Was forced by youngest rug rat to cease conversation with editor, who had been on verge of commissioning big piece for Sunday magazine from me.

I was momentarily distracted from being intelligent, efficient, journalist (who would definitely deliver the goods on time etc) by being reminded that I was, especially during summer holidays, as far as rug rat is concerned, her mother and she, more than anyone else, deserved my total undivided attention.

This she achieved by ramming the ice cream, which I had hoped would keep her quiet for five minutes, firmly into the ear which was not pressed to mobile phone, as we all sat at edge of sea into which, prior to phone ringing, we had been happily throwing pebbles.

Action had effect of causing temporary deafness in ice cream ear and therefore distracted for long enough, while attempting to remove mint choc-chip from eustachian tube, for editor to realise I was not in former boot cupboard turned home office, but sunning myself on beach.

After realising this, she abruptly ended the conversation with terse suggestion that I call her back when tan was satisfactory.

Fearful I might lose the fairly lucrative and prestigious commission, I decided to treat rug rats to unheard of four consecutive rides on the carousel.

This, I figured, would give me at least 20 minutes in which to hold reasonably intelligent conversation, placate editor and retrieve rapidly disappearing potential commission.

The call turned out to be one of the most expensive I have made this summer.

First, there was the cost of the carousel which came to £8 for 20 minutes (probably more than even Zoe Ball's nanny can charge), plus a small bribe to the carousel attendant, to make sure they stayed on horseback in between rides.

Then there was the fact that, by the time I called her back, editor had left her desk and was on her mobile (sounding suspiciously as if she was sunning herself in a park) which was on a network that my mobile network charged a fortune for me to call.

And finally, about ten minutes into the conversation, my phone was stolen.

I was just beginning to feel I was recovering ground (lost after the mint choc-chip incident) and was discussing various angles for the piece, when a man on roller-blades swept by, snatched the phone and was off up the ramp and heading for Kemp Town before I could ask: "How many words do you want?"

My first option was to pursue him on foot and hope in vain to catch up with and somehow persuade him to hand back phone.

But, for this to work (which seemed unlikely anyway), would have to abandon rug rats, whose carousel ride would be up any minute and whom carousel man was unlikely to keep eye on, once his bribe time had elapsed.

So, stayed put for what seemed like an eternity, watching horses go round and round (I must have actually only been about five minutes into the call, when above incident took place) and opted to call editor and explain bizarre circumstances when we returned home.

She appeared to be in remarkably good mood and not in least bothered at abrupt ending of conversation. "I gather you had a child-care crisis," she said.

"Not to worry . . . the person who took the call for you explained and, actually, he had some rather good ideas himself.

"Would you mind if we forgot about yours, for now, as I think I'll go with what he suggested . . . "