Hold your child's hand for as long as he will let you, they say. My son, now fourteen going on fifteen, is well past that stage. But when he was five, and we would take a quiet evening stroll down Al Wahda Street, he, my wife and I, he would position himself in the middle and place both his little hands in ours. I guess it was his way of seeking security while he took in the world around him.

He was just learning to read, so he tried to read everything his little eyes focused on. One evening as we went hand-swinging happily past a store he said, daddy what's P-I-E-R-C-I-N-G? I told him. We looked to see where he'd read the word and saw a sign on the door.

EAR PIERCING DONE INSIDE. My wife and he read the words out aloud, slowly, then we walked on. A few paces later he asked, do they play Barcelona in there?

Now, I've always harboured the secret belief that I've been endowed with a fair ability to think laterally, but this question made me check my stride. What do you mean Barcelona?

I asked, conceding defeat. You know, dad, the song you were playing all morning, he replied, adding, mum said the lady's voice was ear piercing. He did a few wobbling imitations of Montserrat Caballe and laughed.

I think my wife and I began laughing a little before that, however. We took time out to explain to him who a soprano was and what she did as an occupation. We DID NOT, again, mention ear piercing as one of her abilities.

But parents realise early on it's the child who dictates the course of a conversation. Our son had lost interest in this operatic discourse. If not Barcelona, then who or what was this ear piercing sign in the shop all about, he wanted to know.

So my wife told him everything she and I knew about the fashion of wearing earrings. She even crouched low, pushed back her hair and showed him the zircon dangling on a strip of gold.

The poor man's diamond, I said, hoping to lure him into an early chat on middle-class economics, but all he wanted to know was if the ear bled. Very slightly, my wife said, and no pain whatsoever, just a little pinprick.

That was nearly a decade ago. In that time, my little boy has turned into a young man, studying in a school in Sydney, where we've recently relocated. And suddenly my wife and I are confronted with Ear Piercing (Part II). All his friends, he says, have an ear pierced and he'd like to do the same. My wife, who is with him, said the decision was his to make.

He agreed, but to help the process along he found an old pair of clip-on earrings and wore one in the flat, reviewing himself in the mirror, keeping his opinion to himself, then asking the family - his mum, his grandma and his uncle - what they thought.

Needless to say they all made the appropriate sounds. But he waited two weeks, plucking up courage. And now he's done it! His timing, however, was amiss.

School's just opened after a two-week break, but he's been told by the ear piercer he must wear the little ring for a fortnight, or the tiny aperture might close. Earrings aren't permitted in school!

My wife laughed and told him he'd have to find a solution, and he did. HE NOW WEARS A BAND AID ON ONE EAR TO CLASS!

As for me, I think I've reached that stage where I'm on the look out for a hand to hold. It's either that, or Barcelona. Or Sydney. I must fly. See you anon folks.

Gulf News