My dad is good at many things. Brilliant in fact. And after a lifetime of love and cleverness, he’s now a grandpa-extraordinaire: reader of stories, builder of tree-houses, endlessly patient and endlessly kind. Perhaps, in fact, a saint. And yet my tale is one at his expense, for Dad was not so brilliant at Pictionary, and how my family love to recount this yarn…

It was 25 years ago, or thereabouts, and Dad’s turn to draw. My sister and I groan. In that ‘classic game of quick-draw’, where you guess the word against the clock, you’re very much relying on your teammate’s artistry as they sketch out the clue.

The timer is turned and Dad peels off a fresh square of paper, making quick strokes with the tiny Pictionary pencil: two circles, adjoined, spokes in the circles – aha! Bicycle! Wheel! Spoke! Tyre!

But more is coming – something at the front of the bike (this isn’t a bad drawing for dad) – handlebars – no, basket! BASKET! Dad looks triumphant. He jabs at the basket. Yes basket – we’ve got it! But no, he’s still jabbing. Erm… Panier? Bag? Headlight? Bike lights! Bell??

Dad exhales noisily, through his nose, mouth earnestly clamped shut so as not to emit illicit verbal clues. He stabs at the basket more vehemently – jab, jab, jab! Jab, jab, jab! A hole is appearing in the paper now.

Hole in basket! There’s a hole in my basket! – my bucket! – my bicycle! PUNCTURE!!! (Surely we have got it now.)

But Dad continues to sigh. The last grains of powder pass through the miniature hourglass. Time’s up.

WHAT IS IT?! We bellow.

‘Alien’.

Bafflement all round.

Dad patiently explains that Spielberg’s E.T. rode in the basket of a bicycle. So the answer is obviously ALIEN.

Oh the torrents of derision. The hilarity, the ridicule, the glee. Hoots and hoots of laughter.

More paper is snatched and a circle with two antennae drawn – in the space of two seconds – to indicate the correct notation for ‘alien’, in the confines of a highly competitive, tightly-timed, live-or-die contest such as this.

Dad bears our mirth with humble dignity. As I say – perhaps, in fact, a saint.