Astonishingly, earlier this month, the Independent Schools Council had to advise its members – the likes of Eton, St Paul’s and Thomas’s, attended by the small Cambridges – not to take cash from sanctioned individuals. Schools responded by saying they didn’t want to turf blameless children out. Or lose the fees, I suspect.

According to the ISC’s 2021 census, there are about 2,300 Russian pupils at British private schools, and there’s obviously a danger, or many dangers, in assuming they’re all the sons and daughters of Putin’s pals. A good number may simply be the children of wealthy Russians who work here, and while you may be suspicious of the accent and blacked-out Bentley, having either of those things is not a crime.

But schools can’t come over all “Not us, guv’nor” and claim absolute innocence when some of them have been accepting dubious money from some parents for a while. At my stepbrother’s school, at the start of every term, one Russian boy arrived and immediately made for the bursar’s office with a case full of dosh. He was a large lad, but this was more than he needed for his tuck-shop tab. Where did they think that money came from?

A friend who runs a consultancy business advising people on the best schools for their children tells me that dubious requests have shot up in recent years. One mother asked which all-boys’ school would be able to provide accommodation for her son’s security detail. A couple of his clients have put their children into boarding schools with fake names, for protection. The schools allow it, he says, if it’s for the security of the child.

Again, this isn’t illegal. But doesn’t it seem rum behaviour for establishments so keen to prove that they’re churning out thoroughly upstanding pupils?

Especially if so many of those pupils are going to end up as prime minister.

Mum is most definitely not the word for my mother, thank you

I’ve mentioned previously that, as a child, I was told off if I ever dared utter the words “Happy Mother’s Day”. In the Money-Coutts household, it was “Happy Mothering Sunday” or you got a clipped ear for your trouble. Not quite a workhouse, but jolly close.

Every year, I spend an increasing amount of time trying to find a card that says just that. Imagine my horror, therefore, when last week I strolled past a high-street shop with a sticker in the window bleating “Happy Mum’s Day”. I’m nervous about even putting this in print, since it may well give my mother chest pains, but even I think this is the thin end of the wedge.

Happy Mothering Sunday, if this applies to you, and can the fightback against “Mum’s Day” please start here?

Pondering the fruity secrets of the Princess Royal’s handbag

I keep a packet of Rennie discreetly tucked into the side pocket of my handbag for those times when I’ve eaten lunch too quickly (almost every day), along with hundreds of old receipts, loose pieces of gum, umpteen hair ties – although I can never find one when I need it – and the odd plastic spoon from Pret. For Princess Anne, it’s a kiwi. Not a New Zealander. They wouldn’t fit in there. No, a kiwi fruit.