For all this yummy mummy knows, the only therapy sessions I’ve seen have been on The Sopranos

But I’ve had more therapy than most people have had hot dinners. What did I learn? That I am OK – warts and all, reveals Charlotte Cripps

‘Why... do I look like I need it?’, I thought to myself, feeling a twinge of paranoia as I sipped my cappuccino (Amara May)

I was having coffee with a friend outside at my local cafe when she told me she’s got a therapist on tap for her teenage daughter. It was all rather alarming; they had just received a bill and it’s £100 a phone session. The daughter was averaging two or three times a week during the stricter lockdown. My yummy mummy friend asked her: “Are you in crisis?” And she said: “No, I’m just bored.”

The daughter also racked up bills for a sports masseuse at school, and when the mum pointed out that she didn’t do any exercise her daughter said: “Whatever.”

Apparently she’s hacked their Uber, Amazon and Deliveroo accounts: the mum’s phone keeps going “ping, ping” to show the rider is on the way – but to her daughter’s exclusive co-ed private school. “Yes she wanders around the golf course smoking cigarettes with her friends,” the mum told me. She’s just bought her son’s uniform for Eton – it was £2,000.