Growing up in Dublin, I had a well-earned reputation as a child of very healthy appetite. At birthday parties, I’d always make sure, at the outset, to get my share of any cocktail sausages, cucumber sandwiches or Rice Krispie treats going around. When it came time for cake and ice cream, I made sure my plate was amply stocked. And I know my mother was filled with pride, (and the other young mothers equally filled with envy), as her little man waddled back up to the table in search of seconds.

But even I had my limits. I vaguely recall a rather distressing incident on the car ride home from one of these parties. I won’t go into the sordid details – suffice to say that the upholstery in the back of the car neither looked nor smelt quite the same thereafter.