But most of all, Dace loves the Garlics.

Nothing we do or say will convince Dace they are not Garlics. We’ve corrected him umpteen times, we’ve tried spelling D-A-L-E-K to him. Nothing works.

This child, who can say palaeontologist without thinking about it; this gifted seven-year-old who can rattle of nine-syllable dinosaur names like he's listing his favourite candy, cannot, for some reason, get it into his head that the most dire enemies of the Time Lords and Mankind alike, are the Daleks, not the Garlics.

He’s been running around the house all morning armed with toy machine gun, yelling “Exterminate! Exterminate!” and then shooting the evil Garlics invading our lounge room.

We choke every time he says it. Then he glares at us and says “are you teasing me?”

“Absolutely not,” we assure him. “You go ahead and kill the Garlics, sweetheart. We’re right behind you.”

“Good,” he says. “Because you know, Garlics can fly, nana. But if you whack them in the weapon eye, they go blind.”

I think I have a hernia now. It's not possible to have a conversation like this, keep a straight face, and not have something burst internally.

The Garlics are right, you know. I will be destroyed:)