He found the unwelcome evidence of the dog’s misdemeanour centre stage in the conservatory extension to the kitchen. He picked up the coal shovel that now resided permanently beside the sliding glass door that led out into the small back garden.

“I don’t know how good your geography is, my boy, but I should remind you that the dog home is only a half-hour’s brisk walk from here.” He gave Biggles a hardened glare just to demonstrate how displeased he was, and the dog reacted by closing his eyes in shame, displaying the dark-ringed “flying goggles” that had given rise to his name.

Having cleaned up the floor and clandestinely discarded the contents of the shovel over the fence into Mrs. Watt’s garden (he reckoned that, on that particular morning, she more than deserved it), Dan returned to the kitchen and picked up his mobile phone from the sideboard. As he filled up the kettle, he punched out a joint text message to Millie and Nina, informing them that it was time to get up. It was a ruse that seemed to work much more effectively than a yell up the stairs, his subtlety of thinking being that, even though his daughters were almost one hundred per cent sure that the text was from him at that time in the morning, there was always the slimmest chance that it could have been from someone considerably more exciting than their father.

It never failed to work. Just as the kettle came to the boil, he heard a thump on the floor above. Nina was on the move. He poured himself a cup of instant coffee, waiting for her usual riposte. When it came ringing down the stairs, he mouthed out her words in perfect synchronization. “Dad, stop doing that! It’s so unfa-yer!”

“Morning, Ni,” he called back. “Make sure Millie’s up, will you? You’ve got twenty-five minutes to get out of the house.”

“I’m not waking her up. She’s a cow.” She said it in a crescendo, obviously wanting her sister to hear.

Dan shook his head and walked through to the hall. Nina, still in her pyjamas, sat slumped at the top of the stairs, her feet resting halfway up the banister post.

“She is not a cow, Ni. She is your loving, if not slightly tetchy sixteen-year-old sister who happens to be two years your senior, so I would be grateful if you didn’t give her any more excuse than that to splatter your brains against the wall.” He took a gulp of coffee. “Okay, tell me. Why is she a cow?”

“She’s got my Atomic Kitten CD,” Nina replied moodily.

“Ah.” Dan paused. “Well, she hasn’t actually.”

“Yes, she has, Dad. Why do you always have to protect her?”