DAY 17 – ENGLAND FOOTBALL... or GYMBOREE!

2pm, June 16. England versus Wales in the Euros; a rare meeting of two rival countries with valuable points and the giant matter of pride at stake.

Or… Gymboree – discovering music, beat and rhythm for six-16-month-olds.

Option two please!

Rather than turn myself into half-man-half-sofa and settle in for all the pre-match build up, the match itself and then the post-match post mortem, with delicious food and drink ready to consume at all times, I opted to attend a class that was akin to being in a stage musical in real life.

Instead of hearing Gooooaaaaaal when Jamie Vardy equalised on 56 minutes I was on a soft mat hearing a teacher’s dulcet tones warbling “I’M GETTING A BALL, A BALL, A BAAAAALL”; “SAY HE-LL-OOO TO JIIIIIIM, SAY HELLO TO JIM”.

Jim was the class clown. Literally. A clown doll, called Jim. The babies absolutely loved Jim, but to be honest he/it sent a shiver down my spine. I did not trust Jim, or what the painted smile freak stood for.

Ninety per cent of all words uttered by the Gymboree teacher were sung to/at us, which in itself made me laugh because that is not a normal way to carry on. But what really kept the childish smirk on my face was the fact that the songstress had a great voice, she wasn’t one of those tries-hard-but-is-garbage singers. However I did get the impression that our leader lives her life believing that one day a parent will be a record producer and will offer to “take her to the top, kiddo”. I suppose it’s always good to believe, even if it’s a bit niche.

The unavoidable truth was that although she was kitted out in a fetching England vest, the A-bomb was not interested in a football match on television, whereas she loved hearing jingle bells, playing with beach balls and crawling (nearly crawling) up wooden planks. And that’s how decisions are made.

We didn’t watch ANY of the football but we had a great time.

The rest of the day was spent feeding tuna, natural yoghurt and avocado to M’lady, and walking home while attempting to finalise the admin of a Stag-do that I have organised for this weekend.

On that note, from Friday-Sunday I will be at a yet-to-be-publicly-revealed location for a Stag. I aim to update with further news of my daughter but it would be wrong of me to promise anything.

DAY 13 - SING WHEN YOU'RE WINNING...

WITH football's European Championships having just kicked off I thought it would be an apt moment to discuss the importance of songs and chants in the lives of parents and babies. It may be just me, but I think many parents are in the same boat in that EVERYTHING you say eventually becomes a song. No baby book tells you to bring a tune to your words, but that's what happens. Your kitchen floor suddenly becomes the boards of Broadway as you warble about making breakfast.

Much like the football stadiums and streets in France, my house is very much a song-centric zone. I hasten to add that similarities between football fans and anything else that happens Chez A-Bomb end with songs/chants. The Fans aren't really setting a great example to anyone are they? Well done mate, you've spent 20 years growing your belly, you've taken your shirt off and you're hurling racial abuse at a people you've never met... all in the name of 'the beautiful game'. Congratulations on representing your country abroad. Anyway that's the end of that tangent. Back to songs.

Conversations with, and statements to the baby end up in some form of song, either a freshly penned tune or a re-hash of old work. From simply singing (to the tune of Oh My Darling Clementine) "Oh ma goodness oh ma goodness, she's a lovely little poo, doing plopsies on the mopsie, oh ma darlin' little girl" when she's woken up with a filled nappy to "One WEE! She's only done one wee / she's only done one wee" in they style of football's "one nil/ we beat the scum one nil".

Given that everything ends up in tuneful verse I find lyrics from yesteryear popping up at the forefront of my mind and getting an airing in the shape of baby songs. Not that they make sense or resemble anywhere near a good tune, but they're there.

One of the recent favourites, when needing a muslin cloth is "Mus-lin Mus-lin Mus-lin, we're Mus-lin like that... " to the tune of DJ Pied Piper and The Masters Of Ceremonies' "We're lovin' it like that".

Others in the repertoire are, following a bath and a need to rid The Lady of excess bubbles, "Shake, Shake, Shake, shake that booty"(courtesy of KC and the Sunshine Band; "Hey Dir-ty, buddy you've done a plopsie in your nappy, I said hey" (with thanks to Ol' Dirty Bastard); and, if we're practising sitting up without slumping forward like a drunk, I'll sing "Oh sit down, oh sit down, sit down next to me...". Hours of fun.

The fact is the munchbunch (plonker, you're just a munchbunch plonker) really responds to some animated singing, especially if I throw in a little jig for good measure. These little ditties are often the difference between a smiling lady and a whingy one.

If she starts to whine, with a faux cry, I'll belt out "Hey, what's that sound?, everybody look, what's going down" (courtesy of Stephen Stills/Buffalo Springfield). That usually puts an end to the whinge.

Then there are the songs that keep their words but have their style mixed up a bit.

For the all important sleep-inducing sessions singing plays a huge part in the proceedings. As you no doubt know, Twinkle Twinkle is the bedrock of my successful sleeping system, however I do tinker with the style... because I can.

This week I've been busting out Jazz Style.. Twi-nkle Twi-nkle littlestar... howa/ wonda... whachoo are/ Zibbidee pap pap zibbidee staaar. There is also the Ba Ba Black sheep rap and Amazing Grace sung in the style of Elvis, of which A-bomb is a big fan.

The crux of my point is that since having a baby my life has become a genuine musical and with the Euros on everywhere in the background, the football chants will permeate my song choices.

I'll steer clear of a few muggy terrace favourites but all others are in the mix. No talk of managers being paedos or sha*!in' wives with carvin' knives here, thanks. Nice lads, the football people.

In other news, today I turned out for the famous nomadic Squirrels Cricket Club (@SquirrelsCC),  very much a beloved part of my extended family. The A-bomb didn't make the trip due to the forecast of wet weather and likelihood of a cancellation. Needless to say the weatherman was 100 per cent wrong and the sun shone down gloriously on our damp squib of a draw.

M'Lady was asleep when I returned home but I whispered "you could wait for a lifetime, to spend some time in the sun-sheeeeine" through the bars of her cot. Next time she will attend the Squirrels match, rain or shine.