Keir Royale

I had to take Ben to work a few weeks ago. It was just for an hour in between clashing delivery timetables - delivery of children to after-school activities, not babies into the world.

I know 9 isn’t 2, and his tantrum, plate-throwing days are (mostly) over. But he can be unpredictable, and he is always persistent. So I wasn’t sure how disruptive he’d be for the 4 colleagues with whom I share an office.

Reader, I was stunned.
I think I will take him to work with me every time I want a bit of peace.

He sat at the table next to me, reading his comic, looking up through his over-long surfer-dude fringe, too intimidated to say more than “Hello” “Yes” and “No”.

It was only afterwards that I realised he’d been earwigging intently the whole time.

“Do you chat all day at work?”
“You swore.”
“You’re so bossy.”

I stand, justly accused of all three offences.
But at least he’s got some idea of what I do. I chat, swear and am a bit (only a bit, mind) bossy.

I’ve been in this job for more than a year now, and my mother’s still asking me - “What is it you do, actually?”

My daughter doesn’t need to ask. Apparently I sit at a computer all day, playing games.

She used to be much more au fait with my world of work.
As a toddler she made regular appearances at the BBC, whenever her father’s work commitments stopped him from fetching her from nursery on his appointed days.

She’d sit next to me, enjoying the delights of a swivel chair, munching whatever chocolate-based substance I could buy from the shop next door, imperiously demanding attention, drinks and access to every knob within reach.

“Don’t touch that,” was my main response to her incessant chatter, as I tried to update the headlines, dial up the next interviewee and generally produce a live, drivetime, radio programme.

She’s older and wiser now, but she’s still not sure what my boss does.

“Does he sit at his desk eating sandwiches?” she asks.

“Does he put his feet up on the desk and have his feet shaved and his legs waxed?” she continues, somewhat bizarrely.

“He makes decisions,” I say.

“That’s easy,” she replies, with the confidence of a just-8-year old who recently told me her friend lives on an estatement.
“I can do that. I’ve decided not to go to school tomorrow.”

She’s got a lot to learn.

What do Man of the Match, Hundred Club and Limited Edition have in common?

They’re the only answer I ever get these days to questions like -

“How was school today?”
“What did you do for lunch play today?”
“What did you choose for Golden Time this afternoon?”

Match Attax cards seemed quite innocuous when Ben first mentioned them. Blog Fodder reassured my nagging misgivings with persuasive arguments like -

“They have to swap cards, so they learn to negotiate; they talk to each other about the players, so they’re communicating; the cards are sport-related, so they might one day do the thing they’re talking about…”

I have spent time trying to learn my John Terrys from my Joe Coles, and I was beginning to have limited success. But then I had to move on to names like Fabregas and Anelka.

Not only do I have to remember them, I’m cruelly mocked if I don’t know which one is Limited Edition and which is Man of the Match.

“And is a Man of the Match a Hundred Club as well, or not?” I ask, keen to show an interest in my son’s new hobby.

“Mu-um, if he’s as good as (insert one of many names I never quite get) then of course he’s going to be a Hundred Club.”
And this explanation is generally followed by a silent but withering look, before Ben turns to his father - now basking in the glow of an admiring son who likes football.

I suppose it was inevitable that at some point my little boy would abandon his Mum in favour of his football-cricket-rugby-anything-with-a-ball-crazy Dad. But did it have to be while he was still living in the same house as me?

When I was growing up Grandstand was sacrosanct on Saturday afternoons. Ever since, I have always associated the theme tune with having to sit quietly “or go and play outside, Grandstand’s on.”
I was determined not to live with a sports nut, and for many years I managed it. In fact I achieved this one small ambition with all my boyfriends - except the one I decided to settle down and have children with.

This may add weight to the theories of those who claim we all seek out the familiarity of childhood relationships when picking a life partner.
But what it means for me is that Saturday afternoons are again a no-go area.

Grandstand may have sprinted to a happy commentary box in the sky, but sport still colonises our low-tech, 4-TV-channel house. And I have to be out, or in another room if I am to avoid two people - one large and one small - yelling at the telly and comparing notes on the progress of their favourite teams.

My one consolation is the fast-approaching end of the football season. This will see off the Saturday night version of Blog Fodder when his team has lost (make that most Saturday nights), and it will also see the end of this season’s Match Attax.

You’d think this would also mean the end of my football education.
But no.
Ben the football fan has now given way to Ben the entrepreneur.

He is insisting that I help him to sell each card, one at a time, on e-bay.

So I now spend my evenings typing names like Fabregas and Anelka, together with detailed descriptions of their match status, rarity and mint condition.

There must be a reward waiting somewhere - even for a non-believer.