FUNDING a teenager’s social life can be an expensive business.

Our 17-year-old is constantly looking for handouts.

“We’re all going to the cinema and then on to Pizza Express for so-andsos birthday,” he’ll say.

He screws up his nose when I hand him £25: “I’ll need money for the bus as well.” I empty my purse on the kitchen table. “What’s wrong with hanging out on street corners? That’s what I used to do,” I mutter as he pockets the cash.

“Why do you have to be so blooming sophisticated? I never went out for a meal in a restaurant with my friends until I’d left home. Well, not if you don’t count fish and chips, and even then we hardly ever could afford the fish.”

And it’s not just meals out. There are six formal balls every year at his school. And that means six lots of dinner jacket hire, six lots of very expensive tickets and six wads of cash to cover all sorts of incidental expenses.

Ever since the local pub restaurants started to shut down and cut back, it’s not as if there is much parttime work around here for teenagers any more. “You owe us one hundred hours of gardening now,” I call after him as he escapes out the door, wearing the new trainers and smart new shirt he persuaded me he really needed at the weekend.

At least his 15-year-old brother is showing all the signs of being a cheap date. He’s never been bothered about having new trainers or jeans, even when his old ones are falling apart or are several sizes too small.

He hates going round shops and refuses to try things on. I have to practically beg him to let me spend money on him.

When it comes to going out, he prefers to hang around town or at a friend’s house with his mates, or just to play football or tennis in a local park.

A couple of weeks ago, though, he found out about a disco for under-18s in our nearest large town. “James has told me about it. He goes all the time. It’s only £4 to get in and it’s over at 11pm,” he told me.

So I ended up driving Charlie and three of his friends, who were all going to stay at our house afterwards, to the disco. I gave Charlie £7: “You’ll be able to buy a Coke and a bag of crisps as well,” I said generously.

When I arrived to pick them up I asked them how it had gone: “The disco was rubbish,” said Charlie. “We only stayed half an hour. There was a smoke machine going off all the time and we couldn’t see anything.

And we couldn’t talk either because the music was so loud.

“We ended up walking around town instead and bumped into lots of people we knew. It was a really good laugh. In fact, when we go out again, we’ve decided that’s what we’re going to do.”

It turned out that the disco had cost £7: “So you won’t have had any money to get a drink or something to eat,” I said sympathetically.

“Oh no,” Charlie reassured me.

“We had plenty. I had some pizza and soup. I got a cup of tea and some Coke as well.” “Well, how did you afford that?” I asked.

“The Salvation Army was standing on the street corner just handing it out,” he beamed.

“But Charlie, that’s for the poor and needy... the homeless... tramps.”

The pitch of my voice was increasing with every word.

“Well, they seemed really happy to give it to us,” he said, bemused.

“We’re going to have to spend some money getting that boy more new clothes,” I said to my husband when we returned home. “He’s looking a bit scruffy at the moment...”

As I said, it’s a costly business, having teenagers.

WHEN the classroom assistant in six-year-old Albert’s class had to leave school early, the teacher told them all to say goodbye, as they wouldn’t see her again until the following week. As they all started waving and shouting “Byeeee…”, one little boy, in a bit of a daydream, called out “love you”

absentmindedly, in a cute little sing-song voice. The poor boy, realising what he had just said, blushed bright red, but it certainly made the classroom assistant’s day.