He idolised his Uncle James, did Little Jimmy. But how I wished he wouldn’t try to emulate the man. Ha, emulate. Whoever told Jimmy that a fisherman was a master knot-tier needed his gullet sliced.

It started the day Jimmy found some string. Off he went to the town library and borrowed a book and there he sat on the kitchen floor. Practicing.

He was a quick learner. If he’d have been a boy scout he’d have had his badge in no time. But did he have to string all the cupboard doors together? Did he have to tie all the door-handles in the hall? Shoes he tied too – annoying when you just wanted to slip them on quick.

In the end I found up a chunky length of rope and told him to practice elsewhere.

The farmer never forgave me.