Day One - A Vom, a Blowout and the wrong time

GIVEN that Alexa – that's M'lady's name – is a pretty good sleeper one can only assume that she knew what was about to go down; a transition from delicious bespoke milk sucked from a comfortable private tap to generic powder stuff delivered by a bottle. Rather than crack on with her usual 1900 to 0700 sleep, with perhaps a quick 0500 feed, the little stinker decided to sound the alarm at hourly intervals throughout the night. Full pitch wailing like never before. The girl is not a crier, so I can only surmise that this was some sort of noisy protest against the change of carer. That, or she had a cold and was very uncomfortable when laid flat. Totally fine when held upright, but unhappy flat. In the grand scheme of things it wasn't a big deal but this wasn't the plan. She was supposed to smile all the way through to the send-off of Mummy, with me painted as the hero. Instead, everyone was tired and a bit miserable. Actually, that's not true... the nincompoop baby slept in until 0730 to catch up on some shut-eye, delaying her Mum's breastfeed and thus departure for work, while I was just plain awake.

Thanks to the splendid efforts of the Milk Lady the A-bomb was exclusively breast-fed until about a week ago, when we tested out formula as well as starting the weaning-onto-food process. The plan from now is to give her the gold-standard milk from Mumma in the morning and evening, while I provide bottled formula and solids during the day.  This is very much an ideal and if it doesn't work out due to breast milk supply drying up or timings not working out, then so be it. As an aside, before I am lynched by the Milk Mob or labelled as a white-shirted activist for the The Breastapo, I hasten to add that I fully appreciate that breastfeeding is very tough and absolutely not for everyone – we have been very lucky that the latch was established early doors and things have gone well. When I say "we", I mean we are pleased for our daughter, not "we" have been breastfeeding. At this stage I have neither imbibed nor supplied breast milk. Glad that's clear. Phew. 

Post-feed it was nearly time to send off the adult of the house to earn a crust. I had a motivational goodbye speech ready. But first: 

"Where's my work pass? Is it in your car? Did you bring my jacket in? I bet it's in there. Can you check?!". Things were delayed. 

Not a problem. While my darling wife continued her own search by kicking the walls I put our little one (LO in forum speak – yeh i'm down with the Mumsnet lingo) down on her play mat and dashed out into the rain to hunt for the ID card. No luck, but I was sure I'd be crowned a champion for even attempting to brave the elements in my flip-flops. 

"Did you leave her on her front?" asked the female who knows how to speak. 

"Yes – tummy time..." was my response. 

"I wouldn't do that straight after a feed," added Wifey while pointing to the result of a projectile vomit onto her lovely red work dress. 

"Ah, good point. Soz."

Despite the setback of the worker having to change into a new dress, spirits remained high. My Churchillian speech was seemingly not needed as Lauren skipped off to the office to crunch some numbers and crush some skulls (no idea what she had lined up to be honest).

So, 0830 came round and it was time for round one of Daddy-led-baby-led-weaning with porridge fingers followed by banana on the menu (see bottom for recipes). As always we ate together but I'm not a neanderthal so I went for the more upmarket chopped bananas on a bed of porridge oats, heated in milk. As is the norm the fat-legged monster girl forced the good stuff into her mouth, swallowed the small bits she liked and gobbed the rest back out, before picking it up again, wiping it on her face and smearing it on her plastic eating outfit. I am genuinely looking into manufacturing adult versions of these eating coveralls, not X-rated versions for food perverts (although probably a decent market), but outfits to wear when eating the likes of ribs, soup and general slop. No doubt these already exist in America but I digress. The girl didn't choke. She was a star. 

0900- nap time. Always the same. Nope, not today. Today 0900 was Turd O'Clock. Not an issue... A couple of wet wipes and a rolled up nappy later and we were back in action. Vest on, Summer sleeping bag zipped up, three rounds of Twinkle Twinkle, a few sssshhhhs and she was out. Lovely stuff. 

