The father stirs as he is roughly shaken in the bed. A moment of panic before he sees the boy there.
‘Uh? Are you alright son? Jesus, what time is it?’
‘I’m thirsty daddy.’
‘What? Oh right. There’s a cup at the side of your bed.’
‘It’s all done. I’m thirsty daddy.’
‘Right hang on.’
He hauls himself upright away from the warmth, his eyes still more closed than open. As he trudges down the stairs in the dark he clatters his big toe on the corner of the bannister.
‘Jesus wept!’
He limps into the kitchen, finds the closest vessel and turns on the tap. He turns it too far and the water comes out in an angry rush and splashes his hand. He doesn’t even bother to dry himself before he climbs the stairs again. The boy is standing in the dark, small, alone and miserable. The father ruffles his son’s hair.
‘Here you are son.’
‘I don’t want water daddy, I want juice.’
‘Can you not just take water this time?’
The boy’s lower lip starts to tremble. His dad softens.
‘Hang on son, just a second.’
He descends the stairs a second time. He finds a bottle of cordial and adds a dash to the cup, the thicker purple liquid invading the water like an oil spill in the ocean. He retraces his steps. The boy is weeping silently in the dark.
‘Here you are son. Some juice.’
‘I don’t like blackcurrant juice daddy, I want orange.’
‘What? You love blackcurrant? You said it was your favourite yesterday.’
The boy’s sobs deepen.
‘I’m thirsty daddy.’
The father looks around, as if seeking intervention.
‘Right hang on son, I’ll get it for you.’
He descends the stairs a third time. This time he has to turn the lights on in the kitchen as he hurls the blackcurrant juice down the sink and searches in a low cupboard for the orange. A bottle of sauce falls onto the floor, spilling its contents. He roughly wipes it up with some kitchen roll, muttering under his breath.
As he climbs the stairs he knows from experience he won’t be able to sleep again tonight. He enters the bedroom with the orange juice. For a moment he can’t see his son. Then he does.
The boy is asleep in his father’s spot in the bed, nestled into the warmth of mummy’s back. The boy has a contented smile on his face.

For Bernadette it was the one day of the year in which she could really let her hair down.

She led a simple life. No socialising and she hardly ever touched alcohol.

The life suited her although there was always that nagging voice in the back of her head, asking what might have been.

Perhaps this was why she was looking forward so much to her birthday this year.

She knew what she wanted. A smartphone. All her friends had them.

Texting , social media, video calls, all the exotic possibilities made her blush slightly.

She had been dropping heavy hints for months now about wanting a phone.

Finally the day arrived. The present was the right shape and size.

She could barely control her shaking hands and thought her heart may burst out of her chest.

She ripped frantically at the wrapping paper, pulling it off in strips until…..

….’Aw no, not another fecking cross!’

Mabel and Hamish had heard all the stories.

Everybody in the village knew the stories.

They were something children whispered in playgrounds or parents told the young at night to stop them being naughty.

They had both suffered sleepless nights as kids over the supposed fate of those who had ignored the warnings.

Some said the bold were turned to stone on the spot. Others that they became part of the forest and were never seen again.

But they were just children’s stories, myths and legends, old wives’ tale. Superstitious nonsense, Hamish had said. Something you told tourists to try and get their money.

Some of the men in the tavern still repeated the warnings, nursing their glasses of whiskey tenderly, like a young mother holding her first born.

There was one man with a white beard, the oldest in the village, who seldom spoke. Some days he might have too much to drink and whispered a story of his youth, about a friend who had disappeared.

But the younger men who stood on the corners laughed at him and threw stones. It was a harder world now.

Mabel and Hamish were part of the new world. Young and in love. They seemed to have everything in common.

It started as a dare. Some friends suggested it one night after a few too many drinks. Nobody had tried it in years.

Hamish was interested. He saw it as a way to prove himself. He was tired of people laughing at his unusual hat.

Mabel wasn’t so sure, the childhood stories were still locked somewhere in her mind.

But he was always able to talk her round. God, she would have followed him anywhere. She loved that hat.

On the night the dare was to be carried out their friends had tried to talk them out of it. Nobody would think any less of them if they backed out now.

But Hamish was determined. He pulled Mabel close and kissed her.

‘After tonight my love we’ll be legends. Nobody will ever laugh at my hat again.’

Not far away drinkers were huddled round a fire in the tavern, telling old stories.

In the corner sipping on whiskey with his head down was an old man with a white beard.

Suddenly a shiver ran through his thin body, like an unwelcome old memory coming back to the surface. For a moment he seemed in pain.

He pulled his coat tighter around his neck and seemed to shrink back into his own body.

He started to mumble. Barely audible at first, then slightly louder.

His body rocked back and forward as he repeated the words again and again.

Soon some of the other drinkers noticed his discomfort.

‘Hey, the old man’s talking’, one said.

‘Ignore him, he’s drunk,’ another replied.

But some in the tavern saw the chance for sport.

‘Come on old man,’ another called out. ‘Speak up.’

The old man looked up for the first time. There was nothing in his eyes, as if they had died years ago. His body continued to rock.

