Today I was sitting at a table in the garden at The Flamingo, intent on writing, when something poked me hard in the back. I yelled, “Oh!” and jumped a foot. My heart stopped.

When i came out of shock, I wondered what or who had poked me. The only people who know me are the staff, who usually call me by name rather than assaulting my person.

I turned around slowly.

The unsmiling culprit was a boy between 18 and 24 months old. He lives here with his mother.

He didn’t seem that happy or triumphant, so I decided to ignore him. I turned my back on him and went back to writing.

A few moments later, carefully timed so that I should have returned to complacency, the finger jabbed me again.

I turned around.

He still wasn’t smiling. He was, however, drooling.

I have that effect on males.