"Dad?" asks the boy, and I am immediately aware that there is idiocy afoot.
"Dad?" he asks, "You know Nutella?"
I am aware of its chocolately nutty excellence.
"Why, yes, I am aware of its chocolately nutty excellence."
"Has it got nuts in it?"
I eventually recover from the inevitable facepalm, and formulate a reply:
"It's not called 'I can't believe it's not Nutella'"
"Or just 'Ella'.
"Or 'No More Nuts'."
"That's what you get when you get kicked in the fork," says the teenage wag, "You get a different brown stuff then."
"You're not wrong. You know how they make it?"
"You get a squirrel and you squeeze it like a set of bagpipes. Only on an industrial scale. Willy Wonka wasn't a million miles away from the truth, you know..."
"Sod it, I'll have marmite."