‘I tried to tell them,’ he began. ‘I tried to tell them. Never touch the wheelbarrows at Hillsborough Orange Hall.’

Hey folks, just wanted to say hello and give a wee update on things.

At some point mid-afternoon today the number of people who have read The Morning Run passed 1,000.

Either that or there is just one person out there who likes it so much to have read it 1,000 times.

The fact that 1,000 people have taken the time to read something so very personal to me is hugely humbling and frankly, a bit difficult to believe.

What started as a traumatic and distressing experience for me has morphed into something undeniably powerful and positive.

Since we launched What’s A Daddy For 10 days ago more than 2,500 people have read my blogs more than 6,500 times.

But these are just numbers. What’s much more important is the people behind those statistics.

What I had never expected when we began this journey was how many beautiful people would reach out to me.

I have been deluged with people contacting me to offer their support, empathy and similar experiences.

Many more have told me how some of my funny stories have put a smile on their face or helped them get through a tough day.

I have tried to respond individually to every single person who has messaged me. If there are any who I have overlooked then I’m truly sorry.

I’m not great in social situations and find it difficult to build relations with new people so to have connected with so many of you has been inspiring.

Yes it’s nice to see the statistics but the stories of the people behind the statistics is the reason I do this now.

We all have stories to tell and writing is the most powerful medium for reaching into the soul of someone you didn’t know existed until that moment.

I’m taking a little break for a day or two from blogging. Frankly I’m worn out after 55 blogs in just over a week. That’s a lot of sharing.

More importantly it’s my wonderful wife’s birthday weekend and she’s been more than patient as I’ve tried to build this blog up. She deserves my full attention now. Love you Debs ❤️

I’ll be back in a couple of days. As always there’ll be lots of laughs and maybe a tear or two along the way.

Keep sending me your messages and  stories and I’ll keep churning out the tales.

As Bryan Adams put it ‘Can’t stop this thing we started!’

It must be a quiet news day.

I’m sitting in the reception of BBC Broadcasting House in Belfast waiting to go on the radio to talk about the challenges of being a daddy.

The last time I was in this building was about a decade ago when I went live on BBC News 24 to discuss whether the UVF murder of a man in Belfast was a breach of ceasefire (I guessed yes). Life has a strange habit of flowing in directions that you neither planned or directed.

The security guard appears unimpressed when I tell him that I’m here to do Good Morning Ulster, giving me a look which seems to say ‘There used to be a time when that meant something’, although I may be reading too much into it. He gives me a pass.

When the producer phoned me the night before I was told Karen Patterson and Joel Taggart are presenting and one of them would interview me. It’s Noel Thompson’s day off and I’m a little relieved that I won’t have to endure one of his political style grillings.

My mind wanders to an alternate universe.

‘And we’re joined in the studio by Jonny McCambridge. Mr McCambridge you’re not very good as a father are you?’

‘Eh? Excuse me Mr Thompson but…’

‘What I mean by that is that you’ve clearly done a u-turn on the vows you took when you got married, isn’t that right?’

‘Well the reality of the situation is…’

‘It’s all on the public record. What do you have to say for yourself?’

‘Uh, uh….’

‘Well let’s try this instead. You say you broke down in tears. Isn’t there a danger you’re just making yourself out to be a great big sissy Mr McCambridge?’

‘Well, just hang on a….’

‘It’s a straight yes or no answer Mr McCambridge?’

‘But you’re not letting me…’

‘And I’m afraid time has beaten us. Jonny McCambridge, thank you very much.’

My mind returns to focus. I’m led to a room where the walls are beige and the seats are the colour of red wine. This is The Green Room.

If I’d known I was coming here I’d have put in some demands for refreshment, some outrageous riders. I think I would have asked for raspberry jelly and marzipan shaped to look like creepy, scary fingers. Next time.

I’ve dealt with both Karen and Joel before although I don’t expect either to remember me.

Karen came to a newspaper office where I was working about 20 years ago to do a radio interview with a former colleague of mine. Her sheer loveliness reduced him to a blubbering, incoherent wreck.

At the time she recorded me typing randomly on my computer so the piece would have an authentic newspaper office style noise. I hits the keys with élan and abandon, determined to impress her. It remains some of my best work although scandalously overlooked during awards season.

Joel has interviewed me much more recently for The Nolan Show. I know with him if the interview runs into trouble we can always talk about the pros and cons of having beans in a fry or the comparable merits of a Caramac against a Curly-Wurly.

It’s early in the morning so there are just a few journalists about in the newsroom. I recognise the urgent, haunted look in their eyes from my previous life. Business Editor John Campbell walks quickly past me, scowling like a little boy who has been told he can’t wear his Spider-Man wellies to school.

The radio is playing in the room, an interview is being carried out about bonfires, or, as the contributor insists on calling them, ‘bonefires’. This makes me think about how the bones are the only part of the human body which will not burn in a normal fire. I wonder if I should mention this on air but decide against it.

Soon I’m brought into the studio and sat in front of a large microphone. Karen and Joel are barely able to acknowledge me as they work through the news agenda. Hey I didn’t expect rose petals to be laid out in front of my feet as I walked in, I’m a realist.

