ONE was bad enough - but two. I don't know how I'm going to get through Friday evening without medicinal help of some sort.

My youngest daughter came home from school last Friday with her first homework.

I foresaw problems as soon as she told me she had been given it. Not that I was worried about it being too difficult. She's only six and I didn't expect to have to help her unravel the complexities of DNA or prepare an essay on Chaucer.

I knew instead that, for me, the challenge would lie in getting her to do it. My eldest daughter is extremely diligent and settles down to her homework the minute we get home, but the little one is not so studious.

Anyway, I sat them down and, while my eight-year-old set about her maths, my youngest (predictably) reclined on her elbow and asked when she could watch TV. Ten minutes of bribery (promises of treats always work, but I know it isn't the way to bring up children) and she got down to it.

But only for a second. Failing to grasp what had been asked, she bombarded me with questions. My eldest daughter chipped in constantly and a huge row ensued, with one or the other screaming for two hours, one storming off to her room and me having to ring their dad for advice on how to smooth the waters. I hate to confess, I didn't fully understand the questions, concerning long and short verbs (terrible, considering my profession), but muddled through.

What is generally a quiet time, with me making tea and the girls relaxing in front of Tracy Beaker, turned into a scene from a Children From Hell documentary.

I remember as a teenager, I would argue with my brother over who got the round coffee table to do their homework on, the rectangular one being heavy and not as easy to pull over your knees. Things got so bad one night that my dad picked up the table and threw it across the room.

Having said that, my literary dad was very helpful with English essays, whereas he rarely devoted any time to my brother. I suspect, however, that that was more to do with my brother's choice of maths, pure maths and even more maths at A-level, and my dad's inability to work out even basic primary school sums. (I once asked him what a number was as a percentage of 100 and he hadn't a clue).

So, to the point of this column. A head teacher in Wiltshire has caused an outcry among parents by scrapping homework for 12-year-olds, saying the practice is an outdated 'dinosaur' and that children should be left to pursue areas of interests at their own rate. He is not the first head teacher to come to such a decision - which also benefits teachers because, as he says, it will mean less time spent marking.

And, one thing he fails to mention, fewer family skirmishes at a time when everyone should be quietly watching EastEnders.

However, despite the down side, I'm all for homework. I think it shows that children can apply themselves away from the classroom, and it's the only chance I get to see how capable - or not - my children are. And, apparently, for some parents helping their children with homework rekindles the desire to learn and they go back to college. I haven't had that urge, but maybe I should. After all, it was embarrassing not knowing a long verb from a short one, and I suspect that worse is to come.

Updated: 09:04 Tuesday, February 01, 2005