Have you seen those old cartoons, the Warner Brothers’ gems or something similar? Whenever Bugs, Elmer & Co or Pikachu (fairly certain he’s one of theirs), were struggling with some sort of moral dilemma, a tiny angel and a demon would appear on either shoulder to offer guidance.

I think this was to symbolise the conflicting good/bad or dark/light forces at play in their respective personalities. Usually Bugs was deciding whether to become a tea-leaf in the hope of securing carrots. Elmer would in turn question whether rabbitcide was the answer. Pikachu? Well, let’s just say he got himself in some 18-rated, late night scenarios that they had to air on ‘The Wire’ because the producer’s didn’t want to scar all those kids for life.

I never consult my ‘good’ angel and ‘naughty’ demon when I’m battling internally. Well, I never seem to consult my angel as I don’t think I even have one. It’s almost like I have two bad guys. Whereas most folk have Mother Teresa and Jeffrey Archer sitting on their shoulders, I have Jeffrey and Annie Wilkes from Misery.

“You know that most people question whether their actions are socially acceptable,” my mate said one day as we were listening to Queen.

“Socially?” I quizzed. “Like when you post on Facebook and folk ‘like’ it?”

“Not social media, she continued. “Socially – whether society… let me put it in Shelley speak – if other folk would look and say that’s not on or that’s class, ey.”

“Got it.”

“Do you? Because I think you’re a sociopath.”

“No, I’m not. I’ve never posted anything like that on Facebook.”

That weird little conversation got me thinking: do I have a conscience? Do I know right from wrong? Am I inherently ‘naughty’?

I was musing over everything my mate had said to me as I perched on my deckchair in the front yard, ready to chase away kids on bikes should they come within 300 yards of the driveway (school holidays are a nightmare for this kind of thing), when a young looking lad appeared with a football.

“Hiya! How you doing?” he chirped as he walked past me. Honestly, kids have no manners nowadays.

He started performing keepy-uppies on the other side of the road. Not long after he lost his footing and the ball rolled over, straight into my sunflowers.

I let out a high-pitched wail and grabbed the ball. Lacking the upper body strength I wasn’t able to burst it with hands that look like they’re composed of fatty burgers and chipolatas, so I furiously waved it in the air.

“Sorry!” he shouted as he jogged over. “I’m so sorry, I’ll fix them.”

I grunted and after continuing to apologise profusely he asked for his ball back. “Keep the ball then lie in a court of law about it,” my spirit Jeffrey told me as he appeared on my shoulder. “Lock it in a room and make it replay the 1990 final till it wins!” screamed Annie.

I was tempted to flee whilst crying out the old ‘mwahahaha!’ in the style of an old, cinematic villain. Suddenly, I heard what sounded like Freddie Mercury: “I’m your goodness, Shell. Be a gem and give that little kid his ball back, it was an accident.”

“I do have some good in me! I’m querying whether I should nick the kid’s ball!” I spoke, seemingly to myself and the kid looked genuinely scared. “Freddie, loved that base in ‘Another One Bites the Dust.”I watched the kid look around (probably for help) and, feeling a pang in my chest that I’d never felt before I handed the ball back.

“Thanks, Mam.” He gently took it. Maybe I’m not so bad after all? I think sometimes all it takes is a little bit of self-reflection to get to the right conclusion. As well as a little bit of Queen.