WHEN the Golden Boy turned one, the world almost stopped.

A huge bash was thrown with sparkling banners announcing his coming of age and a near life-size Tweenies cake held court in a kitchen filled with balloons (particularly bad idea as Nana Flo thought she was back in the war, there were so many explosions).

Guests were there in numbers bringing with them assorted gifts and at one point I think Billy Boy applied to the government for a Bank Holiday as it was such a momentous occasion. Naturally his request was denied.

Balloons were still on offer at the Mite's birthday bash last weekend but not as many. There were banners, too, proclaiming his coming of age although the sparkle had worn off (a curse of the hand-me-down). Arriving at the party the Long Suffering Marjorie and myself were met with a stern looks.

The Folks had been away on holiday and this was the first time I had seen them. They looked tanned, fit, healthy etc. I looked bald.

The last time they saw me some two weeks before I had my fair share of hair. Not flowing granted, but hair all the same.

Since that time I had gone through a Beckham look and was now standing here before them like a dishevelled Andre Agassi serving up a shock for the good old folks. Ace it was not.

An awkward silence was rudely interrupted by the Golden Boy running in the room with food all over his hands and face.

Even the untrained eye could notice straight away what it was. Birthday cake. And not his either.

The Thomas the Tank Engine cake in the kitchen with its heart ripped out and the tiny paw-prints next to it sealed the Golden Boy's fate. The evidence was overwhelming your honour and it filled me with some sort of glee knowing that his punishment would be severe.

But everyone stood there. Apparently Billy Boy and the Big Sis have adopted a 'new parenting' stance where the best action is no action.

All children must learn for themselves that it is wrong explained Billy Boy, no doubt reciting some manual aimed at the modern parent (it's probably American too.)

They have forced their wishes on to the Folks, asking them not to interfere so they can get on with their modern parenting but it's not going to be easy.

Mother Dearest was practically eating her tongue as the Golden Boy destroyed the cake, revelling in the fact he was going unpunished.

My dad, not known for his modern parenting, was clenching an unclenching his fist, fighting with himself not to reprimand the little horror who was ruining the birthday party. Billy Boy and the Big Sis too were visibly struggling with their natural instincts to stop the debacle but, as is the way of the modern parent, remained still. Almost trance-like.

"He'll get bored soon", offered Big Sis weakly.

The Golden Boy did eventually get bored when there was nothing but mush where a cake once stood and went off to bully the cat.

When it came to singing to the Mite the best effort was made in the circumstances.

Big Sis had rescued the candle and stuck it in a jaffa cake while we all stood around. To keep up the pretence she even cut it into slices and wrapped it in kitchen roll for us to take home. The rest of the day went just as well with Golden Boy running amok while the Mite looked on helplessly. The Folks meanwhile - and Billy Boy and Big Sis for that matter - looked on edge all day.

Every time the Golden Boy picked up something he shouldn't or said something naughty 'he learned off the telly' they instinctively lunged only to remind themselves that 'all children must learn for themselves that it is wrong.'

I wondered aloud if my parents would adopt the new methods to which they looked me up and down before rolling their eyes. I'll take that as a no then.