WE are cutting back on screen time. That's us two... our boy is big and polices himself.
My other half thought we should curb our Twitter addiction. Some of us have addictive personalities.
Once it was Chinese food. The delivery service knew me so well that when I rang, they'd tell me my order and say: "The door around the corner, that's you."
Indeed it was. But when the woman who worked in the restaurant returned from a visit to China with a gift especially for me, it gave me some chow mein for thought. So I quit and probably put them out of business.
As for the screen addiction, my other half has a point. The iPad sends me messages about how long I spend with it each week – I may as well buy it an engagement ring and file for divorce.
Our boy, who is of the IT generation – he zooms down the internet highway at high speed and is always on hand when the laptop has a strop - is irritated at my phone addiction.
"Can you put down the phone for a minute. I'm talking to you and you're scrolling away," he says.
"It's just that I've got my work email and my home email, my Twitter and my newspapers and I'm wondering constantly what's going on, there's forever news breaking somewhere," I tell him.
But I slam the phone down guiltily. This role reversal hits you hard.
One minute you're warming their Spiderman jammies and doing machine-gun times tables "Six times nine? Four times eight?" ...and then the tables turn and they're raising a Paxman eyebrow and slamming on the imaginary brake as you pull out in front of a large lorry.
"Maybe that was a bit rash," I mutter as the juggernaut flashes the lights and honks the horn.
"You better behave, I'm choosing your nursing home," jokes our boy.
And I think, "No bloody way" and "Bonjour Switzerland".
Now we are 60 and when our boy comes through the front door and I have his tea ready, sometimes I open my mouth and my mother jumps out.
"Is that you?" I shout and he shouts back, "Of course it's me, who else would it be?" and I go into the hall and give him a hug. God, I love him.
It reminds me of when my brother returned to live at home with my mother when he was in his 20s.
They both loved it. You'd come through the door at 5.30pm and she'd be fussing about in the kitchen making his tea and he'd be stretched out, his feet dangling over the end of the sofa having his post-work nap.
When she went out of an evening, she'd leave him notes on the fireplace like "Bin out," to remind him of the night that was in it.
He'd write back: "Hope you had a good time."
He was taking her out for a drive up past Aughafatten one day and he said: "There's a lot of wee old bachelors living up in those hills with their mothers."
"You'd better watch out," she told him.
Now we are 60 - our boy's mum and dad - and sometimes, as we sit up in bed in the morning in our jammies and fluffy gowns, dipping a spoon into our porridge, we remind me of Granny and Grandpa Bucket from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.
The mirror is no longer my friend.
I'm gearing myself up for dental implants that will cost the price of a hatchback.
"You don't want to be sucking your dinner through a straw," says my sister.
"How's about we have an evening without screens," says my other half.
I'm not sure how I could live without Vera the detective and Traitors (I'm hooked) – but we have friends who do.
My other half thinks we should do like them; put on the fire, forsake the TV and the internet and drink wine and read books.
He even suggests a board game (I'm definitely marrying my iPad).
Our boy's childhood was peppered with Monopoly games that went on forever and left me praying for the 'Go to Jail' card.
"Just send me to jail and leave me to fester," I'd beg, but father and son were too busy building empires in Mayfair and the Old Kent Road to listen.
We are calling a halt to screen time... please, please, does anybody out there know how Traitors ends?
