Secretly, I was a little jealous that our boy wasn’t the centre of attention, but he’s making up for that now. He’s punching the underside of my chin with surprising force and I’m trying my best to look blasé. If he knocks me out, that’s his problem. I would prefer oblivion to this itchy hyper-consciousness. 

Wild hair? Ah, you must be looking for the Super Pooper range. Still bald at 18 months? Let me just check the stockroom. Three eyes? Erm, have you tried this website? 

Just the other day I was out hunting in Glasgow and returned home defeated and empty-handed. It’s funny the way people look at you when you’re hiding behind the bins with a spear and face paint, trying to do your bit for the family. 

I click on various tracks in the iTunes library to test my theory. When I play some second-rate Ibiza chillout track, he looks out at the clouds. For Radiohead, his expression is like that of many Radiohead fans at the group’s concerts: he looks at his belly button, then glumly into the middle distance. 

The Surrealists, in the 1930s, had a novel approach to sleeping. It involved replacing the standard eight-hour block with 15-minute snoozes throughout the day and night. Picasso apparently swore by it. Salvador Dali, another great proponent of the scheme, suggested settling on an uncomfortable chair, a big key in one hand, a heavy book in the other. 

His first meaningful action involves peeing deftly into his own face and mine, and only narrowly missing that of Jaffar the cat, who miaows and dives under the bed. 

The only time waiting is spun as a good thing is in hardware stores, where signs promise to cut keys “while you wait”. What an odd concept. Isn’t everything done while you wait? Houses are built while you wait. Queues gradually get shorter while you wait. Life circles round the plug-hole and disappears down the drainpipe while you wait.