When R gets back from a hard day at the office, he walks in the door and says
"Hello, my babies!"
Sweet, eh? Only he is not addressing his wife, daughter and unborn. He is addressing his tomato plants.

"Emma, darling, not those," he says as the Elf stretches a pink fist in the direction of one of their green, spindly stalks. There is fear in his voice and infanticide in his eyes.

How was your day? I ask. "It's all about the compost, apparently" he replies. "R (his boss) told me."

I am calling Relate.