Bring out your inner Air Scout

Francis has had a meeting with four Even Scarier headhunters, who have taken it in turns to play good guy, bad guy, interrogating him like cops in some vintage TV series. "Why do you think you were made redundant?" snarls the first. "I'm not entirely sure," says Francis, truthfully. "So you're saying there's no logic to it?" sneers the second. "Well, I'm certainly baffled," says Francis. "And what would you say if we told you we were going to call your ex-boss and ask him to tell us all about it?" threatens the third. "I'd say, here's his phone number," says Francis. All four look surprised. Either he has a layer of chutzpah so thick you could re-render a chimney with it (which would certainly come in handy) or - and you can tell they can scarcely credit it - he's actually telling the truth.

"So.........." begins number four, then stops. "You know, I'm a bit baffled, too," he says, suddenly dropping the intimidating manner. The tough interview loses momentum, they all have a cup of tea, tell Francis to stay in touch, and then he comes home again.

I am feeling slightly low. Francis doesn't need to be told, partly because he is so terribly sensitive, but also because of the jaded way in which I eye the rubble on the kitchen table - two of Beth's pencil cases, three beanie babies, a pink plastic handbag, a book on how to make Christmas decorations, and the cat, then sweep it all onto the floor in one peevish gesture.

"Are you worried I won't get a job?" he asks. "No," I say, and at this moment, it's more a sense of having arrived bright and early for an exciting life, only to discover that it went without me.

Given Leo's tendency to treat any enclosed space as a challenge to his right to roam, and Beth's vertigo, which, limbo-dancer fashion, seems to kick in at a lower altitude each day - soon we'll have to move to a bungalow - I am also questioning my decision to enrol them not just in scouts but in Air Scouts, whose proud links to the armed forces means they take real flights in very small, claustrophic planes at quite considerable distances off the ground.

So far in their short lives, my children have given up Kumon maths (couldn't count), tennis (couldn't serve), judo (too rough), Rainbows (too jolly), gymnastics (too competitive), and trampolining (too scary). Giving up ballet was a cinch, thanks to the advent of Angelina Ballerina, the dancing mouse, which enabled me to console Deborah with the thought that only part-rodents could ever be truly successful, and that while cross-breeding might be a way forward, there was no guarantee she'd end up with the pink ears and the tutu but might just land the teeth, instead.

So why Air Scouts? They say the heart has its reasons, but it's my subconscious that has got a lot of questions to answer. Perhaps I ought to call in those headhunters to give it a good going over.