The summer hols have always induced panic: what to do, where to go, how to get the children looked after while the parents work. This year’s different though. Very different. Suddenly big boy is too old to do all sorts of things, like football school or play schemes. And anyway, he WILL NOT be looked after. He DOES NOT need childcare. He is NOT A CHILD! What’s worse, bro has decided that he is an ELEVEN YEAR OLD MAN and does not need looking after either.

And so, unable to afford some jolly antipodean nanny who will take them swimming or to the zoo and realising in any case that such a person would be effectively redundant when faced with two boys who DO NOT NEED TO BE LOOKED AFTER, I decide to take a gamble and leave them HOME ALONE.

There are contingency plans, of course; grandparents on alert and Dad working nearby but still it is freaky walking out in the morning with both boys in bed, knowing that I won’t be back for at least ten hours. I beg them to stay in touch and leave my mobile switched on in all sorts of unsuitable situations, like important meetings or discussions with the boss. During a meeting one morning, I get a call. I grab the phone, see the word ‘Yard’ come up and rush out of the room.

“Hello,” I say barely able to conceal the panic in my voice.

“Hello Mum,” says big boy.

“What’s up?”

“There’s this bloke with a van and he’s selling levver sofas for free hundred each…”

“I’m in a meeting, I’ll call you back,” I say, relieved that it was nothing serious yet irritated to be interrupted.

“They’re really nice though and I fink he’ll offer a cash discount.”

“I can’t talk about this right now. Is everything all right? How’s your brother?”

“They’d look really good in the living room and our sofas are busted.”

“I can’t talk about this now, OK? I’ll call you later,” I say and switch off the phone.

As soon as I can, I get out of the meeting and phone home. No reply and the answering machine is switched off. I begin to panic. I dial big boy’s mobile and get blasted with the gangsta rap message. I phone their Dad.

“Do you know where they are? No-one’s answering at home” I say, trying to sound calm but worried that their disappearance has something to do with the man with leather sofas.

“No but I’ll swing by and take a look,” says Dad.

Ten minutes later and unable to bear the suspense, I phone home again. Big boy answers.

“Where were you?” I ask.

“We went to get lunch,” he says.

“But there’s plenty of food in the fridge for lunch,” I say. “There’s bread, ham, cheese…”

“Yeah,” says big boy “but we wanted saveloy and chips.”

“…and coke and crisps and hubba bubba,” chips in bro in the background.

Once again, relief that they are safe is mingled with annoyance that they have used up their daily allowance on junk food. The next day I leave only half the allowance, accidentally on purpose. At lunchtime I phone home to see what’s going on. Bro answers. There’s a lot of noise in the background.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“What?” says bro, unable to hear above the din.

“Where’s your brother?” I shout back.

“Cooking lunch,” replies bro.

“What’s he cooking?” I ask, secretly thrilled that my eldest child is playing at being Jamie Oliver and caring so well for his younger brother.

“Toasted cheese and ketchup and mustard and soy sauce sandwiches. Then mars bars and cream,” says bro.

“Mars bars and cream?”

“Yeah,” says bro “in the microwave. “Delicious!”

When I get home that night, it’s apparent that bro was not the only customer at big boy’s diner. The posse is there and has been there all day. The juice is gone, the milk is gone, the ham and cheese all gone and the kitchen looks like a bomb’s hit it. A slightly unpleasant sweet, burnt smell hangs in the air.

“Oh my God,” I exclaimng the kitchen windows. “Is that the microwaved Mars bars?”

“No,” says big boy. “I’ve got a cake in the oven made wiv peanut butter and chocolate. I fink its ready now. Do you want to try some?”

On other days, he makes fry-ups: eggs, bacon and tinned spaghetti. Sometimes he boils noodles with a variety of stomach-churning sauces. And he always makes sure there is a pudding; the aforementioned Mars bar dessert or something made out of juice and put (spilled) in the freezer for a couple of hours. I spend ages clearing up the mess every evening but I can hardly be cross. It seems he is just trying to make sure that none of these poor home alone kids go hungry.

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

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