I RECALL a number of frustrating telephone conversations with my sister-in-law many years ago. Then, I was single and child free. She was at home minding my turbo-charged, mischievous little nephew.

In mid conversation, she would often break off briefly to launch a rapid-as-machinegun-fire verbal attack: "David! Get down from that table this minute and give me those scissors now. Now!"

There was no warning. It would make me jump and forget what I was talking about. But, without pausing for breath, she would calmly continue the conversation as if nothing had happened.

More than 20 years on, I understand exactly what it was like on her end of the phone, except that I have five times the number of mischievous little boys she had, making telephone conversations about five times as difficult.

I do pity whoever calls me now. When the phone rings, it's like an alarm going off: time for the boys to get up to no good. As long as I have one ear to the phone, they reason, I only have one ear listening out for them.

Even better, since we don't have a walkabout phone, I'm rooted to the spot. Within seconds, there's mayhem. Boys will be sneaking past me with chocolate biscuits or crisps they've pilfered from the cupboard or they'll be tying their younger brother to a chair and drawing a beard and moustache on his face.

I'll hear a crash, bang wallop followed by screaming from the next room or wails of "Mum, mum Muuuuuuuuum!"

So now it's me breaking off conversations mid-sentence with sudden shouts of: "Oi, you! Where are you going with the hamster? You're not supposed to put him in the bath."

A friend's telling me her husband's just left her, or her dog's died and I'm snarling through gritted teeth: "Get off your brother. And come down from the ladder and give me that power drill."

Sometimes, when there's a mini-emergency, I suddenly disappear or slam the phone down, with no time to explain. It must be disconcerting for the person on the other end.

One call was abruptly terminated by the sound of breaking glass and an ear-piercing scream, followed by cries of: "Blood! Blood!" It wasn't until I got back from casualty, half a dozen stitches later, that I was able to phone the caller back and explain what had happened.

Even when there isn't a big drama, conversations often start with earth-shattering screams. This is because the youngest boys always race to answer the phone first. Then the loser weeps and wails loudly beside the mouthpiece until bribed to go away.

It doesn't matter who is on the other end, children love to speak on the phone. When my eldest was a toddler, I remember doing a telephone interview with the magician Paul Daniels from home, which I'd timed to coincide with his afternoon nap.

But William woke up, came downstairs and started tugging at the phone: "I wanna speak, I wanna speak," he repeated. I asked Mr Daniels if he would mind saying a quick hello just to keep him quiet. Mr Daniels, rather reluctantly I thought, agreed.

But it did the trick and William went off to play with his train set while I finished the conversation.

I had the same problem again last week when Egyptologist Dr Joann Fletcher, from York University, returned my call asking to arrange an interview.

I'd just got back from picking up three-year-old Albert from playgroup and, five minutes into the conversation, he appeared beside me, shouting into the phone: "I wanna speak. I wanna speak".

As I couldn't hear a word Dr Fletcher was saying, I thought I'd try the Paul Daniels trick.

"I hope you don't mind," I apologised to Dr Fletcher, thinking that this didn't sound too professional.

Albert grabbed the phone excitedly: "I done a poo on the toilet!" he announced proudly, before running away.

Thankfully, Dr Fletcher laughed. In fact, she joked that it was one of the more eloquent conversations she'd had recently.

When Albert overheard me leaving a message on an answerphone later in the week, he got very annoyed. "This is Ruth Campbell from The Northern Echo..." I began, when he started shouting: "You're not Ruth Campbell. You're not Ruth Campbell."

"Who am I, then?" I asked. "You're my mum," he said.

So if any of you receives a call from Albert's mum on The Northern Echo, you know who it is. On the other hand, perhaps I'd better send an e-mail...

ALBERT was in big trouble for drawing on his bedroom wall, first with pencil then, after being told off, with a pen. "I'm so cross with you," I kept telling him. "Your daddy's cross. Your granny's cross. Your grandpa's cross," I said, hoping this would get the message over. I was so annoyed, I mentioned it every day of the week. By Friday, I thought perhaps I'd gone too far. "I'm not going to go to jail, am I?" he asked.

Published: 16/03/2006