I'm thinking of renting my children out as dietary aids. If you want to lose weight fast, simply send me a postal order for £10 (plus £2.50 p&p) and I will send my kids round to your house by return of post.

They may not be exactly in pristine condition - one is a bit bruised and scuffed, while the other has an intermittent leak - but they will work more quickly to shift those unwanted pounds than an entire vat-full of syrup of figs.

It couldn't be simpler. All you have to do is make your evening meal as usual, sit down at the table and then simply say the magic words "okay, you two, dig in" and watch the weight drop away.

I'm telling you, two minutes of watching my five-year-old wrestling with a plate of spag bol (and losing) and my 18-month-old shovelling yoghurt into her mouth with both fists is enough to put anyone off their tea for the foreseeable future.

I constantly tell them to "eat nicely", which was apparently the first phrase ever uttered by cave women as they dragged themselves out of the primordial slime and into the kitchen. But it is to no avail. They are children who like their food, and the quicker they can cram it down their necks, the happier they are.

Honestly, they are the Michael and Ralph Schumacher of eating. Sometimes my bum has barely hit the chair before I'm leaping up again to get their pudding.

To give him his due, the five-year-old would happily sit and wait until I had finished my main course, but the little one is a different kettle of fish (something else she would probably woof down, given half a chance). As soon as the last forkful of food has been crammed into her hamster cheeks, she begins spluttering her favourite mealtime mantra "puddy, puddy, puddy" while using the aforementioned fork to bash the living daylights out of her Miffy bowl.

We have decided she is probably not quite ready yet for tea at the palace. But there is hope for her brother, a boy who appears to be half Neanderthal, half Noel Coward.

On a recent trip to Scotland to visit my best friend, she decided to treat the five-year-old and me to a slap up meal at a posh Edinburgh eaterie with a little help from her company credit card. As the waitress approached, I glared meaningfully at my lad and began silently mouthing the words "Don't ask for a Happy Meal; don't ask for a Happy Meal".

After taking our drinks order, the waitress gave my son a menu, which he immediately passed to his plastic crocodile for his perusal, and told him he could choose anything he liked and they would make him his own customised meal.

"If it's okay with you," he said, giving his napkin a rakish swirl before tucking it down the front of his Harry Potter sweatshirt. "I'd rather like the smoked salmon."

Updated: 09:50 Monday, November 08, 2004