IT’S a warm evening and I’m sitting with a girlfriend in a pub garden.

We’ve been doing this on and off for nearly 20 years – first with pushchairs, then with fearless toddlers, later with scowling spotty teenagers, then just on our own, and lately occasionally with some charming, beautiful, graceful young people who appear to share some genes with us.

Tonight, though, we’re on our own again.

A young mother on the table next to us is rocking a baby in child-seat with one hand, and with the other she is guiding a four-year-old’s fingers along a piece of paper, trailing a crayon stain in its wake.

“Look at this,” she says to the boy’s father, who is staring out into the distance and looking wistful, as if he’s missing an important football game, or a life, or something.

“Look,” she urges. “He’s written his name. TOM. T-O-M. Look. I told you he’s very advanced for his age.”

The father looks even further into the distance, as if he may have spotted a new moon circling Jupiter.

My friend and I look at each other. It’s like falling through a time and finding we’re in 1992 all over again. When our kids were that age, they were very advanced for their ages, too. As was every single child we ever came across. I never once heard any contemporary mum saying “Blimey, my Craig’s a bit thick. Slow, like his dad.” Or “D’you know, Jack’s turning out to be pretty well average at everything. As yet, we haven’t spotted a single trait that would separate him from the vast mundane swathe of humanity on this planet.”

No, indeed. At toddler group, we were surrounded by child prodigies. Budding geniuses. And as far as we were concerned, our own kids had just as much potential to be world leaders or to rival Shakespeare or Beethoven as any of them.

As long as we turned every spare waking moment into a mini-masterclass on spelling or times tables or a brief history of the rise and fall of dinosaurs, we were propelling our offspring into a future full of achievement and success. Of course, it must have been exhausting. And our kids and husbands probably found it pretty tiring too.

“If you could go back 20 years and give yourself some tips, what would they be?” asks my friend. I take a sip of wine.

“Always put mascara on before the health visitor is due to visit. That way, she’ll think you’re coping and leave you alone,” I say.

My friend adds her bit.

“Don’t bother forcing your kids to learn the piano or chess or times tables. In fact, forbid it. If they’re precocious, or naughty, they’ll do it anyway. And if they’re not, you’re wasting valuable daytime TV time.”

I think for a moment.

“If they want to play on the computer for two or three hours every night, encourage them to try for six or seven. That way they can go into merchant banking or design online games and earn a load of money, and you won’t have to worry about helping them climb onto the housing ladder before they’re 40.”

She nods. “And don’t be afraid of wearing a miniskirt or low-cut blouse, just because you’re touching 35 and think you spotted a hint of cellulite in the bath last night.”

Yes, that’s true. We look across at the couple. The child is crayonning the table. The baby is sniffling quietly. The mother is beaming at them both.

The father seems to have located the outer reaches of the universe.

“And don’t take your Colin Firth-lookalike husband out and completely ignore him,” we say, but silently to each other, as only women of a certain age can.