She woke up giggling at 10am, fully refreshed. I dressed the lovely girl in a cute vest with "tuesday" on the front, an ironic T-shirt eblazoned with "Troublemaker" and some fetching stripy trousers. Then she played on the mat with her current favourite light-flashing gizmo. For now the "soft and fluffy cow" that repeatedly exclaims "THE BABY LIKES MILK... TIME TO COUNT... DO YOU KNOW YOUR ABCs?!" is on the back-burner. Real shame. Hope the high-pitched freak-show remerges soon, I really do. 

1100- Inhaled a full bottle of formula milk. Easy this baby business. Too easy. I'll probably crack on with some DIY, cut the grass and do dinner before lunchtime, I thought. 

1115 - BOOM. Not so much a strained face, more a raised eyebrow and knowing smirk preceded the megaturd. A toe-to-neck job. A complete blow-out. Farewell pretty outfit. You're wearing a bin liner from now on my lovely. 

It was time to take stock. The delicious little ball of podge was mugging me off and I needed to strike back with force. 

That bit wasn't true. This isn't a dire Mockney Gangster flick. She's a six-month-old baby – they do giant, yellow poos. If you're lucky they'll be seeds in it. If you strike the jackpot you'll get chunks of sweet potato. 

1230- walk in pram (more to follow in a later post on our choice of wheels). M'lady LOVES a sleep on the move so she was out for the count for a good 2 hours here. Spot on. 

1400 - my first foray into the NCT group's off-the-cuff play-date/coffee meet-ups. Yes, I've been drafted into an elite Whatsapp group of Mums (now plus me) who keep each other sane. It's been a brain-saver for the girls, so I've fully signed up to whatever they get up to. Obviously there is already a strict schedule in place, but the group will be great for the 20 minutes spare time i've got in the week around Baby Swimming, Baby Sensory, Baby Massage, Baby Yoga, Baby Mensa, Baby Powerlifting and Baby Bricklaying*.  

*some of those were not real things.

Anyway that was pretty much it. More milk was drunk at 1500 and a later than planned solid meal of sweet potaoe, baby corn and asparagus was taken at 1630. Mummy was home for bathtime at 1815. The baby girl was asleep at 1900. 

Now, I must confess that at one point during the day I looked at my phone's clock and it said "1651" and I thought "wow this day is going quickly and I am nailing it" and I fully accepted that it was the real time. An hour later I realised that for some reason my phone was showing the time for Jiangxi, China, which is SEVEN hours ahead of London. Clearly my mind has already turned to garbage.

Anyway, Day One was done, the baby is still laughing and I have survived, albeit with a few bits of slurry in my fingernails. 

Recipes for today: 

- Porridge fingers: 3 Tbsps real oats, 3 Tbsps whole milk, mush up in a cup. Microwave for 2 mins, cut into fingers 

- cut up banana into 4 chunks

- Oven cooked sweet potato cut into thick chunks 

-Griddle fried baby corn 

-Griddle fried asparagus 

DAY FOUR – TWO DADS, Yoga and the Knowing Nod

*Since the time of writing, my main inspiration in life, Muhammad Ali, has died. His legend will live on and many of his lessons will be passed on to my little girl, mainly to be confident, be yourself and never let someone write you off.*

TODAY was a big day for the A-Bomb because she found out that she actually has TWO Dads. I was in the living room with her, just doing a bouncy bouncy fun fun fun fun kind of jig (like Pooh's mate Tigger), with The Lady over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes, when it dawned on her that she has not one but two Dads. They don't often appear together but when they do, they are in very close proximity and they always wear the same clothes. Both are legendary creatures. Yes, the lovely lady lost her mind with excitement when she looked in the mirror and saw me. She could see the funny bloke who now looks after her not only from one direction in front of her face but also from her other side. This was a good half hour's fun and something I will probably go back to everyday until she works the magic out.

It was also a significant day for me because I was accepted into two more groups, one conventional and one that has no sign-up form and no formal acceptance procedure. There's not even a weird tickly handshake like that adopted by some secret societies.

