Shouted up to Grenouille’s room to deal with a (possibly dead) ladybird on the bedroom door carpet strip. Our attics are infested with hibernating harlequin ladybirds and whenever they get into the house, G has a major freak-out fest.

I am greeted at the top of the stairs by an out-thrust hand proffering a sheet of tissue.

“Mum, mum, I’ve got you a piece of loo-paper to pick it up.”

“Can’t you pick it up, G?”

“Ugh! No! Hate ladybirds! Creepy!”

(I peer)

“G, that’s an apple pip.”