Joel is chatting to former boxer Dave ‘Boy’ McAuley about the big Carl Frampton fight. Dave is one of the few people in Northern Ireland who has a bigger culchie accent than me and I’m assuming they have him on so I’ll sound a bit more cosmopolitan next up. I’m touched by the generosity of the gesture.

I’m tempted to interrupt the interview to ask Dave whether he ever fancied changing his nickname from Boy to something more threatening like Bonecrusher or The Human Mincer but I’m picking up that the etiquette is that I stay quiet.

But the more I think about staying quiet the more I’m tempted to burst into song right in the middle of Traffic and Travel.

Bizarrely the song The Way We Were pops into my head and I’m hit by a burning urge to grab the mic, jump on the table and let it all out, ‘Memories….of the way we used to be!’

I had a similar situation once years ago when working as a journalist covering a royal visit. The Queen walked within three feet of me and I couldn’t make the voice in my head stop saying ‘Kick her in the arse…..kick her in the arse…..kick her in the arse.’ I didn’t.

The interview begins. Karen introduces me and on the phone they have a child psychologist called Emma Kenny. I curse inwardly. When the producer called last night I thought he’d said Enda Kenny so the three hours I spent swotting up about the economy in the Republic is wasted.

The presenter asks me about the emotional challenge in dropping a child off at crèche. I’ve got a gag prepared and ready to go about this.

‘Well Karen there are plenty of tears and tantrums,’ I begin confidently.

‘And that’s just you!’ she jumps in, stealing my only joke.

‘Uh,’ I say.

I refuse to allow my stride to be broken.

‘Well, as I wrote about this week in my blog….’

My blog. What’s it called? The blog which I have spent every moment of the last week in nurturing, cultivating and caring for. The very reason I’m doing this interview. The blog I want to plug on the radio. The name of it has gone from my head just at the very first moment when it might actually be useful to know it.

I say something. I’m not sure what. It all seems to pass in a blur after this, as if I’ve left my own body and floated away while the husk of me is left talking to the nation. I have a notion that at some point I was going on about Andy Murray and Wimbledon, but I may have dreamt that.

When Emma the psychologist talks her voice is like melted chocolate. Mine sounds like a stick of rock being smashed with a mallet.

Karen asks me another question, but it sounds like some scientific puzzle she’s asking me to solve. The first thing which pops into my head is the burning bones but it doesn’t seem like the moment.

I decide to give exactly the same answer as I did to the previous question. And the one before that. Heck, just repeating the same few words over and over hasn’t held Theresa May back.

And with that the interview is over. Both Karen and Joel have a momentary break while the news is read, we briefly chat and they wish me well.

I notice there is a piece of paper stuck to the wall. It warns people not to leave mugs in the studio. Menacingly it is signed by ‘The GMU team’. Don’t mess with the GMU team.

Moments later I emerge blinking like a mole into the morning sunlight. My phone is already flashing with messages of congratulations and friends telling me they heard it.

People are usually always nice to me on social media, as if they instinctively know that nastiness and negativity will crush my spirit like a Rice Krispie caught under the heel of your shoe.

I only launched the blog a week ago and already I’m being asked on to do radio. I start my car. I love broadcast and can’t wait to do it again.

I went to a shop today.

I do this sometimes when I get day release.

Little did I realise how empty my life has been up to now as I gazed upon the multitude of useful products and gadgets which I had previously not realised I needed.

I’m now at peace.

Previously I’ve used a fork. It makes me feel foolish even admitting that.

Little coloured bugs to aid wine glass identification for when you throw that short-term memory loss themed dinner party.It’s a tray with a lid. Trays are renowned for their intellect. Socrates was a tray.Formerly known as bagsNever again would the fat roam the estates at night, terrifying children and women.Silas wept salt tears. Finally someone was listening. For years he had led a solitary life, spurned and despised because of his abnormally large hands.

For the modern parent who simply can’t wait until the iron cools down to clean it.For years it had been this way. Wurzel ironed the shirt, he looked around, there was simply nothing else to do. He threw the shirt on the ground. As he picked it off the floor to iron it again he thought ‘Science has allowed us to put a man on the moon….the beginning of an idea formed in his mind….’It was the moment every moth was prepared for since birth. Yes he was willing to die in the cause of a fresh lemony scent.That’s just three random words put together on the side of a packet!Everthing changed for the pegs once they formed their own union. No longer would they be satisfied just to hang up clothes. At first they whispered it, then it grew into a rallying call, ‘Some day a peg would be cutlery!’For the domesticated giant.Colin had looked for days fruitlessly. Then, just as he was about to give up hope, a breakthrough. But once more his hopes were cruelly dashed. It was the Large Droplet Moisture Magnet he needed.This one is actually beyond my satire. It stands proud as it is.Actually, I could use one of those.Once he had been worshipped as a God and inspired great works of art. Where had it all gone wrong?The tide of the war changed when the Allies invented the cauliflower prep tool. Almost overnight the cauliflower became useless as a weapon.