A mother in Thailand has now dropped her legal action against her son – a son she’d accused under Thailand’s “Ungrateful Child Law” of 1908. Both sides have agreed to family counselling, so the venerable law will go untested.

What a shame. If only Australia had an “Ungrateful Child Law”, I could be first in the queue.

My two sons have now helped provide a squad of fine grandchildren, but their behaviour as children still rankles. I wouldn’t press for a prison sentence in either case – I’m not a monster! – but some sort of cash payment would help restore equanimity.

For a start, the court may like to consider the events of February 12, 1989, when the defendant – let’s call him Batboy – decided to “post” several pieces of toast into the slot of our video machine, requiring a visit to the video repair shop and a bill which left me broke for weeks. Sure, he was only 18 months old, but that doesn’t excuse such a brazen toast-based attack on our home entertainment system. Under the provisions of the Ungrateful Child Law, I would ask the court to also consider the waste of perfectly good Vegemite.

This son, now a chap in his late 30s, would not approve if his own child attempted such vandalism, so why shouldn’t he make amends for his own poor behaviour?

I also recall his younger brother – let’s call him the Space Cadet – convincing me to “go halves” on the purchase of a piece of musical equipment, an act of generosity which would, he said, “support my HSC music studies”. He proposed the purchase of an amplifier priced at $200 – “That’s OK,” I said, “I can go you halves” – at which point the price began to grow, day by day, via some mysterious mechanism to the final sum of $600, half of which – according to the Space Cadet’s meticulous calculations – came out at $400.

True, this financial injustice occurred 20 years ago, but surely the law should have the ability to offer redress?

“There is also the matter, your honour, of my client’s weight gain.” (The attentive reader will note that my highly paid barrister has taken over at this point, the Ungrateful Child Law having been passed by the Australian parliament.)

My two sons have now helped provide a squad of fine grandchildren, but their behaviour as children still rankles.

My barrister continues: “The plaintive, your honour, was a fit young man before he set off on the perilous journey of parenthood. Indeed, he was “painfully thin” according to photos of the time, which I present to the court in Documents 103-110.”

(My barrister, you’ll notice, is rather pretentious and ponderous, but that’s why he’s allowed to charge such staggering fees).

He straightens his tie, snaps his stripy braces and, using his spare hand, sends me a bill for $4000. Only then does my honourable barrister continue his thundering address.

“Yes, your honour, my client was far from the corpulent and defeated figure you see before you in the court today. You may ask what happened. The answer, your honour, is the arrival of the children. First, he decided he should ‘finish off the food on their plates’. My client thought he was ‘simply cleaning up after dinner’, but really he was ingesting calories. If those children had just eaten their dinner as requested, much of the resulting weight gain could have been avoided.

“Then” – this is still my barrister – “came the children’s enthusiasm for soccer, which involved my client being placed right next to a sausage sizzle, every Saturday morning, for much of the year! There was another one on training day! Your honour can imagine the torture involved. Who amongst us has not desired a hot sausage when a hot sausage was on offer? It’s particularly cruel that soccer training is held in winter, when the desire for a hot sausage is at its peak.

“My client is not a saint. He bears some responsibility for his actions. But should not these other two – Batboy and the Space Cadet (my barrister points to the two young men, standing nervously in the dock, probably with chains around their ankles) – share some blame for the misfortune which occurred to this poor, let’s face it, pathetic old man?”

Tears, I believe, would spring up in the court at this point. Mainly mine, as I contended with another bill from the barrister. He’s sending them from his mobile phone as he speaks!

All the same, the point would be made. There should be a reckoning.

There were other matters to be placed before the court, too.

I still have a painting, purchased by my father in the late 1960s, which has long been marred by a starfish stain, the result of a squishy toy thrown by the Space Cadet at age five. It’s still one of my favourite paintings, but I’d like it better without the starfish imprint.

The barrister might also like to mention the sleepless nights, or even the horror of those two sets of driving lessons.

On the other hand, there’s the joy.

I’ve decided not to tell my barrister about the joy. It might affect the final payout. And I’ll need a large one, just to pay his bill.