When they were young and following each other into 'Prep School' and passing through the same set of admirable teachers, far too many inadvertent comparisons were made. Several of them found their caps too tight, and the others began to develop fratricidal tendencies. Natural brilliance is no virtue in my book, just as natural dullness is no discredit. It's how they use what brains and talents they have that is important.

As well as being endowed with brains our cleverest son has also been given a double dose of 'laziness genes' and a love of motor bikes, so I'm afraid a skid-lid will ever grace the brow that could support a mortar-board.

The dear souls who take on the primary education of Hilary Jane just don't know what is in store for them. She will prove to be the sweetest, cutest, most innocent little demon it's ever been their misfortune to handle - bright with it too, she can already write her name. She has forgotten more naughty things than the other four ever knew, though I well remember the time Malcolm spilled three pounds of self-raising flour into the opening of Ron's cricket bag. Fortunately I forestalled him just as he was about to add a jug of milk.

Gay was a comparatively good infant - at three her only memorable misdemeanour occurred when she noticed our neighbour's prize chrysanthemums and pulled the heads off everyone within reach through the fence. His wife Vi and I, who have been great friends for many years, quaked our way through the afternoon waiting for Jack to arrive home and witness his ravaged plants. At length he arrived. He looked from the empty stalks to the little girl several times, then gallantly forgave her even before we asked his pardon, but I expect he remembers the incident as clearly as I do. (Jack is still alive in 1989 although Vi died a few years ago).

The next eldest, Paul, has always been the family comedian. He has a natural ability to amuse others and makes the most of this gift, sometimes with disastrous results.

He's also a budding fisherman and after one particular day of fishing when he was just seven, came home beaming from ear to ear. He opened his haversack and displayed his catch - one very dull - very stiff - very large long-dead roach. The smell was overpowering. "How did you catch it?" we asked him. "Oh, it was easy" he replied, "It was swimming upside down close to the bank, so I caught it with my hands." Even after a week of fresh air his haversack retained its revolting odour.

James Frederick still hasn't a really naughty trick to his discredit but I feel pretty certain that he must be the Mr Nobody who is guilty of any crime not admitted by the other four.

Now back to our piece-de-resistance, Hilary Jane. You have already met her and no doubt realised that she is thoroughly precocious, she is also self-willed and very, very, spoiled. At the tender age of thirteen months she underwent a serious operation. We could have lost her, and very nearly did, so when she was restored to the bosom of the family she was doubly precious.

Her older brothers and sister as well as Ron and I were gladly at her beck and call, no effort was spared, and soon she was really well again. Though she now lacks a kidney she lacks nothing in the way of energy or vitality and is never still from morning till night. No shelf is too high and no hiding place is sacred. Somehow either by using opened drawers or ladder rungs, or by struggling with chairs from room to room she achieves her objective.

On the debit side this week, she has smarmed syrup over all the kitchen furniture - 'Just painting. Mummy' - blackened a goodly area of red-tiled floor with shoe polish - made pastry with butter, sugar and talcum powder - and polished a table with Vaseline - all in an effort to 'be a good girl helping Mummy'. She also filled the car with 'petrol', which turned out to be water and brought the car to a halt several times the next day, when we found out what she had been up to.

Recently she developed a taste for butter or margarine in bulk and I frequently find her under the table, or wandering about in the garden with a greasy packet in one hand and butter all over her face and up to her elbows.

She knows she's been naughty because before I have time to explode she greets me with "I give you a kiss then you not be cross." She hugs me so tightly and kisses so fervently that my discipline is constantly going by the board, and I find it difficult if not impossible to scold her.

Hilary loves Audrey Kelly who is her Godmother and is just as 'at home' in her house as she is in mine. She knows the toy cupboard well and without a by-your-leave, brings armfuls of toys onto the carpet. She also loves Gerald Kelly's budgie and enjoys having him climb up her arms and onto her head.

But to get back to our telephone conversation. We decided that writing a book would be a pleasant way in which to fill our spare minutes.

Time and again we have speculated about what we should do when the children are all at school. Should we take a job like to many mothers we know, if so, what sort of job?

There Audrey has an advantage. She was trained in secretarial work and could easily find a post, but me, what could I do? The mere thought of leaping over a Pommel Horse gives me backache, and my stiff joints just wouldn't allow me to run the length of a hockey pitch, I know. Even my poor old feet would complain if I stood behind a shop counter all day long, as I did for a few months in George Henry Lee's Department Store in Liverpool as a teenager.

Twice when I have had my five year olds start school, the 'yen' to hear the patter of tiny feet again has been so strong that I've started another little life.

Perhaps it will be the same when Hilary waves me goodbye and makes her way to school - only time will tell. From 8.30 until 4.30 can feel never-ending in this big silent house which is so accustomed to the noise and laughter of children.

I already begin to dread the day when she goes, firmly believing I've done my share in boosting the birth rate and not really wanting to start all over again at my age.

It goes without saying that neither Audrey nor I have much spare time but that doesn't mean to say that we slave at the kitchen sink all day, far from it. Any opportunity for enjoyment we grasp with both hands, then catch up with the chores when we've had our fun.

Occasionally I hold coffee mornings or afternoon tea parties when four or five of us get together for a 'cuppa' and a 'natter'. I'm fortunate in having a 'walk-in' toy cupboard where the under-fives can be let loose and safely left to play for an hour or more.

Most days Ron uses the car for his work, but on the rare occasions when he leaves it with me, I really go to town. Hilary is unceremoniously dumped in the seat beside me, we pick up Auntie Audrey and you can't see our heels for exhaust smoke.

