Sarcasm for me is not so much a hobby, it’s more a way of life. It’s my raisin d’etre. My USP. On those cold dark winter mornings, when the duvet is so inviting and it’s difficult to motivate myself to surface, it’s the thought of missing an opportunity to be sarcastic that finally helps me make that last leap onto the carpet.

Once, as a leaving gift, my relieved work colleagues clubbed together to buy me a framed picture to celebrate my much-heralded departure. It was an EH Shepard drawing from the original Winnie the Pooh books, of Rabbit and Piglet. In it, Piglet was shown saying to Rabbit, ‘Is that you, Rabbit?’ And Rabbit replies, ‘Let’s pretend it isn’t, and see what happens.’ The strapline read ‘Sarcasm isn’t friendly.’

Now, whilst I understand the sentiment behind this gift (more or less, ‘Thank God you’re off, Number6, so you can go and be sarcastic to some other people for a change and leave us in peace’), I would nevertheless like to take this opportunity to mount a robust defence of sarcasm – not only is it extremely friendly, it is also definitely not the lowest form of wit.

Let me tell you why sarcasm can be very friendly. Firstly, it takes a lot of effort, which it isn’t really worth expending for people you don’t really care for. For example, let me tell you about my friend; let’s call her the WillowySoprano.

Now the WillowySoprano, I often think, has been deliberately put in my path by God (or whoever is orchestrating this lengthy and ludicrous game called life) to make me look a bit rubbish, or possibly to make her look even better. She is like me in many ways, but just, you know, a bit BETTER all round. She’s a bit taller, ten years younger, quite a bit prettier, and has a much better figure. She is also a much better singer; as we stand next to each other when we sing, this throws my ropy warbling into very sharp relief. (On the upside, though, I don’t actually have to look at the music but rather I just sing whatever she’s singing, and glare at her accusingly when she gets it wrong.)

She is also, it turns out, a slightly better parent than I am. (Luckily she has cleverly produced two boys, so I’m going to marry my daughters to them with the hope of upgrading their gene pool).*

So, why do I hang about with this woman, forming a foil to her heroine, a scrubby weed to her English rose, Third witch to her Dido? Well, I am happy to be her sidekick because the Willowysoprano is marvellously, brilliantly sarcastic. Often to the point where I have to kick her on the shins. But only in a loving way. And I always stop when she starts to bleed.

This morning, as I left for holiday, she sent me a text to say, ‘Would you like me to come and water your garden while you’re away? Oh no hold on, it’s already dead.’ Now THAT’S friendly sarcasm. She didn’t waste a caustic remark when she was actually in the crinkly brown desert that is my ‘garden’ a couple of days ago; no, she saves the cutting remark for the right moment, for maximum impact.** Now that’s what I call a friend.

Which leads me onto the second defence of sarcasm – it definitely isn’t the lowest form of wit. (The lowest form of wit, for the record, is the PUN. Or, as one of my pupils once described them, those jokes that dads make that aren’t funny.) Sarcasm actually involves a great deal of commitment. It involves paying attention to the other person’s touchy subjects, carefully noting their faults and then finding a way to allude to them just at the right moment. But it’s also about knowing the limits of ‘wit’ – after all, a sarcastic remark should never make the other person cry. Well not in front of you anyway. They might have a little cry later, on their own, but only because they know you care so much. If you make the other person break down in tears immediately then that’s not sarcasm, it’s harassment. Or so that nice policeman told me that one time.

So, there you go. If I am polite to you, it’s because I am not really that bothered. I just can’t be arsed to be sarcastic. Sarcasm, it’s a sign of affection, maybe even love.

Yeah, right.

*But, ha, can she produce 800 mildly amusing words a day about the important topics of the day e.g. cake? Hmm, let’s sincerely hope she never tries.

**Her garden is, of course, like the Garden of bloody Eden. The cow.