‘Myles, don’t call your brother a simpleton.’

‘’ S OK, Artemis. He likes it. You’re a simple-toon, aren’t you, Beckett?’

‘Beckett simple-toon,’ agreed the small boy happily.

Artemis rubbed his hands together. ‘Right, brothers. Onwards. Imagine yourself seated at a café table in Montmartre.’

‘In Paris,’ said Myles, smugly straightening the cravat he had borrowed from his father.

‘Yes, Paris. And, try as you will, you cannot attract the waiter’s attention. What do you do?’

The infants stared at him blankly, and Artemis began to wonder if he wasn’t pitching his lesson a little high. He was relieved, if a little surprised, to see a spark of comprehension in Beckett’s eyes.

‘Um… tell Butler to jump-jump-jump on his head?’

Myles was impressed. ‘I agree with simple-toon.’

‘No!’ said Artemis. ‘You simply raise one finger and say clearly, “Ici, garçon.”’

‘Itchy what?’

‘What? No, Beckett, not itchy.’ Artemis sighed. This was impossible. Impossible. And he hadn’t even introduced the flashcards yet or his new modified laser pointer, which could either highlight a word or burn through several steel plates, depending on the setting.

‘Let’s try it together. Raise one finger and say, “Ici, garçon.” All together now …’

The little boys did as they were told, eager to please their deranged brother.

‘Ici, garçon,’ they chorused, pudgy fingers raised. And then from the corner of his mouth Myles whispered to his twin, ‘Artemis simple-toon.’

Artemis raised his hands. ‘I surrender. You win — no more lessons. Why don’t we paint some pictures?’

‘Excellent,’ said Myles. ‘I shall paint my jar of mould.’

Beckett was suspicious. ‘I won’t learn?’

‘No,’ said Artemis, fondly ruffling his brother’s hair and immediately regretting it. ‘You won’t learn a thing.’