Having tried and failed, over and over again, it looks like there is now no option but to resign.

No, not Mrs May over Brexit… I mean me, resigning myself to the reality I’ve failed to get my kids to eat peas.

But how much Mrs May should sympathise with my disastrous peas process…

Ultimately it was always doomed to failure. Too many red lines (well, green lines around the side of the plate)

from the very beginning.

Like Mrs May I first presented the peas with little flourish, just the flat assumption that as I’d put the effort into cooking them, they should eat them. Be grateful for my efforts.

They spat them out.

Undaunted I dished them up again. “Peas are good for you,” I barked. “Eat them.”

They spat them out.

I tried bribery (OK, not £1billion like for the DUP, but two packets of football cards and a Krispy Kreme each seemed a deal).

They spat them out.

“The people want peas,’” I said slamming them down again.

“No, we wanted vegetables,” they replied. “It’s you who’s only able to cook peas.”

I tried hiding them in mashed potato but Geoffrey Cox style big brother felt compelled to identify the spherical green objects within the carbohydrate codicil: “Nothing’s different – they’re still peas.”

I tried exerting authority: “It’s my responsibility to serve up a pea accompaniment for your dinner and you must eat them.”

They spat them out.

I tried persuasion (although my attempts at empathy were more wooden than Aunt Sally): “Give peas a chance…” I whined. They spat them out. I tried blaming them. And their cousins, friends, everyone else in the house.

 “It’s a matter of deep personal regret for me,” I screeched “that

you lot just won’t eat these lovely vegetables I’ve selected.”

“They’re just the same soggy peas,” son replied.

I was going to serve those peas up again tonight. It’s my duty to deliver peas.

But they’ve said they’ll only spit them out if I do. So I’ve just left them, turning to mush, at the bottom of the pan.

‘“Aren’t there any other vegetables?’ son asks. “Ones we like? Maybe Norwegian veg?”

“No,” I repeat. “It’s my peas or no peas…”

But wait, what’s happening now?

I walk into the kitchen to see youngest son at the cooker, saucepan in hand, a pile of carrots, broccoli and red cabbage chopped next to him.

There are sharp knives scattered across the worktop and flames bursting from the hob.

“What are you doing?” I squawk helplessly.

“I’m taking control,” he says. “And I’m sure as hell not having peas.”

Well, we’ll see about that…

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