So here I am, the tired babysitter taking refuge in children’s TV, standing in the middle of my daughter’s living room, simultaneously pressing the buttons on three different remote controls, while my wise and experienced grandsons (Joel aged four and Luke aged two years) sit on the sofa issuing instructions: Not that one, granny; do the other one first; my mummy doesn’t use that one; my daddy does it a different way; the blue light should be pink (or was it the pink light should be blue?)… The instructions become increasingly exasperated: CBeebies is on now, granny; you could get your phone and ask my daddy; where is Grandpa Dave? Like some desperate fruit machine addict, I keep stabbing at the buttons until – miraculously – the screen comes alive and Nelly and Nora are chattering away in their lovely Irish accents. Joel and Luke are jumping up and down, punching the air: You did it, granny! they shout. For one split second I feel offended by their amazement – but then I sink, exhausted, onto the sofa between the boys and decide that, as soon as the next programme is over, I will teach them to say (and maybe, even, to spell) what is definitely a word they need to know for the future – TECHNOPHOBE! How I will miss the boys when we leave for Amsterdam next week, but then there will be lots of opportunities to Skype … help!!