Last year my daughter and her children were invited to a Halloween party. Her older son wanted to go as Count Dracula; her daughter, as a ballerina; her younger son, as the cabin boy in Treasure Island. Then my daughter donned her own costume, wrapping herself in strips of white sheeting. At the party she collapsed, exhausted, on the sofa. "And who are you?" someone asked her. "I'm a tired mummy," my daughter said.