We mainly visit friends with new babies, remembering only too well what it's like to be tied to the house attending to three or four hourly feeding, especially with one or two other under-school-age infants to cope with as well.

On these jaunts we are ruled only by the clock. I must be home before 4.20 when the first of my ravenous brood arrives from school. To see the mountains of food they tuck away one would imagine that their last meal had been at breakfast, not a good school dinner at mid-day.

For fairly obvious reasons I do not spring-clean in the accepted sense. With a large five-bedroomed house it's quite impossible to tackle the supposedly 'Spring' jobs during that short season without landing myself either in a hospital through overwork or in a mental institution through worrying about the work. So whenever the curtains or blankets need washing, or the paintwork needs cleaning I do these jobs as and when I have time, be it Pancake Tuesday or August Monday.

Some wives are very lucky in that their husbands enjoy redecorating their homes and regularly set about the rooms with paint and wallpaper, brushes and buckets of glue size or paste. Not so me - Ron's inclination works out at a solitary room about every three years.

When one is affluent it doesn't matter if the husband isn't a handyman, but when the reverse is true a 'Do-it-yourself Man' he simply must be, or at least be prepared to try.

Being a perfectionist in all his business dealings, the decoration of just one room can take Ron as long as seven days or more. Every fault must be remedied, every scrap of old paper removed, every inch of old paint rubbed down before the operation can begin.

Tools in this house are an everlasting bone of contention. With a budding mechanic around we can never lay our hands on the commonest screwdriver, let alone the wall scraper and putty knife.

Once when I had a compulsory sojourn in bed, my good husband took his holiday in order to care for me and the family, and to kill two birds with one stone, decided to decorate our bedroom, with me in the bed! My bed was pushed and pulled from here to there until the ceiling was finished - here I ought to mention that my month old baby shared all my discomforts during this operation.

Life was comparatively peaceful while the painting was being done but unfortunately my system didn't take kindly to the smell - so that part had to be finished rather hurriedly.

Then came the first piece of wallpaper that Ron had ever hung in his life. He carried it in carefully folded, instruction book fashion, and climbed the stepladder. The hanging of that piece took more time than I care to think of, and when he finally stood back to admire it, guess what? It was UPSIDE DOWN!

A bad start, to put it mildly, and it had to come off. But perseverence is another of Ron's virtues - so he followed the advice of one of my maternal ancestors - Robert the Bruce of Scotland - and eventually the room was finished.

Through succeeding efforts I have been fit and well, but 'tried' almost beyond endurance. Somehow one or all of us manage to get in the way at a crucial moment, or the cat knocks the brush off the table - even the paste puts in its spoke by thickening up too fast.

The kitchen table is a gooey mess for days, and slivers of wallpaper are carried unwittingly under foot to the most unlikely corner of the house. Naturally I do get tired of looking at the same walls year-in and year-out, but in view of past experiences I'm determined to live with my 'static decor' and never, never, to draw attention to the odd scribbles and fingermarks.

We have lived in Tolworth House for more than thirteen years and I have a grand circle of friends who visit me frequently, and wonderful neighbours who have never failed to help me with the many emergencies inevitable with a large family. I've never known the luxury of having relations live close enough to fill the breach, so friends have been a Godsend particularly on the few occasions when I've been out of circulation for maternity reasons, or compulsory rest for my rickety back.

This is the longest stay we have ever had in one place, because promotion for my husband is synonymous with a 'move'. As the children grow, so our cost of living mounts and I feel it won't be long before we must uproot ourselves once again and settle elsewhere.

Marjorie's account finished here.

She had been taking a secretarial course at the Ipswich College so that when the kids were off her hands she would be able to take a full-time job in an office. She bought a portable typewriter and wrote this first for practise and then it grew into a serious story. The piece about the American football match was reprinted in an American newspaper, and I have it still.

She did not add to it because only a few days afterwards we learned that we were coming to Dunstable. After we had been here a few months she got a full-time job in the Domestic Science Department at Priory School, and typing went by the board.

I have only slightly amended it, mainly by rearranging some of the episodes to give more continuity.

As she implied, promotion would always be allied to a move. I had begun to feel a little desperate at about that time, because whenever I applied for jobs elsewhere the question of a large house to accommodate our brood raised its head. We were lucky at Ipswich to be able to rent a house from the Board and choose it ourselves. This never happened again. I had insufficient capital to buy a house ourselves, although I had realised this some years before and was saving with a Building Society against the time when most of the kids should have left home, for whatever reason, when a smaller house would suit.

The main reason of course, was that we were paying school fees for four of them so that they could get a Catholic Education. The local town council gave us very little help in that respect. There were high fees to be paid for Paul and James at St Joseph's College, and substantial fees for Gay and Hilary at the Convent. When Malcolm passed his eleven-plus we sank our principles and let him take up his free place at Northgate Grammar School, which cost us nothing except his uniform and meals. That was a help.

Marjorie had never been able to take a job, being housebound, apart from a few hours a week at Mrs Perrin's Haberdashery Shop almost opposite our house, which was only useful for 'pin money' but never-the-less appreciated for little luxuries for herself, and she could get curtain materials etc., cheap there. So I had to sit tight and wait for something to come up, just like Mr Micawber. We had to do without holidays and other luxuries, but fortunately I had the use of the Board's car for private purposes, provided I paid for petrol, and we were thus able to go to the local seaside beaches 'for days', and of course to cricket matches, when everybody could 'pile in'. Many of those games were at seaside towns, and we could pass away the weekends quite cheaply, making many good friends at the same time.

But now I must go back to my own account where I left it at Cheshunt and Tottenham.