“Weaaarrghhhhh!!!” concludes the Baby.

“She has been like this for days,” I explain to the LTLP. “Crying a lot and impossible to deal with. I think,” I reflect, drawing on all my medical knowledge, “that she might be teething.”

“Are you sure she’s not hungry?”

“Definitely not. She had a milk only earlier.”

The LTLP gives the Baby a milk. The Baby quietens and looks content. I am crestfallen. I have been in charge for only one week and I have almost killed her through malnutrition.

“We went to the Village Pub yesterday,” I offer, in my defence. “She had some of my chips.”

The conversation sort of peters out for a bit.

“Did you miss me, at all?” she asks finally.

“Of course I did!” I reply, stung by the question. “Did you bring me a present?”