Settling down to write feature for Sunday paper, about man whose job it is to decide how we speak, when phone rang.

Man about whom was writing feature is one of small team that is the BBC's pronunciation unit: On a mission to determine whether captured al-Qaida forces are being held in "Gwantanamo Bay" or "Hwantanamo Bay" and whether they were following the orders of "Bin Lar-den" or "Bin Lay-den".

He is currently busy drawing up a long list of Japanese footballers and instructions on how best to tongue-click their names so the likes of John Motson don't trip up on air during the World Cup.

Anyway, person on the other end of the phone was mother, eager to give latest news of father's cavorting with Richard and Judy which, due to Rugrats having complete control over TV once children return from school, have failed to watch.

"Is he causing a bit of a controversy then?" I asked.

"Con - TROV - ersy," corrected mother. "Not contr - A - versy. That's not correct."

I ignored her, having, over period of 35 years, become immune to constant correction of language and behaviour and making mental note to ask BBC man who was right and if he wouldn't mind analysing secretly-recorded phone conversation with parents and pointing out which words they mispronounced so I could begin correcting them.

"He's certainly full of energy," said mother, referring to the controversial (only one way to say that) father, who, for the past few weeks, has been popping a cocktail of dietary supplements which scientists discovered had rejuvenating qualities for rats, and appearing on Richard and Judy so they can analyse exactly how youthful he is becoming.

"And has his hair grown back?" I asked, having read the rats not only, to quote the scientists, "got up and danced the Macarena" but also looked younger as a result of prolonged drug abuse.

"No, that's not how it works," explained mother. "Apparently they mop up free radicals and boost the energy content of cells. We've got them in our bathroom cabinet, you know."

"Who, Richard and Judy?" I asked, wondering what bizarre twist of fate had led to Richard and Judy being in my parents' bathroom.

"No, the drugs," she replied. "You can try some when you next visit if you like."

Considered this might be an opportune moment to give parents a talk about the dangers of experimenting with drugs and how the high of being able to dance the Macarena would be likely to be offset by all sorts of terrible withdrawal symptoms and ultimately lead to an increase in lawlessness, resulting in gun warfare on the streets.

But my thoughts were interrupted by mother's description of avenues into which father was channelling his increased energy.

"He cycled to Petworth and back yesterday morning, then spent most of the afternoon in the garden and shot a couple of rats before dinner," she said proudly, adding: "I can't remember if I told you we had rats. They've been evading the traps and don't seem to be taking the poison we put down for them ..."

"So Dad shot them instead," I finished for her, wondering if the dead rats were related in any way to the all-singing, all-dancing rats responsible for their executioner's new-found zeal.