WHEN our eldest daughter fails to get to sleep and tentatively sneaks downstairs - generally after 9pm - either my husband or I give her short shrift and send her scurrying back up again.

But, on one occasion recently, to her amazement, we decided that we would allow her to sit with us for a while and watch television. The reason? Brat Camp was on TV.

Sitting a seven-year-old in front of a programme about a tough American camp which attempts to tame difficult teenagers might not be everyone's answer to persuading a seven-year-old to do as she is told.

But it did the trick. Now, when she answers back, is rude or has a tantrum - she still does occasionally, usually in response to her younger sister 'borrowing' her things - we simply say those two little words, "Brat Camp", and she steps into line. She has no idea that she would have to be more than twice her age to go.

We are not the only parents who were impressed with the camp regime, which is not harsh or threatening but introduces youngsters to a very basic way of living out in the wilderness.

Since the programme ended, hundreds of parents have asked for details and the waiting list is growing by the hour.

Apparently, going back to nature really sorts children out. It seemed to work. After nights of roughing it under canvas and struggling to light fires with sticks, the 'brats' openly cried for their mums and dads.

I can relate to that. As a middle-ranking rebellious teenager (my sister made it to the top with her leather-jacketed, tearaway boyfriends and 'couldn't care less' attitude to school), I was unlucky enough to be sent on a week-long environmental course at an educational training centre on the edge of the North York Moors.

Housed in a former army camp, the place was spartan in the extreme. As comfortable as a mine shaft, it made Saddam Hussein's hidey hole seem luxurious. The food was like the very worst of school dinners (they may be great now but in my day it was lumpy mashed potato and glue-like custard). And it was so cold that even wearing thick jumpers at night left you shivering.

Up at first light, we headed out to trudge across the frozen moors or along the windswept coast. I clearly recall that in spite of walking boots and thick socks, the pain in my feet from the cold was unbearable.

After two or three days we all became delirious, moaning about home in our sleep, like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. It was only seven days but the hardship really made me value the comforts I took for granted. I remember arriving back to blazing fires and steaming bowls of my mum's home-made soup.

In an increasingly material world, children are accustomed to being able to flick switches for instant warmth, entertainment and whatever else they desire. When that 'everything on tap' existence is taken away from them, they can't cope and turn to their parents for help.

I don't think I ever appreciated home so much as I did when I returned from that centre. That is, until the next argument with my dad.

That will be the telling factor with Brat Camp - how long the appreciation lasts.

Updated: 09:44 Tuesday, April 20, 2004