"DA-AD! I've found the Seed of Wisdom!" the daughter screeched, tearing out into the garden where we were enjoying a quiet cup of tea. This is a remarkable claim to be able to make at any age, let alone for an eight-year-old working in line with National Expectations.

I studied philosophy for three years and I never got close.

Admittedly, the daughter's discovery has less to do with Key Stage 2 than the Playstation 2, but seeds of wisdom are to be cultivated wherever one finds them. I am being forced grudgingly to acknowledge the Ps2's educational value.

Since the daughter and her father embarked on Dragon Quest a game so popular in Japan that it had to be released on a public holiday to prevent nationwide absenteeism she has even been taking the companion book to bed with her.

This is encouraging because her school report said she should be reading more non-fiction. I know dragons are, strictly speaking, fictional, but the way the manual is laid out with tables of weapons, charts of monsters, instructions on how to enter castles and maps of labyrinths is pure textbook.

The only problem is, she's not getting much sleep because she keeps leaping out of bed to discuss tactics with her father.

The two of them now spend their leisure time in a huddle discussing whether to pick up special herbs and debating the scorch power of cheese (it's for a fire-breathing mouse, natch), the better to defeat the myriad of monsters that inhabit this fantasy world. Father's warrior instinct, normally subdued by Civil Service strictures, has also come to the fore. "Don't you go near that sea monster before I get back," he barks, leaving for the office.

Unlike the Japanese female robots with unfeasibly large breasts that father battles after the daughter is asleep, this game is not violent.

The hero fights with a boomerang, although I am concerned about Jessica, a recent addition to the fictional party, who wields a whip. She also has unfeasibly large breasts and has Sex Appeal as her personal speciality. One bat of her eyelids and monsters stop in their tracks. If she does the hustle dance they keel over. Hmmn.

Still, I guess that's educational too. It doesn't hurt to be able to stun a bloke at 30 paces and breasts are part of a woman's natural armoury. I haven't mentioned this specifically to the daughter but the issue was brought up unexpectedly the other day, for which Trinny and Susannah are to blame.

"Mu-um. What are big tits?" the daughter shouted through the bathroom door, where I was cogitating peacefully.

"What?" I shrieked, hoping I'd misheard and that she was enquiring after a species of garden bird.

"There's big ones. And small ones. And bare bottoms!" she sang triumphantly. I hurried out to find her perusing my copy of What Not To Wear, written in the fashion duo's breezily colloquial style and tastefully illustrated with black-and-white photographs of the aforementioned body parts. We sat and looked through it and discussed Flabby Tummies, Saddlebags, Thick Ankles and Short Necks, as well as the variety in breasts.

It turned out to be a useful experience. She now knows that real women as opposed to busty animated females come in all shapes and sizes. Plus, she knows how to dress for any occasion.

Moreover, she can kick monster ass. By which I mean Funghouls, Pink Pongos, Dancing Devils and their ilk, not big bums, you silly.

l MONSTERS of a smaller variety mini-beasts, as the world of invertebrates is now known, at least at primary-school level have been plaguing me all week.

The combination of hot weather and open windows means the house is crawling with scarily large beetles, moths, spiders, wasps and flies, as well as slugs, which have been sliding up the drain to suck up shampoo scum in the shower.

I had been picking them off gingerly and flushing them down the toilet, figuring they stood at least a fighting chance of survival, although I was worried about them sneaking back up and hiding under the loo seat.

Crunch time came literally after I stepped on one at night and skidded across the bathroom floor.

Against my ecological instincts the husband put down slug pellets, which has stopped their slimy antics but killed a few innocent snails as well.

Slug horror stories also abounded at the Friends' plant stall at Rowntree Park's 85th birthday party last Sunday, the best being from Mike, our chair, who admitted that, when he was a student living in digs, he'd once rolled home to find 36 of them refuelling on the living-room carpet.

At the end of a long, hot but successful afternoon we were left with a few unidentifiable cuttings and a slug trap on the stall, the kind you fill with beer.

I purloined it on the basis that, if I had to kill more of the little monsters, they would at least die happy.

I'd do the hustle dance if I thought it would work on them, but frankly I don't think an A cup will cut it.