Children: Much Like Yoda, They are Small and Wise

I have undertaken my first ever stints of babysitting, for my godchildren (twin girls of seven and their older sister, who is 11). I know, everyone else did it when they were 16, but if you live miles away from anywhere in the countryside, then babysitting's not much of an option for you. Either the parents have to come and pick you up then drop you home, or your own parents have to do it. Which is a right old faff. Hence, the idea of looking after other people's children fills me with an undeserved degree of fear.

What if they fall over and break an arm? Or if they somehow manage to mix rat poison in with their post-tea time yogurt? Or, and this is the more likely outcome, I am so devoid of grown up gravitas that they refuse point blank to go to bed, and are still racing around when their parents arrive home at midnight, to find me tied to a chair with a ball of yarn in the corner (trying to teach them knitting, crochet or some other wholesome activity), covered in crayon and bits of drying papier mache? I don't know what it is about being around children that makes me want to revert to the 1950s. I think it's their obsession with computer games and electronic technology.

Mind you, the three I'm looking after are a charming mix of ancient and modern. Whilst they love playing an F1-style game that sees them zapping round a computer screen at alarming speed, they're also fans of curiously old skool films. Their most recent obsession is with the 70s Bond villain/anti-hero Jaws, so the first time I went, I was treated to a screening of Moonraker, in which the metal-toothed monster tried to kill Bond about seven times, then fell in love with a Heidi-style buxom wench with glasses and pigtails before jetting off into space and joining forces with 007 to thwart the planet-annexing ambitions of his former boss.

The girls were thrilled when I said I'd met Jaws at a party, but as it was probably about 15 years ago, all I could remember about him was that he was really, really tall and that he was a Geordie. Yes, he had the teeth in. No, he wasn't very menacing, actually, he seemed rather sweet. It's not the world's greatest anecdote, is it? Especially if you're seven.

So instead, they reverted to their default questions. There are three which they seem to ask me, no matter how short or long a time has elapsed between my visits. They are:
1/ Why do you dye your hair? Their mum doesn't dye her hair. They themselves have beautiful hair. So it is an ongoing mystery to them why I should choose to eschew my natural locks in favour of unnatural ones. I still haven't come up with a better reason than that I find my own hair colour 'boring'. They find this mystifying. I might have to invent a reason like, 'Having red hair gives me magic powers'. Which could backfire.

2/ The oldest god-daughter always asks me if I was 'chunky' when I was a child. I'm not sure where this comes from - if her mum has disloyally informed her of how utterly dreadful I was at sport when we were at school together, and, things being as they are, it is still the fat kids who are picked last for teams, so it's her assumption that I was more bag-of-potatoes than french fry. Either way, I never know quite what to say, and why she wants to know.

Yes, I did feel I was chunky when I was younger. Albeit with small arms and perfectly OK legs; I used to routinely refer to myself as 'an orange on cocktail sticks'. Heck, I felt like I was pretty chunky up until I paid Cheerful James to whittle me down a bit. But I didn't get bullied for it or anything. The only real issue I had was people who hadn't seen me for a while, ironically, asking me if I'd lost weight. Which gave me the impression that people always remembered me as fatter than I actually was, which wasn't great. I think next time, I'll just have to ask her why she wants to know.

3/ Are you married yet? The girls' parents aren't married, so this has become a pressing question, to be asked at regular intervals of everyone. The fact is, if a man so much as meets my eye on a crowded Tube, I tell anyone I know about it, so a secret, speedy marriage is never going to happen. I must impress this upon them, that they will be amongst the first to know of any impending nuptials that would involve me as an active participant. Perhaps they're just desperate to be bridesmaids. Perhaps my single status opposes an Ark-like world view that everyone should go around two by two. Or perhaps they're just worried that I'm messing with the natural order of things, and instead of me having to look after them if anything happens to their parents, they will be left to care for me because I Have No Husband.

Anyway, Question 3 reached a particular high point when I was babysitting on Valentine's Day. Yes, that's why people get spinsters to be godmothers - you know they'll have no plans come 14th February.

Seven year old godchild: Are you married yet?
Me [faux jaunty; it is, after all, hard to be properly jaunty when faced with the barrage of Everything's Great if You're in a Couple! messaging that goes with Valentine's Day]: No, not yet!
Seven year old godchild [sagely]: Why, doesn't anyone like you?

I laughed my arse off*, as her sister told her she couldn't say that, as it was rude. All the money and time that could be saved on self help books! All you really need is a seven year old girl to get straight to the heart of the matter.

* The following evening, however, I went out, got a bit drunk by accident and threw myself a miniature pity party. 'WHY DOESN'T ANYONE LIKE ME?' I snivelled, as I Weebled my way home from the tube. Red wine can be a very poor friend to a single lady on occasion. I had luckily recovered my equilibrium by the time I was going out for drinks with three friends and I was going to be the only one who wasn't in possession of a fiance. Equally luckily, a gaggle of additional single chums joined us. Crisis averted!