It's bad enough being an unpaid minder for your own kid

There is nothing better than time to yourself when you are minding young children. The stolen cup of coffee with a magazine - alone. Sitting in the bath surrounded by bubbles - alone. An escape into town to go around the shops - alone. Those times are so appreciated by young mothers that they are happy to help each other out and mind each other's children so everybody gets a turn. But when this helping out goes wrong it can be a nightmare. Anna was Aoife's "best friend". "Can Anna come home after school tomorrow and play?" Aoife asked one morning, as I blearily shook the cornflakes into the bowl. That night Anna's mother phoned and thanked me profusely for offering to take Anna for the afternoon. She would collect her at 5 p.m.

The two girls wanted to make pastry. Flour flew in all directions; every baking utensil was taken out; chaos reigned. Anna's mother arrived at 5.30, hooted the horn and the child got into the car. The mother rang me again that night, was profuse with her thanks and asked could Anna come again the next day. Aoife was ecstatic. She came for the third day, and then the weekend arrived. Sunday night and the phone went. Could Anna come on Monday after school?

"I am sorry, but I mightn't be here myself," I said. "Aoife will be with her older brother." "Oh, that's fine - once they have each other for company."

Conversations like that went on for about a month. I thought I was indicating that it wasn't suitable for me for Anna to come back every day - but inevitably she would appear. One day I went into town, realised I wouldn't be in time to pick up Aoife; I rang Anna's mother to ask her to collect Aoife at the school. "Sorr-ee," she shrilled. "Can't manage it, relations coming, but I'll tell them at the school that you'll be late." I really was being used and needed to deal with the situation before I got resentful. So I worked out a little ploy. "Would you like to give Aoife's teenage brother some pocket money for minding Anna each afternoon?" This was her reply, and I swear it is true: "I'd be afraid to trust a teenage boy with a young girl! You know how the hormones race at that age."

I was past the resentment stage. I was flaming well mad. I flatly refused to allow the child to come back to the house again. And Aoife was heartbroken.