Well of course we do. We prefer the one that’s nicest to us and doesn’t make us want to stab ourselves in the neck with a colouring pencil.

I can tell you right now, my favourite child is Phoebe. This morning, she woke me with a kiss and did her piano practice without me having to sit on her. 

Yesterday Jack was my favourite child. He said I looked younger than his teacher (she’s 63 but I was pleased nevertheless) and didn’t moan when I gave him reheated casserole for breakfast because we’d run out of toast and cereal.

Actually, a few days ago I didn’t have a favourite child at all because they were both horrible to me. I did, however, have a favourite dog – the one who didn’t run through the house covered in mud then scoff my new mobile.

Unfortunately, I only have the one husband but if I had two, I’d definitely prefer the one who believed that Prada handbags only cost a fiver and who appreciated my banana and baked bean curry.

Us mums are only human you know – except when we have PMT and lose the ability to be nice to anyone.

The husband thinks he’s the kids’ favourite but he’s just fooling himself. He may not nag, he may hardly ever shout and he may not regularly phone around Romanian orphanages to see if there’s room for two more, but deep down he knows he’s not No 1.