ALFIE was in the metaphoric sin bin. He was no stranger to it. What had this angelic-faced 10-year-old done this time to be denied his favourite slice of lemon drizzle cake in the George Street café where I found him, his mum, younger sister and maternal grandparents?

He had returned to school the previous day after the half-term break and his young and enthusiastic teacher had chosen to use the consequences of the imminent birth of the world’s seven billionth baby to brighten an otherwise numbers-loaded arithmetic lesson.

Alfie had rushed home and immediately upset his sister by saying the Government might not let her have any babies when she grew up. For a seven-year-old who has more dolls than teeth, this was devastating. She cried all evening, topping it off with a nightmare.

To make matters worse he had told the heavily pregnant woman next door that if she lived in China she would be fined lots of money because she already had two children under five and another on the way.

This led to a spat between Alfie’s mother and the neighbour.

Grandma had contributed her occasional pennyworth as the case for the prosecution was set out, but grandad was noticeably quiet. I looked his way. He was doing his best to stifle a laugh, his eyes watering under the strain.

He caught my gaze. It was all too much. We both burst out laughing. Grandads can be such a bad influence.

IT was my grandson Jack’s 15th birthday this week and last Saturday I posted his card. It exceeded the permitted dimensions for a normal first-class letter and I was invited to weigh it before being told the prices of first- and second-class delivery. I chose first class.

“Do you want guaranteed delivery tomorrow?” the young post office counter clerk asked.

“Yes, first class,” I replied innocently.

“But that doesn’t ensure delivery tomorrow. That’s extra,” she explained.

And there’s me for years believing that first class meant just that, and second class meant...you get my drift.

I was further confused when in Tuesday’s 9am delivery, a letter from York, bearing a second-class stamp and posted – the sender assured me when I phoned – at tea time the previous day, dropped through the letterbox.

WRITTEN with a felt-tipped pen on the High Street wall of The Queen’s College was the announcement; ‘Natalie G is sexy’. Accompanying it were the words ‘from Rob’ and, in brackets ‘Calvin’.

The question is, was Rob responsible for identifying himself, was he set up by so-called friends, or was Calvin another admirer entirely?

And what was Natalie’s reaction to the revelation?