This is the child, who loves her dog, having a quick rest after a busy week.

This is the child who has spent a term and a half, two school holidays writing original songs and incidental music and coaching younger children in their school play. Her work has been described as “stolen from Victorian music hall.” It is not stolen: she made it. I have politely pointed out all of her sacrifices to the teacher who used this description.

This is the child who rose at 7.15 on a Saturday as usual, went to music school and walked back through Bromley, observing with interest all the political campaigning.

This is the child who went to a party this evening, warned not to make herself vulnerable through drink or drugs. Ever contrary, ever rebellious, she is still sensible but her mamma  frets because one can never rely on the actions of others.

Two and a half hours later she has called home, having been turfed out onto the street due to the actions of unruly boys not from her school. Having assured us she would drink only a couple of beers, and having consumed none, she heats up a bedtime mug of milk.

Neither child nor adult, she is our princess.