The first book my daughter read on her own was Lizzie Zipmouth by Jacqueline Wilson, whose books she went on to devour until the age of 10, when she moved on to other authors. I know of some parents, and indeed some schools, who won't allow Wilson's books on their shelves. Their gritty reality - poverty, parental break-ups, wife abuse - frightens them, I suppose. But that was the reason my daughter loved them: they showed her a world with which she wasn't familiar, a world in which someone was always worse off than her but a world also where everything, if not actually ending happily ever after, worked out very much for the better. Let's make no mistake, there is always a moral in a Wilson story: bad behaviour happens but never triumphs. Her books are valuable in another way, too, as a teacher from an inner-city primary told me: for her children, Wilson's stories reflect their lives and offer reassurance.

So as far as I'm concerned Wilson comes close to sainthood, being largely responsible for firing my daughter's love of reading (and as she is now on to Birdsong, I don't think Wilson did her literacy much harm, either). But on the debate she has ignited this week about children growing up too fast and childhood these days ending at 11, I'm afraid we disagree.

It is easy to panic about adolescents. We see them in hoodies, hanging around and looking menacing. We see pictures of them in the gutter after binge drinking. We read about how skunk gives them schizophrenia, and the overall message is: be afraid.

We may remember bits of our own teenage years but generally we are too busy worrying about the future to be objective about the past. A quick root around my own biography brings memories of fierce independence - at the age of 8 I was travelling around Cologne, where we then lived, on my own - and minor rebellion in my mid-teens: we went to the pub, we smoked. A few took drugs. Our parents didn't worry as much as we do today, though no doubt they thought teenagers in general were off to Hell in a handcart, because that seems to be what every older generation always thinks.

But how many of us really encounter teenagers en masse? Last week I did just that when another mother and I took four 11 and 12-year-olds, one of them my daughter, to the NME Big Gig at the O2. My daughter wasn't especially thrilled that I was coming, because as a rule she would rather be seen dead than with me in public, but there was nothing she could do about it - I would never have let her go on her own, and under-14s were banned unless accompanied by an adult, so there was no argument.

I looked forward to the evening with about as much pleasure as to a funeral. They, on the other hand, were fizzing with excitement. It was their first gig and they were beside themselves with the grown-upness of it all - the huge venue; the teenager we saw who could barely stand, so drugged that his eyes rolled, being escorted off by two kindly policemen; the crowds; the bands (the Cribs, the Klaxons, Bloc Party, the Kaiser Chiefs and the Manic Street Preachers).

The Cribs were in the middle of their set when my daughter and her friend began dancing, arms punching the air in delight, as much, I suspect, at the fact that they had finally made it to a real gig as at the band, who were as inspiring as a damp flannel.

The Klaxons were a little better but, while the girls danced on - and on - I spent my time part people-watching, part danger-spotting. The first shock was how incredibly non-dangerous it all seemed. The smoking ban means that there are no furtive dope-smoking huddles, while the price of the tickets - £30 each - meant that the audience, though mostly teenagers, were not exactly from the mean streets. A couple of rows down from us was a group of boys aged about 15 or 16, good-looking and stylishly dressed. I found myself regarding them in a fond, maternal manner until I noticed that two were beginning to look out of control. They stripped off their shirts and, when they turned round, I noticed a) that one of them had written COCK in capital letters, with a big downwards arrow, on his torso; and b) that he was gyrating wildly in our direction.

I pointed him out to the girls and told them to beware; this was the kind of thing they had to watch out for if ever they were on their own, I said, and, while we were at it, had they noticed the boy over there and the woman over there who could probably be depended on if, hypothetically, they were on their own and needed help?

They listened attentively. The next thing I knew, offensive torso boy had moved up to our row and was standing next to my daughter's friend; I moved him along in a manner that would not have shamed Miss Jean Brodie. He meekly obeyed; I steadied myself for the inevitable moaning from my daughter and her friend but, instead of the usual “Mu-uumm, how can you be so EMBARRASSING”, I got a relieved thank you.

I'm not sure what any of this tells us apart from the fact that, overall, I felt uplifted after the gig, and not just because of the Kaiser Chiefs, whose energy and beat were fabulous. If the crowd last week was anything to go by, then the future, I feel, is in safe hands.

On the Tube home, a smartly dressed boy next to me fell asleep on my shoulder, breathing drunken fumes, and as we got ready to change trains I felt obliged to wake him up - he was someone's son and she surely wouldn't want him left to pass out on the Jubilee Line. I shook him gently. He sat up straight, the way drunks do when trying to appear sober, and said politely: “Can I help you? Do you know where you're going?”

“I know where I'm going,” I laughed. “I just wanted to make sure you did.” “Of course I do,” he said huffily, and went back to sleep.

I can't be certain, of course, but my guess would be that he got home safely. In a few years' time my daughter can go to events like the Big Gig on her own. And although I'm sure I'll still be panicking, I am going to try to hang on to the feeling I came away with last week: like a Jacqueline Wilson novel, it will all turn out just fine in the end.

Pass the coke, dad

I was genuinely shocked recently to hear various stories of casual cocaine-taking at dinner parties by people I know. They in their turn were amused that I was shocked. As for smoking a joint, that's so common as to be almost not worth mentioning, apparently. So it seems that after the Jamie crisp chicken legs with sweet tomatoes and the Nigella chocolate pudding, Mr and Mrs Middle Class eschew coffee but think nothing of lighting a joint or snorting a line of coke. Nor do they see anything wrong with their behaviour. So I was interested to hear someone from the drug addiction charity Addaction saying yesterday that in his experience children are more affected by their parents' behaviour than by what celebrities get up to. In other words, you can blame Amy Winehouse all you like, but if you're getting drunk, stoned or coked to the eyeballs at home, that's the example your children are more likely to follow.

Coming on strong

“Everybody who has ever been counted out and refused to be knocked out, for everyone who has stumbled and stood right back up and for everybody who works hard and never gives up - this one's for you. We're going on, we're going strong and we're going all the way!” Say what you like about Hillary Clinton - and most of it has been said - it's impossible not to admire her fighting spirit. For women especially, who are prone to loss of confidence rather more easily than men, her words make stirring reading. You go, girl!

Starstruck? Me?

Fancy British Intelligence being gulled by a fake astrologer who conned them into believing that he could predict Hitler's next moves by his horoscope. I'm sure I would never have fallen for that - we Virgos are too analytical and down to earth to believe in star signs...