It is interesting to note that even in a house packed with baffling personalities, Little Mil stands out like a sore thumb.

At 6am, every weekday morning, Phil and I lie in the darkness, waiting for the dawn, and his alarm goes off.

A more grating melody I have yet to find; harsh, it makes no compromises in volume, subtlety or artistry. It blares.It is like a bawling sergeant major, all expectation and no sodding compromise. It and I are sworn enemies.

And is it easily switched off, just a short reach from the warm, all-consuming duvet?

It is not.

My husband leaves it at the bottom of the stairs. A whole floor away. This, I tell him, is a mistake. Not just because the walls there are paper thin, and our poor unsuspecting bachelor neighbour must have a blue fit every time it goosesteps into action at a very…