There was no doubt about it: Mrs Hoity hyphen Toity wanted the very best for three-year-old Henry. What he was doing in the nursery was an utter waste of time, insufficiently stimulating and unworthy of the name education, so she had been forced to arrange for him to see a private tutor for three hours a week.

Henry was clearly of an intellect bordering on genius, so why was he allowed to gallop around the garden neighing as he pretended to be a horse?

Furthermore, she alone was responsible for his physical and mental health, so why was she not called to accompany him when the eye checks took place? So I put it to her. Would she like to withdraw him from his full-time place if she felt I fell short of her exacting standards? She would do no such thing. He had every entitlement to the place, and she needed freedom during the day to carry out her voluntary work unhindered.

Her body stiffened. She thrust her deeply flushed face within two inches of mine and spat out her piece de resistance: the very worst thing was that her Henry, who had from birth been a child of unerring obedience and charm, had only the night before told her, his own mother, to “piss off”.

With that she turned on her heel and marched away leaving me muttering: “Oh how I wish you would.”