I am fond of animals, though I wouldn't like to be one. Most religions offer varieties of punishment to sinners.

If you poke your neighbour in the eye, you will burn in the fiery pits of hell, and so forth. But those religions that threaten reincarnation are the ones that frighten me most.

You're at the pearly gates, or whatever it is these guys have — particularly colourful curtains perhaps — and the bloke with the clipboard is going down the list to check your status. You hear him mumbling: “Hmm. Everlasting bliss: nope. A period in purdah then everlasting bliss: nope. A bit of bliss with some household chores: nope: Burning in the fiery pits of hell: nope.” (Phew, they must have forgotten when I coveted my neighbour's Focus.) “Sorry, wrong religion there. Now where were we? Oh yes. Reincarnated once more as a human, though this time handsome and muscular: nope. Reincarnated as a woman: nope. Ha-ha: had you worried there. Reincarnated as a lion: nope. Reincarnated as one of those toads with the particularly bulbous heads: nope.

“Ah, here we are. Mr McNibble, isn't it? Neil? Oh, right. Neil McNibble.” He puts a tick on his clipboard. “Reincarnated as a cockroach. Cheeriebye! Have fun!”

He pulls a lever and your head swirls and you find yourself falling down a long, long spiralling tunnel and, the next thing you know, you’re scuttling across the tiles of a fireplace chased by an irate man with a rolled-up newspaper. All right, fair enough, there isn’t much work for cockroaches nowadays. Their’s is a declining industry. But coming back as any kind of insect would be a drag. Neither is there much appeal in being a bird or a fox or a pie-faced lemur. Let’s face it: apart from the uncomplicated sex, it would be rubbish. That’s why I try to be kind to animals (apart from the cat that keeps doofering in my garden: he‘s getting his ears tweaked when I catch him). It could be you behind that fuzzy face or, worse still, with the eight legs and the set of flippin’ antennae.

Not everyone shares this generous approach. Many people will crush an insect unthinkingly, out of fear or just sadistic power. Lest I paint a picture of myself as holier than thou, I should add that I put down powder to kill a battalion of ants this summer. The funny thing was, on that very same day, I was walking along a nearby street when I stepped out of the way to avoid standing on a couple of ants. It was a bit like bombing Dresden then offering the survivors careers advice.

I mention all this merely as preamble to the news that the government in Englandshire has decreed that its children should be taught not to hurt a fly.

New curriculum guidance for citizenship classes says nippers should consider the wellbeing of “mini-beasts” such as bees, ants and worms. Controversially, it advises children not to stamp on such creatures.

One top entomologist (and you don’t get many of these to the pound) complained bitterly of children: “They stamp on ants and torture spiders, but they wouldn’t kill a cat or dog.” This is a fair point, though one wondered if this fellow wouldn’t stamp on a child if no one was looking.

Still, this enlightened guidance offers us all hope. I’m not saying that, if you do find yourself reincarnated as an insect, you’ll be able to scuttle, flutter or have uncomplicated sex in perfect peace. But at least it’s a start.