‘And what do you want to be when you grow up?’ you ask of some whey faced child with fingers mentally crossed that it will blurt out ‘A Kardashian’ before its pushy mother can say ‘ Brain surgeon’ .  Not that it is likely to reply ‘Mini cab controller’ or ‘Tax advisor’ or any of the other mind-numbing things that people really end up as.

So,  if you’re stuck indoors today to avoid having to face the neighbours when you collect the five Valentine’s bouquets that they have ‘kindly’ taken in in your absence, you can pass the hours by playing one of my favourite time wasting game, and one, for once, where the consumption of alcohol is not strictly necessary.

What would you LEAST like your children to become?

The scoring system is exactly the same as used  in ‘Mornington Crescent’: you’ll just know when you’ve got a winner.  Spare parts manager at the Guildford branch of a Ford dealership scores very highly as does my own personal best – Professor of Trans Gender studies at the University of East Anglua.

A trump card used to be Army Padre but as my son with his degree in Theology has failed to find anything else this may well become a serious option.  With touching maternal optimism I continue to scan ‘The Stage’ sits vac column searching for his perfect occupation, ‘Beaufitul young Man wanted to play comatose hospital patient, long contract offered’.

For many parents however, the worst possible thing in the world would be for their child to become a journalist.  ‘Better a UKIP candidate, even an estate agent’ they sob, although the last option was only said in the heat of the moment.

Sadly this is not an uncommon view and with Piers Morgan as an example you can see why.  It probably  explains why so many stroppy teenagers opt for Meejah studies rather than follow their parents advice to read Geography. (It hardly needs saying that my own son has an MA in journalism, does it?)  Social workers would sooner leave children with their natural parents who might raise them to become  lawyers!

What utter folly.  Where on earth, since Agincourt I venture, was ever gathered together a finer band of men and women than at ITN? Accuse me of blowing a trumpet if you wish but if you wanted as award winning example of what can be achieved by people working to the highest possible standards in every sense (I will stand upright in front of camera even after 6 pints (of wine)) then look no further.

When it came to professional standards of honesty, accuracy, God we were slaves to akuracy, loyalty and integrity maintained despite the siren call of an extraordinary capacity for strong drink and private lives that would make a phone hacker blush, we had no equal.

And the very worst thing for anyone to be when they grow up? Easy.  A person without a sense of humour.