I tend not to have massages. I have some weird thing about my shirt sticking to any oil residue on my back, so much so that if I were to have a massage I’d have to be topless for the rest of the day. Which would cause mass hysteria, media interest, and policemen coming after me with rubber bullets.

Plus, they’re expensive, and a really good one can set you back about £50. Fifty big ones for a stranger to rub your back? No thanks.

Fortunately, as a parent I can get free massages any time I want. No, not from my wife, silly. I literally couldn’t pay her to give me a massage (and wouldn’t – see previous paragraph). But I do have kids.

Now don’t get me wrong – I don’t ask my children to massage my half-naked body. There’s something about that which is rather wrong, and plus they wouldn’t do it right, doing chop-chop actions when all I’m after is a shoulder rub. But I do have play-fights with my two sons (my daughter, at six weeks old, point blank refuses to fight me, citing a lack of motor skills).

Strange thing is, there’s a rather oddly satisfying sensation that comes from your children walking and jumping all over your back. Sometimes, I’ll even tussle with them for a bit and then lie on my front and just let them do their worst, all of the time sporting a face like this.

Turns out, I can get a back massage for free. Stuff you, massagers – massagists – masseurs. I’m keeping my sixty quid.