1 Telling him that our local McDonald’s is open 24/7.

2 Telling him that he can come into mummy and daddy’s bed anytime he wants.

3 Volunteering to drop him at nursery in the mornings rather than picking him up in the afternoon.

4 Encouraging him to ask questions.

5 Showing him how to use the remote control.

Not sure if it’s the beard but one of my son’s friends asked if I’m older than God 

Walking with a grumpy child in Rushmere Centre. He’s huffing with me because the Iggle Piggle ride that he remembers was here before has been replaced. And that’s my fault, of course. He spots a machine which gives out plastic eggs containing Paw Patrol figures for a pound and demands one. I meekly acquiesce, reasoning that it least it might get me back in the good books for a bit. As I slip the coin into the slot he says ‘Daddy I don’t want Rubble. I’ve already got Rubble’, and with that my fate is sealed. I try to explain that I don’t control which toy comes out, he nods like he understands but then adds ‘As long as it’s not Rubble daddy’. I fumble with the wrapping, it might be ok, it’s a one in six chance. It could be Skye. It could be Marshall or Rocky. I crack the plastic egg open and pray for Chase. Good Christ, even Zuma would be ok. I stare at the toy. It’s Rubble. Fecking Rubble. Of course it’s Rubble. Cue the inevitable tantrum and protestations of ‘I hate you’. God I love being a daddy ❤️

Playtime. You looking at me punk?

Half seven on Saturday morning and I’ve already played noughts and crosses against the Gruffalo and completed the Paw Patrol jigsaw.

The encroachment of the really groovy daddy slippers into the photo was unintentional 

Now that I’m unemployed I’ve made a vow only to spend money on things I absolutely cannot live without