In order to stick with the routine of the 0900 nap time I headed out to our Baby Yoga class in Tooting with plenty (too much) time to get there. Due to my hugely early arrival and with the baby in a deep sleep, complete with old-man snoring, I decided to go for a coffee in Nero. As I went to spin my three-wheeled vehicle round to take it in backwards a man sprinted towards the door to grab it and provide easy passage for me. I looked up, rather surprised at the kind gesture, to see the gent was with a 2-ish-old daughter. I said "thanks very much" and he looked at me intensely and replied "No, it's ok" and nodded knowingly. It was a very brief encounter but the loving pain etched in nice chap's weary skin told the whole story: "You are one of us now it growled wisely: it is a universal struggle to smash through doorways that are too narrow; keep a child asleep as a rude ambulance blares past unannounced; to know exactly why your child has gone from the happiest to the saddest person on the planet in a nanosecond; and to remember to ALWAYS wipe from front to back when, as a male you've never heard of that rule before". Lots of information in one smiley frown. I was in the society of Dads now and I was pleased.

We got to Baby Yoga (run by Northcote Baby) in good time and was able to chill out with the heffalump for a while. She didn't fancy any pre-exercise food and was content to rest up in her armchair, like a trucker on a tea break.

Rocking the Bonds Australia Wondersuit

Of all the classes The Milk Lady has signed us up for this one is the most focused on the parent, while completely incorporating the baby, which is brilliant. You basically do a decent yoga class while carrying or at least keeping eye contact with your little one. The instructor Siobhan Power, owner of Calmer Kids Yoga, certainly knows her stuff and while keeping things very relaxed, pushes participants to achieve difficult poses. I did have to mention at one point that she was demonstrating with a 10g dolly, while I was being asked to hold a 10-ish-Kg dead weight above my head in the "warrior" pose. I've had a word with my lumpy daughter and she'll be going on a strict slimming diet from tomorrow* so as not to make me look weak.  The babies all loved it too and they showed their gratitude in their own special ways... by stamping heels aggressively into the floor, falling asleep and chucking up over the mats. Alexa's sign of approval was a new move that I'm calling the SNURPART, which took place during the post yoga feed and involved her sneezing at the exact moment she was burping while simultaneously doing a fart, which on later inspection was confirmed as a shart. I was pleased she liked the class and ecstatic to be showered in sneeze-milk. Another class done and another group that had accepted me for what I am, a human parent. 

*that was a joke – I'm feeding this one up to have the tastiest thighs ever known. Any suggestion that babies should lose weight she be met with spoonful of shut the hell up.

Any uncertainty we might have had regarding the amount of food that she is actually taking down has been blown away by the evidence of this morning's nappy. That 0850 pre-nap nappy change was quite the spectacle. She blasted out her waste with such force that it shot up the back of the nappy and lodge on her white vest – it was a fully formed piece of baby corn. I have a picture but I thought that might be a but much for this medium.

On the food front today we had: 
Breakfast – one-egg omelette, which went down very well.
Dinner – Sweet potato chunks and baby corn – looking forward to seeing that in its next life.
All in all another marvellous, poo and pride-filled day.

DAY SEVEN - A GIRAFFE, A DOCTOR AND SHOWING OFF

Sophie – the favourite

DUE to the highly sensitive nature of the situation there was one detail that I hadn't mentioned in my previous notes. For reasons of my own safety, fear of political and socioeconomic fallout, and a simple hope that everything would be okay "if I gave it one more day" I was harbouring a terrible secret... I did not know where Sophie the Giraffe was.

For the uninitiated Sophie is a toy that every child in the land is programmed to be obsessed with and has the ability to calm any human beast under the age of one, even when they are in the throes of a cataclysmic meltdown. Those who are aware of the simple French creation, that has remained unchanged for 55 years, will testify that I'm not exaggerating – the smug-faced rubbery play-thing is, whether you like it or not, an essential item. Milk, wet wipes, nappies, Sophie – she is on the top list.

