Over the Bank Holiday weekend, the BBC rolled out old faithful Mary Poppins, a Disney film I was obsessed with in my youth; that, The Aristocats and, uh, The Great Escape were all that would keep me quiet when I was a tot. My mother finally couldn’t take any more renditions of Let’s Go Fly a Kite and refused to have the video on for quite some time.

So duly I sit down with my cuppa and biccies to listen to one of the worst Cock-er-nee accents ever committed to film, but before we even get to the jolly holiday scene, Mr. G. glances at the Spoonful of Sugar scene and comments:

“Those are American robins, you know.”

They’re also mechanical, I point out. Big, creaky, 1960s mechanical birds.

“But I can prove it! They’re American robins!”

I gently point out I’m not really bothered. [Read: I kicked my legs up and down on the sofa squealing “I don’t care! I don’t care!”]

He waves the laptop at me triumphantly, displaying a picture of American robins which are, indeed, rather sizeable compared to their teeny British cousins.

Then he goes a stage further:

“Look! All these film error sites point it out as well!”

I quietly point out that he has thus far been able to accept a woman sailing up the bannisters, pulling ridiculously large objects out of a carpet bag and cleaning up a nursery just by clicking her fingers, and yet a pair of non-British robins that are CLEARLY MECHANICAL bothers him.

“True.”

The room briefly falls quiet.

Then he pipes up just one last time.

“Also, they’re both male.”

He doesn’t just talk about mice, ears, the Luftwaffe and cheese, you know.