Children, it seems, have their own Code of Practice. The rules fluctuate from imp to urchin but, I gather, mainly revolve around the following:

1. Always run when walking would suffice.
2. Talking, once mastered, should be used loudly and without refrain, lest the skill be lost.
3. Everything can be turned into a game with a little imagination and varying amounts of jam.
4. Question everything. Everything? Everything.

No-one quite knows how the tenets are transferred from little mind to little mind but, once there, they stick like muddy fingers to a pristine wedding dress. And while at first glance they seem innocuous enough, once the rules take root, there’s no digging them out, as they fill growing personalities with a sense of mischief that no matron can defeat, and turn even the primmest of poppets into tearaways every so often.

Meanwhile we, the full-growns, who obviously know better, follow in their wake, urging them in responsible voices to ‘slow down’, ‘be quiet’ and ‘stop dropping Lego in your gran’s toaster’. And, of course, that’s our job. Turn 18 and be elected by some unseen council to help those dirty-faced angels become conscientious citizens and usher in the age of sensible choices.

I’m not an adult at heart – I’m not even an adult at height – and I’m absolutely sure that most grown-ups aren’t. We’d all love for children to always be children; for them to meddle and muddle to their ventricles’ content. But somewhere in our make-up, and rightly so, of course, is the need to mould them, to prepare them and, with the best will in the world, to dampen down that code that makes the fire of childhood burn so bright.

But then, thank God, there are those who simply throw fuel to it…

Last year, I had the joyful experience of joining a group of 10 and 11 year-olds in training for the Mini Olympics, devised and hosted by local Glasgow charity, FARE. Needless to say, my athletic efforts were no match for their skills and enthusiasm, and my self-esteem took a bit of a punishing, but witnessing them then compete at the Emirates Stadium among 800 other young people was one of the most inspirational days of my 33 years. It filled my soul with helium and my boots with pride; and all before two in the afternoon.

So when asked to watch from the wings of this year’s event – the aptly-renamed Mini Commonwealth Games – was there any other answer than to grab my best foam hand and skip to the starting blocks? And as Team Scotland long jumper, Jade Nimmo, and Clyde, the prickly Glasgow 2014 mascot, opened proceedings, it was clear that neither the children, nor this eager spectator, were to be disappointed.

Racing, jumping, throwing foam spears – okay, javelins – has never looked so little like hard work and so much like a right of passage. Participants attacked the events like magpies on a mirror-ball, while the inimitable youth workers, who have more verve than an Ashcroft solo album, bounced from sport to sport, taking no stationary prisoners.

Encouraged to run, shout, play and question, the youngsters exploded in a blaze of energy, clear that here was undoubtedly the right place and time for their own rules to, well, rule. And with no-one rushing to quell their high spirits, for that one crazy day, the kids were lord and master and, by heck, did they enjoy their sovereignty!

Now, I’m not suggesting that we all just let go of our responsibility and hand the reins – and the reign – to the youngest among us. It’s not Lord of the Flies in here. But events like these, and organisations like FARE, are vital for keeping the spark of youth alive in those who might not otherwise have the active outlet they need. I’m surely no expert in sprog-raising, but trying to stop children from following their code is trying to stop the sun from shining. It’s Nature, after all, and that’s one Mother who can never be defeated.

Blaming children for fun-filling is a folly then – like blaming gravity for its ever-crushing presence or the tide for slipping quietly ashore. Their code is instinctive, it’s inherent and it’s something we could all probably be doing with remembering once in a while. Now, I can’t say I won’t tut when local kids play half-brick squash against my window or my nephews use my handbag for a plasticine mould. But next time there’s an opportunity, you’ll find me up to my elbows in jam, joining in the furniture finger-painting, and letting the levity of those innate rules of childhood lift my feet gently from the ground.

Paula.