One of my favourite sayings is the Spanish one about your children being so sweet when they’re little, you feel you could eat them – and when they’re teenagers, you wish you had.

I confess my husband and I came pretty near to murder this week when a heart-attack-inducing large bill arrived from our mobile phone company, the result, of course, of our teenage daughter listening to music via their iPhones over Christmas.

Like most parents, we thought we had all the appropriate safeguards in place to make sure our kids couldn’t go over budget in this way.

No amount of pleading, cajoling or dark threats to the phone company have helped; we are still liable for the bill, which has racked up simply because what our daughters thought was a “free” app, actually charged for “streaming” music – a distinction which surely goes against the spirit of the Trade Descriptions Act and certainly defies my understanding.

Talk about feeling angry, helpless and naïve at the same time.

Not even the wonderfully versatile Olivia Colman in the much-maligned second series of Broadchurch could master the range of emotions we felt.

Still on the subject of the mysteries hidden within the dark tunnel of adolescence, what parent of teenagers hasn’t been given “the look”?

You know, that moody, implacable stare your teenage offspring subject you to when you so clearly don’t understand what they are saying, feeling or going through, never having been young yourself, of course.

After the phone company’s violent plundering of our bank account, you would think our teenage daughters would be bending over backwards to please us. Not a hope.

When we told them they would be coming with us to a ceilidh (at Christ Church, Chorleywood) on Friday night, an early celebration of Burns Night, we were treated not only to “the look”, but also to monosyllabic grunts, snarls and eye-rolling glares of disbelief.

But you know what, within minutes of arriving, they were up doing their sets and dos à dos with everyone else and having a whale of a time.

They lost all their self-consciousness and happily danced with each other, with old ladies, with other people’s brothers, dads and grandpas, even with their own parents, for goodness sake, that horribly embarrassing pair who had dragged them along in the first place.

In fact, they enjoyed the evening so much and the transformation in their mood was so noticeable, that I think monthly attendance at ceilidhs and barn dances should be made compulsory for everyone aged between 13 and 18.

Two snippets of news really made me laugh this week, mainly for their ridiculousness, but also because part of me was nodding in sympathy.

First, a UKIP candidate from Leicestershire suggested benefits claimants should be banned from driving to ease traffic congestion.

UKIP hopeful Lynton Yates believes six million cars could be removed from our roads if benefits claimants were banned from driving.

He has even put it in his campaign leaflet, which reads: “Why do they have the privilege to spend the tax-payers’ hard-earned money on a car, when those in work are struggling to keep their own car on the road?”

A great way to cut traffic maybe, but how on earth Mr Yates expects unemployed people to make their way to job interviews without a car in areas not blessed with reliable public transport, is not explained.

Secondly, the UK-based American writer David Sedaris told MPs he spends several hours a day picking up rubbish near his home in Pulborough, West Sussex, In fact, his public-spirited endeavours have earned him the nickname Pig Pen and his local authority has even named a dustcart after him.

What tickles me is that Mr Sedaris is suggesting any motorists with clean cars should given on-the-spot fines at specially dedicated roadblocks, on the grounds most litter is caused by people chucking drink cans and food containers out of their car windows.

As someone whose own car resembles a skip, I can see where he’s coming from.

Just one peek inside my car would convince the litter police that no food wrappers, crisp packets or drink cartons ever leave our car, either destined for the roadside for others to enjoy, or for our own household bin.

Mr Sedaris’s theory reminded me of the time, many years ago, when I was stuck with my mother and grandmother in a long traffic jam on a country road (coincidentally in West Sussex) on a very hot day.

When one of the young men in the car in front threw his empty beer can out of the passenger window, it was promptly returned to him by my indignant grandmother.

The young man was too surprised to say anything, but minutes later, his three companions “mooned” us from the back seat.

While mum and I were amused to see a tattoo on one naked buttock, my grandmother wrily observed that the young men’s car was much cleaner than mine.