Hell, said Tricky, is around the corner. He was wrong. Unless that is, you are round the corner from a soft-play centre, in which case he was very much right. Sunday afternoon, and I'm at Cheeky Chimps and it's teeming with feral brats. This is my way of offsetting the fact that Cath takes Olivia to church on Sunday morning, leaving me free to mark my socks off/peruse the paper.

In order to survive the soft-play centre experience, it's imperative that you arrive prepared. In other words, don't forget the paper. For this purpose tabloids just don't cut it. This isn't the snobbery of the broadsheet - well, technically the berliner - reader speaking. It's practical wisdom.

Tabloids just don't offer you a big enough screen to hide behind. For this you need a broadsheet, rendering you totally oblivious to the mayhem masquerading as harmless fun that is raging all around you.

Within seconds of arriving, Olivia was lost to the rampaging herd, and I was lost in a thoughtful piece on the iniquities of David Cameron. Considering we were in hell, it was perfectly heavenly.