The telly is on. Your eldest is deeply involved in her mobile phone. The middle one is doing homework – reluctantly – at the dining table, and the youngest one is running a brightly coloured plastic car across your face, and occasionally the cat, whose tail twitches up each time it happens, like a warning cobra. Sooner or later the scenario with the cat is going to end badly, but it hasn’t yet. There is nothing on the telly, so of course you’re watching it.

Then there’s an awful crash – the sort of sound that unequivocally signals that something very, very bad is happening – from the front door. You give your spouse the sort of look that says « keep an eye on the kids », and they understand, and you leave them, skidding out onto the tiles in your socked feet, wishing you hadn’t kicked your shoes off because…

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