I think I was about five when I realised I didn't like other children. It did not make for an easy life.

Being a well brought up (nowadays the term is probably "repressed") only child I found youngsters noisy, rough and ill-mannered.

Half a century or so later I still haven't changed my mind. It's why I try to keep away from public places such as shops during school holidays.

And whenever I see pubs with children's play areas I hurry on my way, dry-mouthed.

Sometimes, however, I'm caught out and find myself unwittingly in the company of some juvenile who senses my unease and is determined to make a bad situation worse.

Such was the case last week when a recently-retired friend invited me round to her house for lunch. Only after I'd accepted did she mention that her grandson would also be there. Peter (definitely not his real name) is six.

"Hope you don't mind burgers and chips," said my friend as we sat down for the meal. I didn't mind but as she's a vegetarian, I was slightly taken aback.

"Peter won't eat anything but burgers and he loves his chips," she said by way of explanation as she served herself a meagre portion of fries with a tomato.

Normally we would have had wine with our lunch but not today. "I don't like to drink when Peter's around," my friend whispered. "He always wants some and he's such a persistent little fellow."

Ah, bless . . .

There was a big bowl of runny trifle for pudding. Peter ran his fingers around the edge of the bowl, collecting cream on the tips, then licking them. Then he repeated the performance.

I declined the trifle. "I was going to get a cheesecake out of the freezer - I know how much you like it - but Peter hates it," said my friend.

After lunch we both slipped off our shoes and sat on the sofa with mugs of coffee, gossiping. Peter hung around for several minutes then, probably guessing he wasn't going to be the centre of attention, went out into the garden.

For the first time I felt really relaxed and no longer on my guard.

"It'll probably be safe to have that wine now," said my friend conspiratorially. It was warm in her living room and after a couple of glasses we both dozed off.

We were woken by her daughter arriving to collect Peter.

"I'll have to be going, too," I said after they'd left. But there was a problem. I couldn't find my shoes.

It was only too obvious what had happened - and whodunit.

"Borrow a pair of mine," said my friend. "I'll call Peter when he gets home and find out where he's hidden them, the little imp."

Trouble is, she takes a size seven and I'm a size four, sometimes five.

It's wonderful, though, what a thick pair of socks can do.

When I got home I told The Mother what had happened.

"I shouldn't say this but I really don't care much for children," I said.

"Neither do I," she replied.

"But you had ME, I was YOUR child," I said in dismay.

"Exactly," she said. "So you understand why."

She was joking, of course . . . wasn't she?