Since Thursday afternoon (I believe) M'lady had been giving me quizzical looks while being loaded in to the buggy. "Excuse me sir, but you don't seem to have handed me my best friend, the giraffe", said the face.

"You know the drill sunshine, when I'm on awake-time walks I get strapped in then you hand me Sophie and we all have a pleasant day". Oh goodness I was going to be in serious trouble.

I'd set a deadline of Monday lunchtime to find her (her! she's basically got a seat at the table), after which I would have to confess that I'd failed in my duties and also shell out (£12.95, at least) for a new one. Now, I do not believe in any higher being, black magic or outside forces – I'm evidence-led – but praise be to whoever or whatever guided me to the Special One (the giraffe, not Jose Mourinho – we don't need him). The time was 0830 and Saviour Sophie was staring up at me from underneath the City Mini Baby Jogger GT (buggy). I had looked there 100 times but I would not be questioning it.  I would live to fight another day.

Following a bout of unprecedented coughing at odd intervals throughout the night I decided to take A-bomb to the doctor. She's not usually a cougher and these back-of-the-throat sounds suggested she'd done 40 years in a coal mine on a diet of 40 roll-ups a day. A quick check-up revealed that she was totally fine, might have a cold and was indeed a healthy (fat) baby in possession of sizeable thighs. Happy days. The munchbunch was a good lady, lazily sitting there, sighing with exasperation while the professional poked and prodded away.

Next up we took a car journey to Teddington to meet our recently married friends Pedalo/Pete and Lizard – not their christened names. I can assure you that Lizard is simply an hilarious adaptation of Liz. I do not make friends with reptiles and I certainly don't hang around with men that marry them. I digress. A lovely time was had in the sunshine at The Anglers pub overlooking the Thames – decent food and a friendly vibe. The little punk even donned her sunglasses and had some suncream put on before demanding her food just as mine was served. What a precocious urchin (it was exactly her feeding time).

Today was yet another example of how quickly these young humans develop. It was only a few days ago that I mentioned that A-bomb hadn't really rolled over. With a lot of concentration and effort she could move from her front to back, in kind of slow motion. But since that time she is now flipping from front to back with ease and has added moving back to front to her repertoire (#proud). That was an ironic hashtag. What next? Break-dancing?

Back at PedaLizard Towers the suck-up crowd-pleaser was rolling both ways for fun and had also gobbled up all of her Cheese, onion and spinach muffins. She was showing off. "Ooo look at me, I can roll on demand. Please love me!". Pathetic. It was actually an excellent display and she was rewarded with numerous genuine cuddles and three kisses.

Back at the ranch The Lady was stripped of clothes and treated to some "no-nappy time". Turns out they love that. Gets some air into the nether regions and gives them a sense of freedom you don't get in conventional clothing. The Milk Lady arrived moments later and the LO thought that was the best thing that had ever happened. To demonstrate her gratitude for Mummy being home she laid a giant onion-infused brown log on the dry-night mat she was parading on.

A relaxing couple of minutes in the bubbles followed. A-bomb just leaned back while we polished and buffed away. Then came a new move, which I hope doesn't catch on. While reclining like a Brit abroad on a sun-lounger she casually looked to her left and burped out a bit of sick, with cabbage in it. She then assumed her original position. There wasn't much of the vom' and no bits made it into the water because she'd cleverly aimed it on the space reserved for Steve The Sponge. Still, a bit disgusting.

So, a lovely day rounded off with a turd and sick. University students pay a lot of money for that.

DAY 51-59 – TIME ESCAPED US BUT WE'RE STILL HERE

WELL that was quite the extended break from tapping away on the old keyboard wasn’t it?! Hopefully readers won’t hold it against me and the A-Bomb but we have been super busy, what with mastering commando crawls, falling off park benches, eating leaves… And launching a new business venture based on parents getting fit outdoors while their babies play in front of them.

