Minus Mummy, last night I made the kids a homemade chicken and ham pie (first attempt, nobody died) and sought to indulge in proper cross-table conversation.
Predictably given Friday evening's never-to-be-forgotten goings on, Oliver Dickey came up.
"He won his prize," I announced, still feeling a tad emotional about the whole thing.
"Great!" shouted Jamie.
"Great!" shouted Charlotte.
I then showed them some pictures from the awards ceremony.
And, as dedicated Britain's Got Talent fans, this one proved to be particularly impressive.
Yes, Oliver with "The Sword Girl" as Charlotte likes to call Jesse Jane McParland. (HI-YAH!)
Indeed, so impressed was Ms White that she insisted we interrupt our tea to take a picture to send on to Oliver and his little brother Max.
Back at the table, both were curious as to why Oliver had had to endure his ordeal in the first place. Why was he not able to be born, get bigger and learn to walk "like everyone else"?
I explained that not all of us were so fortunate and, quite often, babies were born with little problems.
They couldn't really get their heads around this so I decided to offer an illustration.
"I had a problem with my blood when I was a little baby," I explained, "and had to have it changed a few times."
"What do you mean?" Jamie asked.
"A very kind person gave me some of their good blood to replace my bad blood," I battered on.
"Oh," said Jamie. "Who was it?"
"I don't know."
"Andy Warhol?" ventured Jamie. (No idea where that came from).
"Or a dog," said Charlotte.
"Shut up and eat your dinner."