that as birthdays go, it had been one of the best. Apart, that is, from one thing.

Well?

"No balloons," he said " It's not a proper birthday without balloons."

I think he was only joking...

Published 18/04/2002