I think that Tiny Flirt, at the tender age of four, is feeling the need to sow his oats. And he hit upon a scheme yesterday to pull some nurses.

After breakfast he pulled his pyjamas off and, once naked, took the opportunity to charge around the house and try to rugby tackle the cat. He missed, flung himself headlong into the sofa, and hurt his neck and shoulder quite badly.

It doesn’t matter if you think it is only a minor strain, sometimes you have no choice but to be a cautious parent. I dressed him and took him to casualty.

When we arrived he told the receptionist that he was very sad, and had brought along a teddy bear to keep him safe. She didn’t stand a chance against Tiny Flirt’s onslaught – she was putty in his hands.

In triage, he climbed onto the nurse’s knee and showed her where it hurt. Then he said that he would feel better if he had a cuddle. As we left the cubicle, I swear I heard her phoning divorce lawyers and shouting to Tiny Flirt, “Call me!”

I don’t think that the doctor ever imagined that he swung in this particular direction, but he was besotted from the moment Tiny Flirt greeted him with the words, “Are you going to make me better?”

In X-ray he asked the radiographer to keep his bear safe and promised to be brave. I’m not sure what spell he cast over her, but it definitely involved the single tear that rolled down his cheek as he stood very still, and she actually cried out in pain as he left the X-ray department, and her life, forever.

And finally, when he was discharged, he smiled at the nurse and shouted, “Am I better? Oh, thank you! I love you!” and threw his arms around her.

I don’t know what it is that he has, but by God I want it. And if I could bottle it, I would be so rich that Bill Gates would look like a scrounger.