Tonight, right across the country, family homes will resound to the following row.

“Excuse me, young man. Where do you think you’re going?”

“I’m going to my room.”

“Going to your room? Who gave you permission to go to your room? Shouldn’t you be out joy-riding or necking WKD round the back of the Co-op?”

“I’m not a kid any more, Dad. I’m 15. I’m old enough to do what I like.”

“Don’t you take that tone with me. As long as you live under my roof you’ll do what I tell you. Hang on a minute. What’s that on your arm? Roll up your sleeve at once. There! I knew it! It’s a patch of bare skin! Why haven’t you got a tattoo?”

“I don’t want a tattoo.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake. Don’t tell me: the other boys haven’t got tattoos, so you haven’t got one either. What have we told you about not bowing to peer pressure?”

“Leave me alone. I just want to do my physics homework.”

“Physics homework! That’s the trouble with you young people these days: too much discipline. When I was your age, I was out smoking dope, vandalising the bus stop and trying to use my library card as a form of ID in Oddbins. Yet every Saturday night you’re at home revising for your exams, stone-cold sober. Your mother is worried sick. You’re wasting your life.”