The boy's not even nine and he already is as exasperated by his old man as any teenager. This morning he was explaining how he'd go about restoring Wayne Manor when he's older and a superhero.
"Why would you call it Wayne Manor?" I said.
"I'll call it something else," he said. "And then I will get some furniture..."
"Why do you need furniture?" I said.
"Acha! Am I going to be standing and eating?"
"Sure," I said. "You are a superhero. You can eat and then flick the cutlery and crockery accurately into the dishwasher, which will then close automatically and clean them."
"I'll have a servant."
"A servant?" I said. "Why do you need a servant?"
"Acha! How can I be fighting crime if I have to cook and clean as well?"
"It's called time management," I said.
"But I'm going to be out and about, catching super villains," he said. "How else will I save the day?"
"You might be chasing criminals at night," I said. "How will you save the day then?"
He stomped his foot on the ground, did a complicated writhing dance, clutched at his head and breathed fire for a bit.
"Acha! It's impossible to have a conversation with you!"