We certainly didn't miss out on companionship; in a family of 10 you never lack company. In fact, it was often so noisy and chaotic that I would seek sanctuary at the far end of the garden, sitting on the swing between the apple trees, watching the birds.

Mum used to call me Frances of Assisi, not because of any piety or religious devotion, but because I had such an affinity with our feathered friends.

I would put scraps of food out to attract them and then sit silently until they appeared. At first it was just common sparrows and starlings who joined me but, once it became a regular routine, the news spread via twittering across the tree tops and eventually I had goldfinches and bullfinches, robins and wrens, blue tits and coal tits all appearing excitedly as I took my seat.

One day I even attracted a magnificent green woodpecker. I remember I was so overcome with delight I ran back into the house to share the glad tidings, expecting a mass exodus to follow me back to view the exotic rarity.

However, Star Trek was on and the entire family were riveted to their seats and couldn't give a proverbial hoot. All except dad that is, who pretended to share my enthusiasm and went to get his camera. So, as Bones declared: " It's life Jim, but not as we know it ... " for the umpteenth time that series, dad and I crept back down the garden and waited motionlessly until it returned in a flash of vibrant colour at dusk to claim its supper.

Moments like that, alone with dad or mum, were few and far between but all equally memorable. Sharing their attention with seven siblings was an everyday fact of life. Indeed, sharing everything was all we ever knew.

But on the flip-side there were certain distinct advantages to being one of a horde and for me, as a young material girl, these were mostly birthday-related.

I would often get four times the number of presents than my school friends who hailed from a more modest-sized brood. Even if I got just one gift per head of the population, this would amount to nine. Throw in a couple per grandparent, and one or two from my friends and the bedroom floor would look like Noel's Multicoloured Swap Shop by tea time on the big day.

But one year I got a present which eclipsed all the others. It was a pair of binoculars — the most grown-up present I had ever received — and the most precious. And one of the reasons that they were so special is that they were dad's idea and he took me — just me — on a day trip to get them. We even stopped for a lovely pub lunch afterwards on the way home.

Of course, everyone thought I had a screw loose to be so thrilled to receive a pair of binoculars at the age of seven. But dad didn't.

He had noticed my quirky interest in twitching and encouraged it until it became a life-long passion. Thirty-odd years later I still have the same binoculars. They are sitting on my windowsill, primed and ready for any ornithological eventuality.

Last night, my wee boy Finn spotted a heron landing on the beach outside our house and ran into my room excitedly to grab them. I smiled to myself, really glad to see this interest developing in him and determined to encourage it.

Then another thought crossed my mind: "I mustn't forget, it's Father's Day this weekend ... "