My daughter’s friend is vegan but ate half a pack of ham at my house. Should I tell her mother?

I had a friend who was vegan and – bearing in mind this was 1987 – she was treated like ET. She could have walked around in a carrot costume knitted by wood nymphs and she would have had the same furrowed brows raised as they were by her saying, ‘I’m vegan.’ No one really knew what to do. Teachers and dinner ladies alike were often flummoxed over such seemingly complex dietary requirements. The words ‘gluten-free’ or ‘lactose intolerant’ were as foreign in this era as bagging an all-inclusive £99 Teletext holiday to Magaluf would be in 2019. (Ah, memories!)

So when she inhaled a frankfurter at my eighth birthday, I remember the fearful whispers among the adults. It wasn’t even an accident. That porcine product slipped down my friend’s gullet in a flash and left my mum in a proper flap. There was a lot of gentle interrogating as my mum stooped down to ask, ‘Do you have a tummy ache?’ And, ‘How are we feeling?’ The ‘we’ indicating she was sitting in the sullied vegan hole with my friend, who showed little remorse.

When my friend’s ma turned up and saw my mum’s slightly ashen face, she feared there was more at play than a rogue hot dog. She was thus relieved it was a small veering off the dietary path. And honesty is always the best policy in matters of wonky veganism. Or any issue, really. Unless, of course, the school pet perishes on your watch. Then it’s best to replace and remain shtum... Anna runs the Flex Appeal for flexible working