Brown rice, ground into the rug, isn’t what I want to see when I walk into the living room. They tell you that you should discipline your children. On the other hand, they tell you that you should try not to overreact. Pick your battles. ‘Dad, can we have Computer Tea? We’re against Three-F tomorrow for Mathmo-Marauder and they’re gonna thrash us’. They say it’s educational. But they tell you not to multitask while eating, because of indigestion. They also tell you that, if you feed the kids brown instead of white, they won’t become delinquent. I’m disappointed that that the much longer cooking time hasn’t reaped the promised benefits. Listen to your emotions, my shrink says. So, I walk a few dutiful steps backwards out of my indecision, yell up the stairs. The footsteps, bangs, which have brought on the usual headache as I’ve been scrubbing pans, stop. Poised on my toes, head cocked towards the stairwell, I wait for some kind of reaction. Complete silence from up there. Only the clock in the front hall marks the seconds. They say that, if shouting doesn’t work first time, just carry on until the situation’s sorted. Or until you become desperate. We get used to projecting our voices. If only we parents could be given the West End as playground, we’d have our names in lights. But the croak emerging from my throat can’t have reached the first banister. The chest infection has ended up with me. Nobody’s fault, of course, just one of those things. I need another strategy. Wait till your…mother gets home. As if on cue, I hear the cat flap bang open. It’s much, much louder than usual. I spin round on my heels. Utter pandemonium. Carnage. A grey flash, nightmare crescendo of wings, tak, tak, TAK, TAK, leaping black fur. The pigeon, utterly alive, launches itself at my face, batters its head frenziedly against the glass above the front door. I duck, swearing. Even the cat cowers for a moment. Pick your battles. Pigeon lies on the doormat, stunned. Cat dives. They say that you can’t discipline a cat, it’s their instincts. Blame the pigeon instead; stupid, complacent bird, going for the lowest-hanging berries. I need to get to the front door. But my arm is tight against my face; sweat trickles down the small of my back. Laughter. I turn, and see the twins peering at me from the stairs. Ethan looks wary; but Joe, red-cheeked, is giving me the thumbs up. ‘Ah! Oo-er…eek…get it…nooooooooooo, Dad!’, they squeal, spectators at this ghastly tooth-and-claw tableaux. I turn the door handle, kick the flailing mess out onto the pavement. ‘Get out, get out!’ Wings flap, flap up into the sky. I lean back against the door, breathing, sweating heavily. They tell you not to overreact. I’m grinning, laughing, raising my thumbs back, as the twins run, headlong into my stomach. ‘Dad, that was awesome!’ they shout, bounce, jump up at me for a high-five.