“Daddy. I want to tell you something. It’s very secret. And it’s completely true. You have to believe it.”

We are living in a post-facts world. Listening to people in power is now like listening to small children.

They just make things up and hope that we believe them.

And it works. It works because, in the end, we are more emotional than we are rational.

We need to believe something. Something that we can understand.

Even if deep down we know it’s probably not true.

“Me and Fiona are Goblin hunters. We are trying to crack the Goblin code to protect the world of fairies.

“Fiona has a magical amulet that has the power to control fire. I am the princess of the water, which means that I am also a mermaid.”

“Wow. That’s brilliant. That would make a brilliant story.”

“It’s not a story, Daddy! It’s true!”

“OK, ok. How was school today?”

“Um. Well. I played kiss chase on my own with four boys. They all kissed me and I didn’t like it because their lips were smelly.”

The more I think about this, the odder it seems.

Deep down, somewhere near my spleen, a tiny cauldron of parental self righteousness starts to bubble. For the rest of the day I cogitate about what to to. I know that doing nothing would probably be most reasonable. So I write an anxious letter to the school.

“I asked her about the incident.” The enormously reasonable teacher tells me at the end of school. “She says she was playing goblin hunters with Fiona.”

“I know.” I nod. I feel ridiculous. Over protective. Absurd. Lost in a post facts world. Unable to react any differently.

When my children, like unscrupulous politicians, realise how much power they have over me, I’m done.