‘F*** off, fly.’ That was the phrase my four-year-old son used, perfectly innocently, on his first day at nursery last summer, which got me summoned for my first ‘chat’ with a teacher since I was a child myself.
I say innocently because in our house swear words aren’t bad. We sprinkle them liberally across our everyday parlance. They are never used as insults or directed at one another, but only ever to underline a point (the traffic was a f***ing nightmare) or at inanimate objects (‘f***’, to a table, when you’ve just stubbed your toe on it). Or indeed, in the
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