When big boy was younger, friends were people he played with at school or who came to tea once or twice a week or whose parties he went to on Saturdays. But the centre of his life was his home and his family. Not any more.

Now friends are people he hangs out with before, during and after school, every day, all weekend and all night most Fridays or Saturdays. On those rare occasions when he is forcibly separated from his friends, for example being dragged off to a family dinner with his grandparents, he stays in touch with his friends by ‘bellin’’ them on their mobiles.

Another development is that it’s not just one friend he hangs out with but a gang or ‘posse’ of adolescent boys. They wander about from place to place, about as welcome around our neighbourhood as a pack of wild dogs. Of course, younger children play together in groups. You can see them on our street playing football or just chasing each other up and down. The posse, however, lurk and loiter, slurping on neon-coloured soft drinks, sucking on ice poles and scowling at anyone who looks vaguely grown-up. Big boy goes nowhere without them.

My problem with the posse is that when they are not loitering on the street, they are in our house. And it’s always our house. I come home from work to find them gathered around the TV in the living room or sat in the kitchen enjoying the last of the apple juice or listening to big boy’s latest rap CD played at full volume in his bedroom. I shoo them out, telling them to go home because its dinner time then find them hanging around the front gate as big boy flies out to join them having barely touched his food.

If big boy plans a trip out anywhere, it’s always our house that the posse gather at, even though other boy’s homes are closer to the shops or the bus stop. And, at the end of another busy day shopping, they all return to our house to play their new CDs, swap comics or admire each other’s new baseball caps. If it’s the weekend, big boy will come to me at some point and plead with me to be allowed a sleepover – which nowadays means having at least three posse members bedded down on my living room floor.

I suppose I wouldn’t mind so much if they acknowledged me; said hello or goodbye or please or thank you but they don’t. They troop in through the front door and up the stairs or swarm in and out of the kitchen with barely a glance in my direction. The funny thing is that I’ve known most of them since they were tiny and I feel quite nostalgic for the days when they used to say ‘thank you for having me’ after coming here for tea. I’ve complained about this to big boy several times but he just says that they are shy.

“They can’t be shy of me surely?” I say.

“They are,” insists big boy, “An’ anyway you’re always being rude to them and tellin’ them to go away.”

“I’m not always telling them to go away but when they’re still hanging around the front gate at 9 o’clock on a Tuesday night, I’m entitled to tell them to go home. Besides, their parents are always phoning me to ask where they are. It’s driving me mad.”

“Yeah,” says big boy, “but at least you know where I am. You know I’m not lost or been murdered or somefin’.”

“I’m very grateful for that,” I replied, “but why can’t you just be at home without them sometimes?”

Big boy looks at me as if I am mad.

“But we’ve got nuffin’ in common,” he says. “Nuffin. We don’t like the same music, we don’t like the same TV, we don’t like the same food. You don’t like skateboarding or Play Station and you talk posh.”

All of which is true, perhaps but wasn’t it always like that? The important thing is that I have begun to matter less to big boy. I am no longer needed for safety or comfort but only as a provider of food, clean clothes and money. My job in life is to keep the fridge well stocked with fizzy drinks, the cupboard full of crisps and to steer clear of big boy and his posse. Because they are what really matters to him right now.

Rebecca Misell lives in London with her two sons aged 11 & 13.

NEXT INSTALMENT: THURSDAY 11 JULY

Read Rebecca's previous diary