Rubbino thinks so too, slyly building a series to rival the iconic Sasek city books, he captures the breezy mood beautifully in the pale blue sky and freshly foliaged trees as granddad and the boy emerge from the metro at Place Maubert. With a fold out Tour d’Eiffel at the back, all the other old landmarks are here and the newer ones too, including the maverick Centre Pompidou, its appearance as much of a surprise on the page as it is when you turn the corner in real life.

This author gets better and better at the art of combining accessible text with action in pictures; from a tiny snow-globe of the Eiffel Tower and discarded Sherlock Holmes novel to thundering headlines, there is so much to look at. Armed with an old fashioned typewriter (see FamiliesSE passim – didn’t I say these would be all the rage?) the detail is delightful as our diminutive detective sets about tracking down lost teddies and keys and personal fortunes (as you do). Sadly, our hero’s success in rescuing a small child doesn’t give him immunity from anti-mouse prejudice as the party thrown in his honour results in guests shrieking and standing on their chairs, and I found myself yelling at the page: “It’s a mouse you nutcases, not Bin Laden!”

That shush wasn’t next-door telling me to pipe down (though they’d be perfectly justified in shushing their heads off after Trasha had her coven round for a sleepover last weekend – talk about earsplitting noise, that lot could cackle for England – apologies to all at number 18), it is the divinely talented author of A Bit Lost and Oh No, George! Rightfully elbowing his way to the front of the children’s section, this is his best yet: simple, original, very blue (literally, not linguistically, I hasten to add) and hilarious. No, HILARIOUS! With a quote from Einstein at the start – ‘Peace cannot be kept by force; it can only be achieved by understanding’ – every single school in the country should have a copy. I shall get onto Gove pronto.

The third troll title sees our voracious mythical monster chasing his trickiest dinner yet – the infuriatingly joyful Oliver. Or is that innate happiness really cunning in disguise? But, yikes! A slip-up! However, all is not lost when troll discovers to his cost that small boys taste absolutely disgusting (as Trasha can testify) and better still, he regurgitates his prey just as the timer goes off on an oven full of cakes

Like many small children, I’m a sucker for anything ‘saurus’ and no doubt, “Stick saurus on the end and you are onto a winner,” is the current mantra in every publishers’ editorial meeting up and down the country (previously it was anything that aped vintage Boys Own and before that, meerkats). As a result, there is and will continue to be lots of utterly mediocre dinosaur picture books for years – possibly whole geological epoques – to come. Thanks to the stupendous illustrations, this isn’t one of them.

Apparently this is on telly? Clearly it has been a while since I parked a child in front of the box in order to buy myself some quality time to sort out the washing and weep quietly. NB to self: must do more sitting around watching stuff for research purposes. Anyway, this has more than a little of the Kitamura about it, which is why it appeals to me. I especially the poignant sea cow at the end.

For a slightly more sedate, though no less messy, toddler experience, please refer to This is Me, Eating! by Neal Layton. Also available, This is Me, Dressing Up! And hold fire on the gender stereotyping rant – daddy wears a tie, mummy a pretty dress – ‘cos granny then puts on a motorcycle helmet and roars off

One for the older child in your life, I’m assuming that with those authors’ names, this originated across the channel. This would explain one or two of the excuses such as I didn’t do my homework because… “A famous director asked to use my bedroom to shoot his new movie” (sounds best delivered with ze spoof accent) or the deliciously dark “…I was at my cat’s funeral.” Cue a depiction of Gallic bafflement (see customs officers above) when the innocent feline pokes his head out of a shoebox in the graveyard

Hundreds of families interviewed and their stories remain in the mind long after I put this veritable brick down. It is a far too big and important book to suffer my bargain basement critique and I’m not going to tell you how many pages there are because it will frighten you off. And there’s no way I can claim to have made it through the whole thing. Suffice it to say, every page I have read contains a revelation and though I’ve parented (if I must use that ghastly Americanism) for a gasquillion years, I realize that I know absolutely nothing.

My inbox is full, the shopping list on the fridge is running to three pages, I’ve got art GCSE homework to do (not mine) and I’ve just cancelled a cuppa with little Ghengis and his mum because I forgot that I am teaching in a cold pool all day. I like to think that I’m not the kind of person that requires a title like this to get by – a pushover, moi? But a quick glance draws me in as I cannot resist the promise of learning how to be assertive with “wit, style and grace” and I am finally forced to admit even I could do with the ‘power of the pause’…