Torn paper, daffodil leaf, a throw - its name taken too literally - dragged off the armchair. Teenage boys hanging about, avoiding eye contact. It's an ugly scenario.
"Wasn't me!", says Scooter, although his credentials as confetti maker are well-established. "Ask him!"
"Not me", says Hamish, the picture of innocence. "Must be Millie."
But he can't maintain that look of injured honesty for long. Pounce!
So I sit and wait. It's a stake-out.
"Don't you go blaming me, ginger villain!" says Millie. "Take that!"