I have always fancied myself as a natural diplomat who might have missed my true calling in life. Until, that is, I came head to head with my four-year-old niece, who was facing a sartorial crisis on Saturday afternoon. I could hear her sobbing from her bedroom because her dress was “tooo smaaaalll”, and so I ventured upstairs, confident I could coax her to get dressed and come and attend her own birthday party. “Everyone’s waiting for you downstairs and they want to start the party. Why don’t you wear the dress but with a different top underneath?” I ventured. Her lips quivered. “Or we could find you something else?” This solution was met with fresh howls and shakes. I clocked my brother’s weary gaze; I clearly wasn’t helping, so I scuttled away. She rallied in the end and made a sparkling appearance in her new party frock which really was a perfect fit. I looked at my brother with solemn respect for his persuasive powers. Parents who can negotiate with four-year-olds would make mincemeat out of the European Union.