BECKY SHEAVES

Over the years I have learned to assess my family's various squawks of alarm and allocate a proportionate response

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THE other evening, I was faffing about downstairs with late-night domestic admin. Putting the dishwasher on, letting the dogs out for one last time. That sort of thing. Then I heard my husband upstairs opening the door to our bedroom and emitting a gasp of dismay. "Oh, NO!" he exclaimed. I must admit, my heart sank. Had the dogs already done their last wee (or worse) of the day? If accidentally shut in a room, I'm sorry to say it has been known.

Now, over the years I have learned to assess my family's various squawks of alarm and allocate a proportionate response. When my son Luke, aged four, impaled himself on a Leylandii tree on holiday in the Isle of Wight, that was a ten-out-often rush-to-help shriek.

On another occasion, the racket from the children when they found a dead rabbit under the bed was far louder. But somehow less actionable. The uproar had a quality of horrified humour that meant I didn’t quite feel the need to come running. More a leisurely stroll and a resigned “Now what?”

This particular outburst didn’t have the dramatic timbre that meant I would sprint to John’s aid. It was serious, I could tell. But not A&E serious. I strolled upstairs expecting something moderately dreadful, possibly requiring Marigold gloves and a bucket.