On the crawl front M’lady has effectively shunned the standard technique, labelling it as inefficient and much too ladylike and similar to equestrian dressage. She has decided to perfect swift manoeuvres on her belt buckle in the face of any adversity or obstacle. A development from the chest-down shoulder-slither has been seen, where she pushes herself up to have straight arms while raising onto the tips of her toes to form a kind of “downward dog” yoga move. I am yet to see a full push-up or a spring into a standing position, which is somewhat disappointing.

Sticking with the subject of push-up… I have just launched a Spartans With Sprogs class under the Spartan Fitness London banner (www.spartanfitnesslondon.co.uk), which is an outdoor high-intensity fitness class that parents can bring their babies along to. The babies (all rolling or crawling but none toddling) play with toys on a large mat while their mums (so far we haven't had any dads) train hard with bodyweight exercise, weights and kettle bells. So far it has been excellent, with mums getting a real fat-blasting muscle-toning workout while the so-called “Sprogs” do their own thing in front of the adults. In fact, it appears that watching mummy/daddy run on the spot or hit boxing pads is rather hypnotising and leaves their youngster transfixed on the action. Of course now that I have tested the idea on a small group and witnessed babies on the best behaviour imaginable and on that basis decided to roll it out to a wider audience, the bigger sessions will now see crying meltdowns, turd explosions and crises that I can't even jokingly predict right now. Watch this space.
 

After the first Friday morning Sprogs session I received all sorts of messages from participants, firstly saying how much they had enjoyed it and secondly commenting on their inability to walk because their bodies hadn't been used to exercise. All good news! The aim of the game for Spartan Fitness London is to have people training hard while smiling, so the mission was accomplished for this first session.

A few days later the A-bomb and I went on a drive out to Runnymede to meet my friend Cara and her little girl, Chloe, plus Cara’s mum. During the drive I gave my passenger an in-depth lecture on how, while crawling and sitting in the upcoming field, she should be aware that we were to visit the place where the Magna Carta, one of the world’s most famous constitutional documents, was signed. She nodded and coughed to mark her appreciation for the information.

We plonked ourselves on a picnic bench near the lovely Magna Carta Tea Rooms https://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/runnymede/features/magna-carta-tea-room-runnymede and chatted about all the things that now occupy our lives: nappies, wet wipes, children eating soil, the work-childcare balance etc. M’Lady enjoyed her al-fresco snack with me acting as the human high-chair while Chloe ran around in the grass. All the while we were sitting on a perfectly safe picnic bench. Mid-way through our conversation Cara took stood up from her seat next to me to grab an opportunistic video of her daughter in action. Good idea. Moments later, like a see-saw, the wooden seat I was on plummeted to the ground sending me flying backwards to fall on the floor, all while holding the Lumpy Baby. If anything had been on the other end of the bench it would have been launched into the next field. So, there I was, unharmed but very much on my backside, holding M’Lady with straight arms above my head. The other two adults had moved on from the initial shrieks of “Oh my God!” and concern for our (mainly A-bomb’s) safety, to full-blown laughter, while the toddler in our congregation was genuinely upset by the whole episode. A-bomb remained poker-faced throughout but her eyes said: “Seriously Dad, will there be at least one day when you don’t make a scene, this behaviour is rather tiresome”. On dusting myself down and checking the bench for faults – the seat wasn’t screwed in – I was a bit disappointed that a team of judges didn’t emerge from the bushes holding scorecards aloft with me being declared champion of the world. Never mind. Then we got a coffee and drove home.

The next day we, along with the NCT crew, took on a mammoth route around Richmond Park. The sun was out, the deer were running wild and ice creams were in-hand, all making a recipe for a glorious day. I must hold my hand up to confess that as the tour guide, who is a regular at this particular park, I failed to factor in the different speeds of a runner versus a buggy-walker (I usually attend as a runner). Soooo, when our 1-2 hour walk became a whole-day trek, with a few restless babies wanting to be carried rather than pushed and mum's arm's nearly falling off due to the carrying, the blame lied with me. I hasten to add that nobody complained and everyone was pleased with the exercise, but I was quite aware that I had dragged some weary-legged mums unwittingly on a sweaty yomp through the London countryside.

