chool is a very different place in the early evening, when all the children have gone home. No thunder of clompy, Velcro-strapped Start-Rites; no high-pitched giggling and chatter. The institutional aroma persists – a ripe compound of pupils, marker pens and floor polish.

Perching on a tiny plastic chair in the classroom for the termly teacher-parent meeting on Thursday, I found myself wishing that I could be the sort of parent I admired when I was a child: the sort that never reads reports, never attends prize-giving or sports days and is generally neglectful, but in a loving way.

I’ve known friends with parents like this and they turn out well (the friends, that is): balanced and enviably free of anxiety.

On the other hand, children who are endlessly fussed over – which includes telling them they’re geniuses as well as chastising them for their uselessness – are likely to grow up agonisingly indecisive, neurotic and afflicted with the deadly mixture of egomania and self-doubt. Gordon Brown is a case in point. Extravagantly praised from a young age, because brilliant, he received a hothouse education, was fasttracked through school and entered university at 16. We know how he turned out: “maddening”, Tony Blair judged, with “zero” emotional intelligence.

(A convincing psychological theory holds that it’s better to praise hard work than innate genius. That way, if the child meets a question he or she can’t solve, he has an option: he can simply think harder. The “genius” child, on the other hand, assumes that if he can’t work it out with his great brain then it must be impossible. He gives up in despair.)

The aim must be to inspire children to push themselves. Help them to experience the rewards of working out a maths problem or correctly translating a Latin sentence. They have to work that out for themselves, though. If they sense that you are worried, you will infect them with worry too. “Benign neglect” is the answer: take less of an interest, not more. Š ow much of life is down to free will and how much is really determined? This question has vexed philosophers for centuries, and it occurred to me recently when I read a feature about the actor Jonah Hill.

Hill, who starred in Moneyball and The Wolf of Wall Street, is an actor whose roly-poly physique is part of his comic persona. In 2011 he lost three stone on a diet of Japanese food, but since then he has put all the weight back on. He looks like a Weeble, I’m afraid.

It must be tempting for those who have crossed over to the realm of the very fat to assume that there is no going back: that this is your shape and there’s nothing you can do about it. Which is a kind of determinism.

At this point the fat person’s bravado kicks in. An example was the Canadian actor John Candy. In an interview a couple of years before his sudden death (of a heart attack while filming Wagons East in Durango), Candy boasted of how he worked out in the gym and the doctor at his last physical had slapped him on the back and reassured him that he was as strong as an ox. He weighed more than 21 stone.

Or Chris Christie, the governor of New Jersey, who in 2013 insisted: “I’m basically the healthiest fat guy you’ve seen.”

This defiance is understandable but self-deceiving, and it is risky to give in to it. I find that during the cold, dark months of winter the temptations of comfort food mean that by the time spring arrives clothes feel tight and shirt collars can’t be buttoned.

So corrective action is needed. Out go potatoes and sugar – because otherwise things will spiral out of control, and that prospect alarms me. The streets and shopping malls of Britain’s towns are stuffed with waddling giants whose weight has exploded to the extent that they must feel they are at the point of no return. That is a wretched place to be. ŠWhat’s to be done about the tyranny of the autocorrect function on smartphones? I sent the word “Great” to a friend, to confirm a meeting. It came out wrongly not once but three times: first as “Greer”, then “Crear” and finally, “Frenar!”

Why was my text translated into Spanish, you may wonder? Because I’d stupidly downloaded both French and Espanol facilities for sending perfectly accented text messages. Do I have French or Spanish friends whom I need to contact in their languages? No, actually. Why did I download the extra features? As with so many digital apps – because I could.