Day 3653

Dear Dave,

It was Fraser's tenth birthday at the weekend. The Big One Zero. It hardly seems possible. He's gone from a gangly, stinky baby with very loud burps to a gangly proto-teenager with unruly hair in the blink of an eye.

It doesn't feel that long ago he was struggling to figure out how to smile. Now he can use the internet, perform long multiplication in his head and answer back sarcastically when I tell him to do stuff. Some things never change, though - the stink is different but the burps are still the same.

Ten. Goodness.

To mark the occasion, he invited some friends bowling and then we went to Pizza Hut. It all went relatively uneventfully for an outing involving half a dozen ten-year-old boys. We made sure, however, to return the guests to their respective parents as quickly as possible once they were full of free refills of Tango and as much ice-cream and sprinkles as they could eat. This seemed only wise.

Seeing as Sarah and I were also celebrating an entire decade of parenthood, Rob and Kate came round to visit once we were home. It doubled as a chance to show off the new kitchen (despite the fact it's STILL not quite finished yet).

They have two children themselves now, if you recall. Then again, you probably don't. Heck, if you're anything like me, you probably forget how many kids you have yourself half the time. My brain was Swiss-cheesed by parenthood years ago. Trying to keep track of everyone else's offspring is beyond me.

I suppose that wasn't always the case. At the start, every fresh arrival we heard about was exciting. When we had Fraser, we didn't know many other people with kids so it was great to finally have confederates with whom we could share our experiences. Suddenly, my in-depth knowledge of washable nappies made me a hit at parties. (Admittedly, these were the kind of parties where they serve fairy cakes and orange squash rather than beer and pretzels but when you have young children, you take what you can get.)

After a while, though, the scattered arrival of wailing bundles in cute little hats turned into a steady stream. They ceased being so exciting and became more of a way to offload some of the surplus tiny clothes and baby equipment we had clogging up our cupboards. Eventually, a torrent of siblings coupled with my own lack of sleep made remembering the names of the bundles difficult. These days, I'm lucky if I recollect which of my old acquaintances have kids, let alone how many and what they're called.

I'm vaguely aware of the many hours I spent coaching Rob through the panic and uncertainty of becoming a father in the weeks before his eldest was born but that seems a world away. Luke's two now and my own life has moved on. Babies are long ago. My knowledge of washable nappies is outdated and obsolete. To be honest, I forgot Rob had another child on the way until I got the text message saying she'd arrived.

Well, actually, the message was mainly Rob asking me to record the new episode of Stargate for him but I got the idea. Everything went smoothly and they even managed to decide on a name. Kate was keen on Rose, Martha and Donna. Rob was wanting Leia at first and held out for Buffy for a while. In the end, they settled on Willow.

Saturday was my first real chance to get a look at her. With five children between us, meeting up is something of a logistical issue. My lot have a packed social timetable. Rob and Kate, meanwhile, are still struggling to get out of the house with two. They turned up late and loaded with enough luggage to mount a polar expedition. Rob had to take three trips to bring in all the carry cots, changing bags, coats, blankets and toys.

There were ten frantic minutes of everyone talking at once, followed by a very dubious rendition of Happy Birthday as I brought out a cake with a surprising amount of fire on top. I served it up and handed out drinks but I hadn't had a chance to eat a piece before my kids scattered to the far reaches of the house in order to escape the small children. Shortly afterwards, Sarah and Kate disappeared to the lounge for a natter while they watched Luke play. Rob and I were left in the kitchen to try and settle Willow.

"This is nice," said Rob, rocking her gently in his arms.

"Thanks," I replied before I realised he wasn't talking about the new cupboards - he was examining the little cardboard iPod holder I've tacked to the noticeboard above the sink so I can watch repeats of Top Gear while doing the washing up.

"Want a shot?" he said, offering me his gurgling bundle. "Go on. You know you do."

"Oh, all right. She is kind of adorable." I took her and started pulling faces until she giggled.

