I’m quite sure it’s terribly bad form to declare your child to be Satan’s spawn, but that’s precisely how I felt when my daughters were small. From the outset G was charming and compliant, whilst her twin sister E was anything but. Her high-pitched scream curdled blood across a five mile radius, causing several complaints from neighbours as the ultra-sonic frequency of her cries set off a cacophony of barking dogs. Nothing was right for E. She was too hot, too cold, too tired, too alert, too hungry, too full. As pretty G gurgled in her cot I became increasingly frustrated with the unhappy, angry ball of red-faced baby in the next bed. I was frequently to be found weeping on my knees at her side, beseeching her to tell me just why she was making my life so difficult. I was post-natal and rational thought didn’t come easily – unsurprisingly, she didn’t reply.