MU-UUU-UUM ... The Teenager's plaintive cry usually precedes some form of unreasonable request, almost always involving money and her lack thereof. Most recently it was: "Would you be so kind as to part with 80 of your hard-earned Scottish pounds to pay for Jonas Brothers concert tickets?" Or words to that effect.
So, what will she want this time? To borrow my DKNY top (again)? To dye her hair pink? To redecorate her room (actually, more of that another time – I can look forward to bright orange walls and a deconstructed bunk bed, apparently)?
In fact
, it is none of the above. I wish it was.
"How old do you have to be to get a tattoo?" she asks sweetly.
Now, on the list of questions no mother of a teenager wants to hear, it's not quite in the same league as: "Do you have any condoms I can borrow?", "I know it's 3am but could you pick me up from the police station?" or "Can I have £2,000 to stop my coke dealer breaking my legs?" But it is hardly music to my ears none the less.
"18," I say firmly. Three years to go. "Anyway," I add, nonchalantly – any objections of mine will only make her more determined to defy me – "what kind of tattoo do you want?"
"A zig-zag design on my thumb – it'll look really cool and I've thought about it loads and I'm really serious about it so don't go telling me it's just a phase."
It's just a phase.
This is the girl, after all, who only ever managed to get one ear pierced because she cried so much after the first one she wouldn't let anyone near her with the gun. We tried bribing her, threatening her, then strapping her to the chair with duct tape. In the end she just kept the one earring in – until that one got caught in a bed canopy and she accepted that pierced ears weren't all they were cracked up to be after all.
At moments like this, it's curious how one turns into one's own mother. "What about when you go for job interviews?" I enquire, cringing at the predictability of my argument.
"I'll wear gloves," she says.
I stifle a snigger.
Coincidentally, the husband of a friend also rather fancied the idea of getting a tattoo on his finger – until the man with the needle informed him it would be so excruciatingly painful there was every chance he might pass out. He got a Celtic design on his pelvis instead.
So The Teenager and I have reached a temporary truce on the matter and I'm assuming (hoping) she'll lose interest before she reaches the age of consent.
However, her brother, The Mild One, must have sensed an opportunity because he too entered the fray with a request of his own.
"Muuuuu-um ..."
Oh dear Lord in Heaven above, what now? Both boys have confronted me with demands for various unacceptable haircuts over the years – from green dye to tram lines to "Glory glory to the Hibees" carved into the back. Then there was the phase The Wild One went through for wanting a single, large diamond earring a la David Beckham.
I hold my breath for whatever is coming next. "Yes?"
"Can I get a fish?"
His reasoning is that he has never owned anything of his very own that breathes. And since his request doesn't involve unreasonable sums of money, indelible marks on his body or unpleasant piercings, I am happy to oblige.
Kevin and Perry are, as I write, making themselves at home in their new tank.
