It was the night before my birthday, the stage was set, and I lay awake mulling over the recent news that a boy’s family was invoiced for his non-attendance of a children’s party. Having failed to take him to the celebration, deciding on a family visit on the day instead, the parents were alarmed to find a bill for £15.95 (Dh88.22) in the five-year-old’s school bag, the cost of the activity the host family had planned. There was outrage from the boy’s family. There was talk of the small claims court from the other side. A photograph of the boy looking slightly glum on his father’s knee, the invoice held aloft, appeared in the world’s media. It is an odd thing to be famous for: preferring a visit to your grandparents to a spree.

Sending a bill for a no-show is not a good look. Bringing practices that belong to business into private life is almost never right. Yet I am grateful to this story for it proves something I have always hoped: that I am not the only person in the world who has fantasised about doing this.

It is interesting that the host family waited a while before sending the bill, perhaps in the hope of an apology or a conciliatory late birthday card or present or explanation that never came. It might have made all the difference. It would have done with me.

What are you meant to do when people behave in a high-handed or careless manner? Rising above stuff all the time is exhausting. No one wants to spend half of life feeling like a panettone factory. Not that I would even for a second dream, of course, in real life of ever actually...

Yet wouldn’t it be straightforward if all social life infractions activated on-the-spot fines? A modest cash fine is preferable to seething resentment, it seems to me. I would greatly prefer to be docked £15 and no more said, than to be given an old-fashioned ticking-off. I’d pay double that sum to avoid a cloud of silence or, God forbid, an angry exchange or full-scale fallout. I would prefer to make a sizeable donation to a charity of your choice than to leave someone thinking I was unkind or disloyal. (Disloyal? Me? When the teacher at school complained that my daughter was too chatty, I shrugged and said, “She gets that from her mother, I’m afraid.”)

What would life be like if, when an eight-year-old says: “No offence but I hate your shoes,” we could say, “Ah, but that is an offence. Half Saturday’s pocket money please.”

What would life be like if, instead of waking at dawn on a Sunday to a small wave of remorse, there were a few modest invoices in your inbox? What if, instead of a vicious circle of “Was I slightly tactless with C? Did I inquire in the right tone about W’s illness?”, you could make a quick transfer and go back to sleep.

Perhaps we could pre-pay on a Friday in advance of any possible weekend lapses. Think of Maria in The Sound of Music: “You know how Sister Berthe always makes me kiss the floor after we’ve had a disagreement? Well, lately, I’ve taken to kissing the floor whenever I see her coming — just to save time.”

Going out is going to get awfully expensive...

As I aimed for sleep, which resisted my clutches mercilessly, I tried to compose a tariff of party infringement charges, a table of discontents, if you will:

  • Someone eagerly asking your partner, within your hearing, about their past loves: £4.50
  • People at your party referring to parties they have been to recently or are planning that don’t include you: £5.99
  • People meeting new friends at your party and inviting them to a subsequent party to which they don’t invite you: £7
  • Leaving the party early with the four nicest people: £10
  • Starting a vivid argument about east-west relations: £10
  • People being critical, within your hearing, of your food: £19.99
  • Making the hostess cry with a sharp remark out of the blue: £25
  • Failure to give a compliment to anyone obviously wearing a new dress: £1 per person

The flip side of the on-the-spot fine system is a rewards scheme. Much more jolly!

  • To people who valiantly state they will try “to drink away their headache”: a box of chocolates
  • To people who have new and very good jokes: two boxes.
  • To people who help with food preparation: a box of white narcissi.

My pet hate is those breezy haikus that arrive at five minutes to the appointed hour, “Bit tired. Got to be sensible tonight. Enjoy!” But what if you instantly responded with “I am asking all on-the-day cancellers to make a £15 donation to Kids Company. Then none of us will feel bad! Just saying.”?

— Financial Times