The birds and the bees? Who thought up this ridiculous moniker for what goes on between the male and the female of the species? This delicate title conceals a minefield of innuendo, mystery and misunderstanding, and that's just for adults. However, it still remains an area which every self-respecting parent must broach at some stage in his or her existence, be it voluntarily or otherwise.

In my case it was thrust upon me as I ferried my nine-year-old to music lessons. It started innocuously enough with a discussion about identical twins. In 10 seconds we had travelled from telling them apart to how they got together in the first place.

I had a choice, head for McDonald's or tell all. Now, the nearest town was 15 miles away and Ronald hadn't discovered it yet, so there was nothing for it but jump in at the deep end.

We started out with eggs. You can't go too far wrong with eggs, now can you? Eggs splitting and becoming two separate babies. Babies growing and developing and eventually being born. Two younger siblings and nothing that surprising there. Enough talk about babies kicking and breast-feeding to have already absorbed the gist of all this.

But, then the inevitable question. "How do some babies end up looking like the father, then? Where does he fit in?" Indeed. Fitting in is the difficult part.

I break out in a cold sweat as I manoeuvre my way through a herd of cows that have found their way onto the road. I throw out words like genes and family likenesses in desperation. Three successive "but"s impress upon me that I will have to be more specific if I am to bring this session to any kind of satisfactory ending.

"When a husband and a wife (no, too old-fashioned), when a man and a woman (or two 14-year-olds?), two people who love each other, want a baby (but then they don't always want one) this is what happens.

Suddenly, something dawns upon my nine-year-old. He sits upright in his seat as I mutter on incoherently about love and feelings and bodies. His face grows red as he puts his two hands over his ears. "What's wrong with you?" I enquire.

`I know what you're on about now," is his reply. "This is about sex, isn't it? I only wanted to know about twins, I don't want to hear the rest of it." He will not entertain any further discussion on the matter, whether through excess information or embarrassment I can't tell.

"I knew it was going to be about sex," is all I can get out of him.

A strategically placed book, I think, and I rest my case, for this year anyway.