About a week ago, I needed some cash, but being a writer of course I didn’t have any. So I did what anyone would do – I asked my eleven year old son for some, since he seems to be freakishly rich thanks to guilty relatives on his absent father’s side. Son said no problem, subbed me a tenner and wrote it down in his little book.

So last night I was brushing my teeth and Son wanders into the bathroom. “Mum, you owe me a tenner.” He declares: “I may start charging you interest soon.”

Interest?? Little bugger. So I said: “I don’t remember you lending me a tenner,” out of sheer badness.

Except Son has an ace up his sleeve: “If you don’t give me my tenner back, I’ll phone Childline and tell them you’ve been stealing my money to buy crack.”

Touche.

Tony Jordan, my son is still available.