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.

I’m not sure if there is a single catch-all term to describe a daddy blogger.

We all know that nature abhors a vacuum so I decided to try and invent one.

The photo above shows me thinking hard.

Not pretty I know but sometimes you have to make sacrifices for your art.

Some of my suggestions.

A bladdy – sounds a bit weird, like I need to go to the toilet all the time or something.

A blagger- accurate certainly but makes me sound a bit shifty.

A dagger – sinister.

A blaggy- ?

A daggy – Makes me sound like a rapper. DJ Daggy Dogg.

A dogger – right, I think I’ll stop now.

WARNING* The following report includes mental images that some people might find disturbing *

I was considering how I now spend an inordinate amount of my time sorting various types of rubbish into various coloured bins.

Black, blue, brown, green. While I’m keen to do my bit for the environment it is a time-consuming chore.

The situation reached a critical point after my son’s birthday party when I seemed to spend days on end ripping up cardboard boxes and stuffing them into an already over-full green bin.

Come bin day, clothed in my rather aged pyjamas, I dragged the creaking bin to the end of my driveway to be mercifully emptied. 

But alas I discovered at the last moment there were still a few cardboard boxes to be disposed of. 

Looking back now I should have just settled for waiting until the bin was emptied and then put the new boxes in.

But no, I determined that there was still more room and began to attempt to crush yet more cardboard inside the bin.

Soon I realised more weight was required so I scaled the little wall at the end of the garden and climbed on top of the open bin.

Still nothing happened so I found myself resorting to jumping up and down inside my bin to try and force the material down.

To reflect for a moment. It’s eight in the morning, kids are going to school and adults to work and here’s this strange bearded man in ragged pyjamas jumping up and down on a bin.

Yes, I got some strange looks.

As I increased my physical effort in jumping something inevitably had to give.

Alas it was my pyjama trousers which cleaved with a sickening ripping sound.

It would not begin to do justice to the situation to say I had split my trousers. 

A better description would be to say that two pieces of fabric which had lived together peaceably for years were now divorced with a clause in the final agreement that they should stay at least a yard apart.

Now panicking and keen to avoid ultimate disgrace I started struggling to make my way out of the bin, but my wild writhing succeeded only in making my feet sink further into it.

For one desperate moment, as I saw a car approach and realised I was stuck, I actually considered ducking down and closing the bin lid over my head to conceal my identity. 

Eventually I fought my way out and scrambled back indoors resembling Dr Bruce Banner after he has changed into The Incredible Hulk. 

Except with a bare arse. 

Has this ever happened to anyone else?

Discipline has changed a lot since I was a kid.

The education system is unrecognisable to me now. Semi-psychotic primary school teachers and nuns patrolling corridors like rival drugs gangs have been replaced by thinking time and understanding the consequences of our actions. Thank Christ.

Keeping order at home is a bit trickier. The rules are hazier, the boundaries more fluid and the kids more likely to stretch or simply march right over the top of them.

I suspect trying to get my boy to stay on a naughty step in the house would be as easy as putting a jellyfish through a cheese grater.

My ‘skills’ as a disciplinarian met their sternest test this morning. Our son had woken too early. Well he always wakes too early but this was even earlier than too early.

Mummy brought him into our bed for a cuddle and tried to settle him down. For some unknown reason, and totally out of character, he reacted with fury, lashing out aggressively.

I put on my authoritative voice (don’t laugh!) and told him to settle down. He kept screeching and swinging his arms. It was clear he had gone into a rage and had no idea how to escape it.

The challenge for me is to try and be measured. Not to meet anger with anger. It’s always easier to simply lash back, trying to reason with him when you struggle to find reason yourself is the goal.

I’m fighting to remain calm as I tell him if he doesn’t calm down he will have to go to his room. He howls in defiance. I lift him to his room.

The stand-off begins.

I have to hold the door closed to stop him from simply walking out of the room.

As he struggles on the other side with the handle he screeches and kicks like a caged troll.

I tell him through the door that I want to have a conversation but it can’t start until he stops shouting. He shouts louder, it’s almost demonic.

Soon he has pulled at the door handle on his side so roughly that it comes off in his hand. At least this now means that I don’t have to hold the other side because he can’t escape now even if I’m not there.

I keep telling him how much me and mummy love him and how we are waiting for nice James to come back so we can talk to him. I’m surprised by the level of his anger and his stubbornness because he gives every indication of wanting to make this a long-running feud.

