Alfie Moore had a routine. To be honest, he had a lot of routines. He had a waking-up routine, a getting-dresses routine, a cleaning-his-teeth-in-the-morning routine, a breakfast routine, a clearing-up-after-breakfast routine, a getting-his-school bag-ready routine, a checking-he-had-everything-before-he-left-the-house routine, a walking-to-and-from-school routine, a having-tea routine, a clearing-up-after-tea routine, a homework routine, a limited-amount-of-tv routine, a bath routine, a cleaning-his-teeth-in-the-evening routine (which to be fair, was pretty similar to his cleaning-his-teeth-in-the-morning routine), a getting-undressed-and-putting-pyjamas-on routine and a going-to-bed routine. Alfie was eleven and the routines had all been worked out by his dad, Stephen. Each one was precisely written out, listening all the things he had to do, and the times he had do them by, on pieces of paper pi