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I am writing this blog one-handed. To be honest that’s how I’ve done all the blogs before (I find documenting my own life very arousing), but this time I have no need to feel shame. And without the shame it’s impossible to get things going anyway.
I am writing this with my daughter on my lap. She’s squirming and squeaking and occasionally crying and I sometimes have to stop off to change her nappy. 28 years old, she is. The biggest question I have to answer is “is that a fart or a poo?” And sometimes Phoebe lets one rip as well! That’s right, it was me doing the farts or poos all along. You weren’t expecting that. That’s two top gags to start my new show “Who’s the Daddy?” with. This stuff writes itself. Arena tours beckon. Got to get some of my investment in this tiny idiot back.
Everyone’s telling me I should be tired, but I had my best night’s sleep for ages last night, even though I was taking responsibility for the baby whilst my wife rested downstairs. So far this is like a holiday. We didn’t get up until 10.30am. I am not even shirking. I’ve done all the nappies and made all the meals and tried to make up for the fact that I can’t breast-feed by giving Catie as many breaks as possible. I played with Phoebe on the bed in the early hours of this morning and we fell asleep side by side. I know there’s a minor risk in that, but it was still lovely.
We took Phoebe out for her first walk and a late lunch at a nearby cafe. I had to really force the cappuccino and toasted sandwich down her and she didn’t even offer to split the bill. It would have been a nice gesture if she’d paid for the whole thing after all we’ve done for her. On the other hand, it only cost £11 and later today she would wee on me, which isn’t bad for a first date. Oh hold on, all the arena crowd have just left in disgust at my inappropriate third joke. They want their money back. Being mainstream is not as easy as it looks.
I managed to drink my coffee and eat my sandwich and balance the baby on my other arm. Who says men can’t multi-task? All those years of one-handed typing have come in useful. Ironic really, given how many potential babies perished during that training period.
I am enjoying the madness so far. Phoebe was much more grizzly at the end of the day and chose to complain and cry her way through my two hour shift, as her mum caught up on more sleep, but she’s got me hooked in. I don’t care about any of that stuff. I am both desperate to see how she changes as she grows: what she’ll look like and what her interests will be, and keen for her to stay like this forever because she’s stupidly funny and cute. It’s lucky I like her, because the way she behaves would be entirely unacceptable if it was any of my other friends, but she gets away with it. She will get away with it for a long time I feel. And I don’t think she’ll be paying for any lunches any time soon.
Late in the day the news came through that Ian Ferrero who invented Ferrero Rochers (or Ian’s Rochers as he called them) had sadly died. It seemed grimly ironic that he should go on Valentine’s Day and I hope it wasn’t the strain of making those extra 128 Rochers from this year, or the worry of how he was going to find the hazelnuts to make the thousands of Rochers that are to come, that did him in. If there is one man in the modern world who deserves to be buried in a pyramid then it must be Ian Rocher. At least the money from my late purchase should help pay for his funeral. He will be remembered as the man who with his invention of Nutella and Rochers causes the extinction of the hazelnut. And I can’t think of a better epitaph or a more honourable life. I hope I can destroy a nut before I go.
