The nearest thing I have done to parenting to date is my practice of abusing the tolerance of parents by striving to brainwash their children into supporting Chelsea Football Club. Some go quietly, others have to be, ahem, persuaded. At least one had to be bribed in so formal a manner that we sat down and negotiated a contract. In return for a reliable supply of Chelsea-related geegaws and tat he has kept his bedroom wall covered in Chelsea posters in strict adherence to the notarised terms for several years.

Many of the indoctrinees are reaching an age where they can begin to come along to matches. This weekend it was the turn of B and L (the latter of whom is my fabulous goddaughter). It has to be said that she did not, perhaps, find the game as gripping as I had hoped. Having counted down the seconds remaining in the first half (she wanted pizza) she then nodded off for 40 winks during the second, awakening only when Frank Lampard thundered a goal in from 30 yards and even then only to nod appreciatively. The worrying thing was that we won 5 – 0 so this is about as good as it is ever going to get. My only hope is that, like P, she will reach an age where cooing at the players’ leg muscles is an adequate substitute for pizza and goal-mouth action. In the meantime I bribed her with a post-match Hot Chocolate and Pavlova.