Romilly is snoring quietly on the couch behind me, having fallen asleep towards the end of The Iron Giant. It’s not that she wasn’t enjoying the movie, it’s just that the last few days have been pretty tiring: birthdays, the Royal Show, Hampton the Hamster (please do not make me do that again), and oh-so-many new toys that just demand to be played with every second of the day.

I have decided that a loud, musical toy with potential for cacophonous creativity was perhaps not the best idea for a present for my own daughter. Someone else’s daughter, perhaps. In someone else’s house. Far, far away.

At least the batteries will eventually wear out, unlike those of a certain giant robot.

It’s funny, but The Iron Giant always makes me cry. It’s just one of those movies. There’s something touching about a giant robot that better understands and applies the concepts of humanity than we poor humans. Children and giant metal-eating robots from space: the future of the civilised world.

Oh, and beatnik artists that own scrap yards. We can’t forget them, I guess.