'......And I used my money to buy the sweets.'

Thus my elder son concluded a story about going shopping with his father.

"My money".

What money?

'What money, sweetie?' I ask. Maybe his father has given him some. I have not dished out any pocket money in ages.

'The money I earned at school. My friend R gave it to me.'

I had visions of my boy bullying R into opening his little sweaty palm to give him the only pocket money he had. Or perhaps R being about thirty-five, and requesting unusual favours from my son in exchange for £2.00.

Either way... I wasn't happy.

'Why did R give you money?'

'Well. You know you give me a packet of crisps and some chocolate for my snack?'

That is not entirely accurate. I make him a healthy sandwich for his snack. The rubbish food is something which finds its way into his school bag and is tagged as 'emergency supplies': a sudden pang of hunger on the bus, or feeling dizzy between lessons.

'Yeeeeees....' I say carefully.

'R wanted them, so I asked him for £2.00. He gave me the money, and I gave him the food.'

He looks at me with limpid, innocent eyes.

I open my mouth to speak.

'I know, you bought the food and I should eat it. But the packet of crisps and the chocolate cost LESS than £2.00 so I made more money than you spent. I earned it. Now I am going to get more food and sell it for twice as much as it cost YOU, and I shall get lots of money. I want to be rich and pay your mortgage.'

My son is not eight yet. I haven't got the heart to tell him that nowadays it is his father's mortgage he needs to pay, not mine, as I rent my home as a single mother.

Where did he get this business sense from? Certainly not me.

And, more worryingly: what will R's mother think when she discovers that her son has paid £2.00 for a packet of crisps and a chocolate bar, and he was not EVEN AT A SERVICE STATION ON THE M1?