Did you see the hilarious picture of the little boy collapsing with boredom on a visit to see Barack Obama at the Oval Office?

Snapped by the white house photographer Lawrence Jackson, it showed a retiring secret service agent and his wife politely chatting with the president while their small son swooned face-down into the sofa and kicked his legs in the air in exasperation. But when are we getting ice-cream? You said we could get ICE-CREAM.

I'm sure one day he will look at the image and cringe. Or maybe he'll make his money publishing a tell-all tome; Meeting Mr President and other Underwhelming Social Engagements.

I do envy the little people their complete immunity to societal pressure to behave in a certain way.

At the risk of sounding like The Herald's toddler correspondent, I attend a weekly meet-up of local tots (in my own time, you understand) the highlight of which is snack-time around the table. Think Chimps' Tea Party, but with less hair.

There's no strained, polite chit chat going on here. It's every girl and boy for themselves when it comes to sharing out the spoils. Impulse is acted upon. Emotions conveyed instantly. There's no quiet seething after someone steals your cracker. You steal it right back. Or bawl your eyes out until someone else does. There's no getting cornered by the resident Flash Harry and having to listen patiently as he bangs on about his new set of wheels. Just walk away.

How delightfully liberating. To think of the knots we grown-ups tie ourselves in when trying not to be rude. Last night I found myself apologising to a cold caller who had phoned me at 8.30pm while I was in the middle of cooking dinner and had only just got Munchkin off to sleep.

After executing a dash down the hall followed by a groin-straining leap over the baby gate to stop the incessant ringing, I found myself apologising profusely for it not being a good time to discuss my thoughts on insulating my home. Only afterwards did I rage silently at the untimely invasion.

Imagine living your life in toddler mode. If someone queue-jumped you, you'd just elbow back in instead of impotently tutting. If, halfway round the supermarket, you suddenly felt overwhelmed by the tediousness of it all, you could just tip your basket and let out a primal scream. Trapped at a party by the neighbourhood blowhard? Fling yourself to the floor and declare: "Boring".