A couple of other updates just to round of this catch-up post…
1) A-bomb has been working on a new drinking technique, when supping from both the Milk Lady and the bottle: three seconds of slurps before swivelling her head round at rapid speed to check she’s not missing out on things, realising all is well and then returning to the drink. It slows things down somewhat. This is a sign that she has inherited the incurable FOMO disease from her parents. Fear Of Missing Out is something that does not leave you, so whether it’s good or bad luck, the Lady will always want to be part of all things at all times and as a result will always be tired.

2) I have realised that female clothing often has buttons or poppers down the back of garments. Hitherto my poor child has been parading an open back in such items #wardrobemalfunction

3) M’Lady now likes to eat anything that lives outdoors – she has really been taken in by Tomee Tippee’s “closer to nature" branding. An example: My good friend Morrey visited for a coffee after I had been at a Spartans With Sprogs session and remarked that it looked like A-Bomb had something green in her mouth.

“No no, she hasn’t had anything to eat yet,” I replied, with a look of "leave the parenting to me, mate"

“Cool, fair enough,” added Morrey, doing his best not to sound like he was telling me what to do.

“Oooh there it is again… there is definitely something on her tongue.”

“Really?! Oh, she must’ve grabbed one of the green vegetables the other babies were eating on the mat,” I ventured.

I squeezed M’lady’s cheeks to check exactly what might be on her tongue.

“Ah. Yes, you are right, she does have something green in her mouth,” I conceded.

“Not a vegetable though… a leaf. Yeh, that’s totally fine. Totally fine.”

It wasn't even a lovely fresh that could double as a salad, it was more of a horrible dirty leaf. Top parenting points for me.

4) According to the Milk Lady, baby bottle cleaners (the rubbery things with soft rubber bristles) are AMAZING for washing champagne flutes.

That'll do for now... more of a catch-up in the next post!

Day 49-51 - Sunshine, Lollipops and Dropping Food

NEARLY back on track!

FIRSTLY, no complaints with the hot, sunny weather. It's a very British thing to moan everyday about the rain, or the darkness, or the cold, or how it's not like Spain, America, or anywhere else, but then within half an hour of any heat above 25 degrees Celsius and the same people are complaining about a lack of air conditioning, requesting a national sunshine holiday and calling in sick with heat exhaustion.

As a "stay-at-home" parent I'm not sure who I am supposed to call to request a day off because I'm too hot. Possibly the government. Yes, it's their fault that the sun's out. I'll get one of their people to look after M'lady while I cool down.

Of course, sane people realise that we get approximately 12 hours of summer so just crack on with it, feeling hot but accepting it for what it is; not rain. With regards to A-bomb I followed the rule that if I want to wear fewer items of clothing, she probably does too. Unluckily for me, I could not get away with wearing just a nappy or a walk to the shops whereas babies dodge judgement on that. Out of order really... just because they are small, fat and require being wheeled from A to B that exempts them from clothing too. What a life they have. More on that later.

So, reduced clothing. That put a smile on the face of the munchbunch plonker. Also, when it came to sleep/nap times in her cot, with the Egg Thermometer about to explode (it turns bright red when very hot) at temperatures of 26-28 degrees C I needed to take serious steps to cool the zone down. All windows in the house were opened in an attempt to get a draft going (it resembled more of a pathetic lisp effect), I cranked up the electric fan that was strategically placed in front of A-bomb's rouged face, and I took the unprecedented step of opening her window and thus allowing light in from behind the holy black-out blinds. All of this reduced the temperature by about 0.1 degree.

