Aida Austin: "You’re attractive and funny, not a doggy waiting for re-homing"

I’M IN London, walking down Upper Street towards my son, who is waiting in Five Guys — a burger joint he’s recommended because it’s “munch”.

I’m with my younger sister, who’s pretending to be poorly; a pretence which has taken many forms today, including such dramatics as collapsing suddenly on any available chair like a puppet whose strings have just been cut, and sighing on the hour, every hour, each sigh being accompanied by statements like, “I just feel sort of weak, maybe it’s the humidity,” or “I’ve only had a piece of toast all day. That’s not like me.”

It’s 5pm now and I’ve suffered this carry-on since nine this morning; it’s important to play the long game if I want to win it — never mind the fact that my mother’s words from earlier this morning are ringing in my ears: