I like to keep the language pure in the vicarage. It degenerates occasionally when the Vicar loses his keys, but the children have developed a range of wholesome culinary curses for use in extremis. 'Fromage frais!' yells my daughter when Ribena streams across her homework, and 'Fudge!' or 'Fried fritters!' if we can't find the remote control before 'Strictly Come Dancing' (NB: strange how they all start with 'f').
My efforts, however, unravel on the road. 'Bugger!" said my then two-year-old when she grasped the wheel of her new Little Tike car. I erupted. 'I have to say it,' she replied reasonably. 'I'm driving!'
White Van Man, advancing mercilessly down a narrow side streets, provokes from me adjectives that would make a docker blush. Three-lane roundabouts, unexpected filter lanes and anything involving the London North Circular turn me loud and foul and empurpled. My mother friends, contrastingly, sing along serenely behind the wheel to High School Musical and diffuse back-seat battles while negotiating three-point turns.
Maybe it's a testosterone thing. A visiting vicar relates how he was gingerly conveying his mother-in-law through a stressful conurbation. 'That was a tricky round-about!' she remarked. 'That's the f***g round-about,' piped an infant voice from the back.
So far my children respect the irrational schism between Car Mummy and Kitchen Mummy and do not mine my vehicular vocabulary for domestic use. They regard it, rather, as a necessary part of driving.
Playground insults, banned by school staff, have far more resonance in childish minds. 'You f***g idiot!' rages my brother when an Audi cuts him up. 'Daddy!' says my niece. 'It's very, very rude to say 'idiot'!'