3:19pm; on the set of the Shoot That Never Ends.

Our child actor has reached new heights of sulky uncooperativeness. No amount of abject begging and cajoling is coaxing a performance out of the little ratbag. We've bought him a remote-control Ferrari as a bribe but its motivational powers have already worn off.

At this point in time, such is our desperation that the little sh*t could have anything his heart desired if he would just stop throwing a strop and kicking his mother. Speaking of which, how his mother felt that her son was destined for cinematic greatness is something of a mystery. Surely your offspring would have manifested some exhibitionist traits, or at the very least the ability to smile on request before you hustled them into a casting agency's lineup.