It was all so simple when they were younger. You left them, bright and shining, in the capable hands of a trusted babysitter. You returned at midnight to comforting tales of zero activity and handed over enough cash to buy Northern Rock. Going out was expensive but stress-free.
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But there comes a time when your eldest child, with a mulish expression on a newly angular face, declares independence. My son Joe was only 12 when he insisted he was more than capable of looking after his brother Ben, then 10, and his little sister Alice, eight.