An excellent tip that was then put to use was placing freezer blocks in front of the fan so that rather than recycling hot air, the cool(er) air from the blocks was blown around the room. I also placed numerous ice packs in tubs by the cot, which did assist with cooling the place down. The main bit of luck was that M'Lady cleverly positioned herself directly in front of the fan so that she was effectively in a wind tunnel. She had quite the Elvis quiff after a few hours. These procedures combined with A-bomb being on good behaviour meant there were no real problems with day or night sleeps... The Milk Lady is like a heated up furnace at the best of times, with volcanic lava running through her veins rather than blood, so required "more space" to cool down. Therefore, my own sweaty sleeping scenario was like a nightly audition for Cliffhanger, clinging onto the side of the bed with beads of perspiration falling from my nose and the elusive Zs escaping my weak grasp. As long as the ladies of the house were okay, that was my only concern (sure, we'll see what karma has to say about that).

Although the glorious sunshine and the blistering heat was the main thing going on, other things did happen in the three days under scrutiny here...

Monday: I noticed that M'Lady has developed a very useful new skill. She can eat her own feet. I am working out the best way to monetise this but as yet I haven't secured a financial backer or any sponsorship deals. She showed off the impressive capability while I was changing her nappy – as I whipped the fresh one under her sizeable backside she just grabbed her right foot and put it in her mouth. Obviously I then attempted to copy her and failed. I fear this may become a running theme.

For the Lady's evening meal we chose to dine al fresco with the highchair in the garden. Courgettes were on the menu and life was good. Then the little turd repaid my efforts by chomping of a decent lump of the soft vegetable, spitting it on to her chin, scooping it up with her fingers and flinging onto my arm. It had all of the characteristics of phlegm, which wasn't ideal, but to be fair it was a great shot.

Tuesday: This was a very exciting day because A-bomb and I hosted the main man Harry, one of M'Lady's good friends from the NCT gang. His mum, Janna, had an appointment in town and we were happy to welcome him for a few hours. A-Bizzle gave H a lovely welcome by putting a mammoth sleeping shift in, so for a while it was just the lads. Actually, two other mums came round with their girls to join the fun in the garden so we had a little tea party, complete with ice lollies for adults and water and carrots or the babies. The little guy was as good as gold, happy to sit up with his perfectly straight legs while the girls fussed around their business (toys). I had been well briefed but still the logistics of a nappy change for a boy took a moment to get used to... I was ready for the out-of-control hose, but there were no issues. Eventually A-Bomb arose from her slumber and all in all it was a lovely day with the gang; Harry just chillin' with his ladies. A very cool customer.

Wednesday: By the powers of social media (Facebook) it had come to my attention that my old boss, from the glory days of landscape gardening during holidays, was on a job nearby so we packed ourselves up and went on a mission to find the old team. After a short walk and a couple of stops on the Northern Line we were at the work house (not in the Victorian sense, that would be brutal and illegal... I mean the house where the guys were working). We were armed with ice-creams and cold bottles of Coke, which A-bomb took great pleasure in holding to keep herself chilled. It was great to see the grafters from Bracknell in town (Clapham South) toiling away in the heat! After a quick interview process M'Lady now has a couple of shifts on the wheelbarrow for Fordy in the coming weeks. She could certainly move some weight job with those arms.

While purchasing the cold treats I had splashed out on a delicious looking lemon chicken salad sandwich, from the special range. You know"deluxe" NOT standard. I was ever so pleased then when, on our return journey, that due to the packed nature of the City Mini Jogger GT's undercarriage the sandwich popped out, landed in front of the buggy and before I'd noticed I ran over it. Obviously the expensive item still got eaten but I feel that the experience would have been better without the tyre tracks.

As it turned out this was not my day for handling food. Much later in the evening, when M'Lady was long asleep and the Milk Lady had taken herself to commandeer her sleeping area, I had prepared my meal... a splendid looking arrangement of last night's chicken with some bread and cheese accompanied by a pint of milk. On my way into the living room I stopped to collect the baby monitor. I rested my plate of food on the high-chair tray. SMASH! Yep, the high-chair tray does not take the weight of adult portions. All of my food was on the floor, along with a pool of milk, which had poured out of my glass as I bent down to see what I could salvage. It was now trickly through the floorboards. The tragic part of this tale is that I already I knew the rule about the high-chair because I did exactly the same thing last week with a lovely chilli. Anyway, I swept up the mess and ate it. I was hungry.