Now that our daughters are both teenagers there’s a remarkable similarity between them and our two cats.
They only come near me and the boss when they want something, they’re only nice to us when they want something, they sleep for at least 12 hours a day and apart from that the only time they bother with us is when they want feeding or letting out.
Aside from that they do what they want, when they want.
And ever since our hooligan tom cats have been put on the best dry food money can buy, our daughters are a bit cheaper to feed than they are.
Their bedrooms look like self-contained flats, their wardrobes are filled with clothes people over 40 don’t understand and if I ever even think about speaking to their friends when they come round they’ll put all my Stone Roses records in the chiminea and melt the lot.
They wanna be ignored.
Occasionally there’s the odd flicker of recognition.
Last Sunday the four-time world super middleweight champion Carl Froch turned up on TV.
The last time I saw him was last May at Wembley when he hit George Groves so hard with a right-hander that I flinched 240 miles away in Lancaster.
Anyway, daughter #2 says to me: “Oh, I’ve met him but I can’t remember where.”
Sorry, you say you’ve met Carl Froch? I think you’ve had too much sleep and Coca-Cola.
Then the penny dropped. “Oh yeah, when me and some people from our dance class went to London last year to watch the final of Tumble, he was in it.”
So Carl, and I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this and I hope you take it in the right spirit because I’ve seen you fight and you’re a nice bloke outside the ring but absolutely terrifying in it and you’d rip me in two in five seconds, but all your world titles mean nothing to my 13-year-old daughter.
Instead, she looks up to you because you were on a televised celebrity gymnastics show that she went to London to watch because a girl who went to her dance school was partnering H from Steps in the final.
Fame is a very strange thing indeed.