She slyly suggests that I’d be the first to complain if my child was devastated by a forest of red across his work. No indeed; I think he’d benefit. When I exclaim in mock horror at an apostrophe, which has found its way into the plural of bananas, my son is fascinated by my agitation, but not upset. He learns the rule. The daft notion that a red pen is mentally harmful to our children is perhaps indicative of a deeper issue – that we adults cope so badly with failure that the possibility of our offspring having to face it is intolerable.