The victorians had it sussed. Children should be seen and not heard, put in the corner and told to stay quiet.

Saki's story about the Lumber Room, where the cruel, vicious aunt tries to control the precocious youngster and tie him down, was spot on. Yes, I agree with that.

For years I sided with the boy, who was out to trick the aunt, but not any more. The old woman was right: keep them under lock and key - be tough or they'll turn you into a quivering mass of jelly.

Allow me to come clean: I'm not a parent. I'm a cuckoo in this nest. But I am an aunt. And for the past week I have been an aunt under siege, minding my nephew, so I feel qualified to speak on matters parenting.

I don't have pets, hurray. I don't talk to my plants, hurray. (In fact I'm thinking of throwing them out. I have to water them and now the idea of re-potting them is just too much.) But the greatest cause of celebration for me this week is that I don't have children. Biggest hurray, I don't have children. Am I a product of the selfish, insular, prosperous consumer society. Who cares?

Here's the thing. Each morning last week I was awakened from my deep sleep at 8 a.m. I mean, please. Icy little hands, followed by icy little feet would wind their way around my neck. "Are you getting up, come on, come down and get my breakfast," he'd wheedle. "Will we play with my train?"

The first morning it was nice. I smiled. The second time it was a bit of a chore. The third morning he was told to lie down and be quiet. He did for a while, but I had to rouse myself after a few minutes.

The fourth morning I told him to lie still. "I'll go into Gran. She's easier to manage," he said. He's five. He's able to talk and play and reason. He's good fun mostly, but really, once you get to know him, he's a little Hitler in the making. He will play Foster and Allen's interpretation of All God's Creatures non-stop for an hour on his "recorder".

"Will I rewind it?"

"No", say I, but does it make a difference?

"Would you like to hear it again?" And we're off. I was spared the joys of the daily bathroom ballet. Gran came to the rescue there. "Gran, I have a poopoo." Once or twice I was asked to accompany him, "just for a chat". I found myself, me, an adult, asking if it was a wee-wee or a poopoo. "Whew" was all I could muster on being assured it was the former.

You see, I'm charming and funny and nice (well, I am) and I know this little male person finds me exciting and nice too and most of the time it's mutual but it's so nice to be able to walk away and say goodbye. I'm back to my life of singlehood and sophistication and pleasure and selfishness and no children and no bed-time and no fighting over finishing your dinner.

I've probably convinced my sister that she is rearing a little monster and really, he's not. According to friends, waking me at 8 a.m. is not bad at all. And most young children are a handful. My nephew, it seems, is normal. He's not out of control or even bold.

So I just felt moved to share my new knowledge with innocent, unsuspecting readers out there who don't have children. Be warned, you don't want to have them.

I am so happy to be back to my life. I am. Children involve pain and sacrifice and routine. I didn't realise. Whew. I was born to enjoy the bacchanalian side of life. Roll on the holidays - visiting my cute little nephew is way down the list of planned excursions.