“NOooo!” a wifely finger wagged at me below a red man in the middle of Oswaldtwistle’s roaring metropolis.

Honestly, I’d only shifted my weight without a thought of crossing until the green man flashed permission.

“Yon grandma,” pointed out my safer half, converting her wag into a wave across a traffic-free road, “wouldn’t thank you for encouraging her little Jimmy to dash out under a juggernaut and ....”

“But my new hip just needed a break and er...” words dissolved into uselessness.

How do women do that with just a face?

Anyway, I got back to thinking about sex. They’re going to teach our five-year-olds about it in the hope that we’ll eventually stop winning the European Championship for Teen Mums.

Considering the subject for this column, I’d reckoned it was a fair idea, especially framing it within loving relationships.

It was certainly wise to start gently referring to nine months in mum’s tum before graduating to how the bun got there.

But something nagged; a missing element. What, I couldn’t quite fathom?

Suddenly, a red man flashed through the Alzheimer’s, and he was crying over a multi-lane motorway, a sort of M6 renamed Msex.

England’s adults were sashaying across it, picnicking on the hard shoulder, or topless on fast-lane lie-lows. Our children were aping them.

Europe’s autobahns meanwhile are far safer thanks to a highway code of life still largely influenced by religion and rights and wrongs.

Perhaps we Brits need God tips alongside sex lessons.