Growing up, I lived on about four acres, most of which was just grass. The areas around the house were mown regularly (one of my chores), but the rest was let grow and maybe cleared once a year.  When you're small, tramping tracks through the grass and creating clear areas for sitting or hiding in, is compulsory. And it was all quite innocent. No sex -- not even kissing. Only the odd smoke and drinking was much later.

No it was all about the spears and hiding and fighting and taking bottles of milk and biscuits out on maneuvers and being all jungley and stealthy. Lying down, you were invisible to the house and to people (who were perhaps looking for you to mow the lawn) and you could lie on your back and look at the sky and talk shite.

The grass would grow with these nubbly bits on the stems and they'd break easily there and then you'd strip the kernels off the head and they'd be little spears in your bloodthirsty Zulu hands. Unless you were me, in which case you were the one staked to the ground with two garden forks -- one over your wrists the other over your ankles -- while your captors laughed and poked at you.

The joys of an older brother. He and his friends once gave me the birthday bumps on an ant hill. Bastards.

But I'm not bitter.

Out for dinner on Saturday and I proved once again what a lightweight drinker I am. Sunday proved slow and fraught towards the end. A small infraction of the rules by the youngest member of the household escalated until all four of us were crying and I'm just glad that none of us had nuclear capability.

This morning then proved difficult as he didn't want to go to playschool and it took some talking and gentle coercion (and bribery) to get him to stay. By the time all that was over I was very late for work (I actually typed school there, but I meant work). But no-one noticed. Or cared. Our HR director is visiting from our parent company on Thursday. Should I be worried?