I tell him that he’ll stay in the room all day if he doesn’t calm down but secretly I’m praying that he cracks before I do.

Eventually, like a wild horse being broken, I can sense the fight going out of him. I hear him moving away from the door and sitting down with his toys.

My son’s bedroom is a veritable Aladdin’s cave of toys and he’s now playing with them. This would have been a holiday rather than a punishment when I was a kid.

He snaps at me a few more times but I know the end is in sight. Mummy tells him that whenever he wants to come out and have a talk he just has to knock the door three times.

He leaves it another minute or two, just to prove he’s nobody’s patsy and then I hear three weak knocks.

I carry him out and set him on the bed. We talk to him about anger and how to express it. He’s playing distractedly with a rattly toy, trying to avoid making eye contact.

The last hurdle to be overcome is getting him to show some remorse, to understand that his actions can hurt other people.

Sorry is, inevitably, the hardest word. He doesn’t want to face up to what he has done, to confront bad behaviour. He’s trying to wheedle his way back into our favour through a side door.

We keep at it. I tell him that saying sorry is the hardest thing in the world and that you have to be really brave to do it. I tell him that superheroes say sorry because they are so brave (don’t laugh, I’m making this parenting stuff up as I go).

Finally he ducks his head so we can’t see his face and whimpers the word ‘sorry’.

I look at my watch and realise it’s not too early anymore. In fact it’s not early at all now. The confrontation has broken the morning.

Did we handle the situation well? Who’s to say. Were we too soft? Too rigid? Did he learn anything? I suppose we’ll find out.

For now I settle for giving my son a big cuddle. I always love him but now he’s my best pal again.

I see him well before he spots me.

This is good because it means I can watch without him knowing, see how he interacts with the other kids when I’m not there.

The children are playing outside. The edge has been taken off my emotions from earlier in the day but they’re still there. They never really go away.

He’s playing with another wee boy, one he knows well and is comfortable with. One who shares his aptitude for imaginative games. They are both red-faced with laughter and a burgeoning sense of comradeship. My boy is wearing someone else’s baseball cap. There are grass stains on the jeans said which I put clean on him this morning. I feel a lot better.

Soon he sees me standing at the gate and comes running. He leaps into my arms and hugs me like he means never to let go. I hold him for as long as I can. He’s too young and I’m too old to worry about looking cool.

I can feel his body quiver and see a tremble in his bottom lip. He struggles to contain his emotions, the way kids do. I whisper.

‘Daddy’s here son. Daddy’s here.’

I let him stay that way for as long as he needs to. Then he pulls his face away and becomes himself again.

‘Daddy, I went to do a pee pee today and I sat on the toilet for a long time but the pee pee didn’t come. Daddy, why didn’t the pee pee want to come?’

I’m laughing as I roll my hand through his hair. He feels important now, showing me where he sits inside and the art he’s been working on. I make an effort to chat to every member of staff. Soon we are on our way home.

A little bit later we’re sitting on the sofa at home. Bizarrely I’ve had to turn the lights on because the sky has turned threateningly and unseasonably dark. The air is heavy. There’s a big storm coming.

I’m going through the usual routine of trying to negotiate with my son to eat some dinner.

Then unexpectedly and without looking at me he speaks.

‘Daddy, I’m glad I went to nursery today.’

This may be the least likely thing that I’ve ever heard my boy say.

‘Why’s that son?’, I manage to splutter in response.

His eyes are still fixed on the telly.

‘Because of the thing you said this morning.’

‘What thing?’

‘You know, the thing about being brave.’

My heart almost leaps out of my chest. Real life trumps fiction every time. When I wrote my words in desperation this morning I couldn’t have even begun to have guessed this would be the conclusion.

I guess all parents talk to their kids all the time and are then left wondering how much, if any, of it has gone in. It’s like throwing a stone at a fence post, just hoping that every so often you get a hit.

Children have that wonderful capacity to surprise and amaze. I hope I’m not being too sentimental when I say that the unpredictability of the journey is the whole point. We travel from joy to despair and back again seamlessly.

He looks at me now, as if for the first time.

‘It’s hard being brave daddy, but you have to try.’

I’m not naive enough to believe that anything has been solved. I know it will be back to tears and tantrums in the morning. But for now I put my arm around him. We can deal with tomorrow when it comes.