MODERN FAMILY

WE were 11, we ruled the world and we wanted our ears pierced – and nothing, repeat nothing, was going to stop us.

Certainly not our parents or grandparents, no chance. To that end, we’d already launched a major offensive, codename Operation Ears Pierced, which was intended to bamboozle them with a sustained and relentless campaign of nagging, griping, whingeing and whining.

Our ultimate aim was to get holes in our ears so we could wear what we felt was the cutting edge of fashion in the 1980s.

Today’s sophisticated teens would fall about laughing at the content-of-aChristmas-cracker quality of the earadornments we dreamed of wearing.

But for us, they were the Holy Grail of accessories.

But try telling the parents that. “Absolutely, definitely no way,” was the zero tolerance, non-negotiable response.

So it was war. The subject would initially be brought up at breakfast, then at various points through the day. It was pointed out over and over again that “everyone else” had their ears pierced, we lied about the other parents saying “go ahead, have little holes hammered into your ear-lobes with a gun”. We made hollow promises about how good we would be in the future.

After weeks and weeks of this, my friend’s parents cracked first, leaving mine with very little option – “OK. We give in. Just don’t tell your gran.”

Not one to sit back and say nothing, Granny C would probably have given them a row for giving in so easily, and with her reputation there was no way she would approve.

So with victory in my sights I got what I wanted. Only to find that I was actually allergic to most types of earrings, couldn’t wear them and within six months had to stop wearing earrings altogether because it was just so sore.

Now my parents are savouring some sweet revenge as they sit back and witness the same sort of sustained angst directed at me.

My boys have learned from the master and son junior could get the gold medal in the art of pester power. He was able to get his own way from a very young age.

He is like his hero, Mo Farah, starting off at a steady pace of asking before building up to a pounding, migraineinducing finale of agonised pleading which can go on for several hours and usually involves him getting his own way because I can’t bear it any longer.

Now, it is our turn to turn the tables on them again as we tell them time, and time again, to wash their hands.

Taking a leaf out of my own book, and learning from past experiences means that the message, in this time when keeping them clean is vital, is slowly getting across.

It also helps that I have invested in a pair of industrial-strength defenders for my (unpierced) ears so I can filter out any complaining.