I’m sitting on the couch having a beer watching ‘Rango’ with the boys as they eat pizza and chips and suddenly 22 months old Maki says ‘in there’ and when I look down I see the half-eaten chip he’s threaded through the opening of the stubby.

It’s floating languidly atop the golden elixir like a white man dozing on a lilo in the chilled summer pool of some exotic resort in Mauritius or Moe and when I whine and droop dramatically to draw attention to my disappointment Archie Lewis and Tyson don’t shift their eyeballs from the screen because Rango is THAT good and when I look to the fridge it seems so far away and so I just lift the soiled beer to my lips determined to imagine the chip’s presence away but its hold on me is entirely mental and I can’t decide if it’s better to take a huge gulp to get it over and done with or if it would be better to take small sips through pursed lips to leave the chip at the end of the bottle when I’m finished and now I’ve missed ten minutes of the movie thanks to this ferret-like inner turmoil and I’m on the verge of breaking down because there appears to be no end in sight until I become so overwhelmed by the distance from the fridge and the desire for another sip of beer that I hold my nose and lift the bottle to find that the beer has turned warm and that fact combined with the chip hitting me in the upper lip almost makes me hurl and still the boys’ eyeballs remain fixed on the screen, uncaring.

Only Maki turns to me again – oblivious to the turmoil he has caused – to point at the bottle and say, ‘In there?’