Once upon a time, I used to notice the least touch. I had a clearly defined personal space and I was vigilant about everything in it. Having a toddler does away with that. I’m his jungle gym, his support for balance, his toy, his bottle, his security blanket, his teddy. He treats my body like it is his own.

I get poked, prodded, pinched (contemplatively, he rubs a fold of skin between his fingers). ‘Eye,’ he declares triumphantly, sticking a finger in it. He lifts my shirt to blow a slobbery raspberry on my tummy. If I curl up on the couch with a book he climbs up – using my arms and legs as toeholds – straddles me and pats my breast. ‘Wup. Wup’ (I want it) he says.

His peanut-buttery fingers paint my knees as I sit at the computer and he stands next to me and leans on me, munching away. He pulls himself off the floor using my trousers. He takes my hair brush off me to brush my hair and then his own. When his half-brother pretends to be a snarling monster and chases him, he shelters behind my legs. If I lie on the floor he chortles with delight and I get body-slammed.

Half asleep in the early morning I feel my nose firmly grasped as a handle to turn my head so I can be baptised with a drooling kiss. He takes my hand to draw a circle on my palm: he wants ‘Round and round the garden to find a teddy bear, one step, two step, tickle you under there!’ Or he holds my hand and rocks back and forth. That’s ‘Row, row, row your boat.’

Right now his hand is on my hip as he chants ‘diddle ah doodley’ and fingers the computer’s cords.

Once upon a time I knew the moment someone touched me. Now it takes me several seconds to realise that I’m being felt up. By which time the little chap who was squeezing my breast has moved on to something more interesting.