The babysitter came round this evening.

I knew something was happening when Darling Wifey did her hair and make-up and put on a low-cut blouse. Not for me – for the babysitter!

Little Nutter was staying at the respite centre, where he spontaneously talked to me. “Bye Daddy. See you tomorrow!” he sang as we got out of the car in the car park. There were tears of pride in my eyes as he slammed the front door in my face and shouted “No! No! Norby boy!” when I tried to get in and sign the paperwork and brief the staff. I tried to sit down for a quick chat, but he howled and nutted me and shrieked, “No! Daddy car! Daddy car!” until I left. I think I was cramping his style.

Tiny Flirt was in his PJs, eating a third helping of steak and steamed veg when the babysitter arrived. He picked up his plate, climbed on the sitter’s lap, and carried on eating without saying a word.

And Little Madam had been watching her mummy with a puzzled expression until he arrived. Then she sprinted upstairs to wash her face, brush her hair and straighten her clothes. Then she hid behind the potted palm tree at the bottom of our stairs and refused to show her face.

Leaving our Little Chatterboxes in the capable hands of the new babysitter, we strolled into York and found a nice tapas bar where they don’t serve bitter and a round costs fifteen times what it did fifteen years ago. (As a student I took a job in the union bar because instead of pay we got subsidised beer: 20p a pint. Tonight it cost £3.) Then we did the saddest thing you can possibly do when you are out on a date.

We popped into the bookshop round the corner.

Darling Wifey got the latest release from one of her favourite authors – signed by the writer. And I got the latest from Britain’s top political satirists, Bremner, Bird and Fortune. That, it seems, is what turns you on when you are a middle-aged parent of three children.

We made up for it later, though, when I showed Darling Wifey the best way to drink tequila.