Rob grinned. "It's not too late for you to have another one yourself."

"Hah! She's not that adorable. Plus, I get to hand her back to you as soon as she starts getting soggy."

"There is that but don't tell me you're not getting nostalgic."

I shrugged. "On the one hand, it's a shame not having a small, cute one around but, on the other... I'm not sure I could hack it, physically or mentally. I need more sleep than I used to, I have to be careful with my back and I've started heckling Bob the Builder. Besides, I think I've finally eradicated all the remaining milk stains coating the house from when the other three were small."

"Including the one behind the bookcase in the lounge?"

"Er..."

I stopped pulling faces and turned my attention to Rob. He looked like he had a confession coming on. I raised an eyebrow. "I'm not sure I want to know but..."

"Remember that one time you got me to babysit when Lewis was small?"

"Yeah, we hadn't even reached the cinema before you called us back. You had two bottles of milk, a Teletubbies video and a cuddly rabbit to keep him quiet and you managed to blow through them all in twenty minutes. And you woke Fraser up."

"You were going to see Lost in Translation. I did you a favour."

"I suppose but what's that got to..." A long-buried memory surfaced. "Hang on, I thought that bookcase had moved a couple of inches to the right but I assumed it was just the fevered imaginings of my sleep-deprived brain. I... Oh... How much milk are we talking?"

He raised his hands defensively. "It's OK. I gave the wallpaper a wipe and a quick spray with some carpet cleaner before I hid the evidence."

"Carpet cleaner?"

"I couldn't find the anti-bac."

I shivered.

"Don't worry about it," said Rob, sitting down and helping himself to his third piece of cake. "Wouldn't be surprised if Luke pees all over your lounge carpet in a minute. That'll cover over any lingering odour."

"Cheers," I sighed and sat down opposite.

"Any time. Still, can't believe you have a ten-year-old. Even Marie's got big. Doesn't seem long since she kept trying to eat my PS2 controller and now she's challenging me to a game of New Super Mario Brothers."

"She'll beat you as well. You'd better watch out - she's merciless with a blue shell."

"Figures." He cut me a slice of cake, too, and handed it over. "What about Dave? You still writing to him with helpful advice?"

I snorted. "He knows more about parenting small children than I do now. I've forgotten half of it. My letters have turned into quick updates on funny things the kids have said. I should maybe just learn to use Twitter and be done with it."

"Might want to get the hang of Facebook first. Kate's beginning to get suspicious you haven't confirmed her friend request."

"Oh, yeah, sorry, I forgot."

"And you never reply to my comments on your Wall."

"I have a Wall?"

"Very funny." He cut himself yet another piece of cake. "What? I'm barely getting any sleep. Have to keep myself going somehow."

"Want a coffee?"

"In a minute. Once I've started on your chocolate bars."

I grinned. "I remember those days." There was a pause in the conversation as I nibbled at my cake and he devoured his.

"It is kind of like old times seeing you holding a baby," he said as he mopped up the crumbs. "Sure you don't want another one?"

"Well..."

As if on cue, Willow burped explosively, smiled, waved her arms about and giggled. She really was adorable.

"See! You've still got the touch."

"Well..." I began again, "it's..."

Then she was copiously sick all down my front and onto what was left of my cake.

I handed her back.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

The land before children

Dear Dave,

"So how are you finding it having all three children at school?"

It was about the three millionth time I'd been asked this question in a fortnight and I had to take a deep breath in order to summon up the energy to answer. Rob didn't wait for me to reply, however. "Must be nice sitting around in your pyjamas playing computer games all day," he said, ushering me into the lift.

I gave him the benefit of the doubt and assumed he was joking. "That's next week," I said. "Marie's only in until lunch-time at the moment, so it's not much different from when she was at nursery. She goes full-time next Tuesday."

"You won't know what to do with yourself."

"As you're fully aware, I'm going to have a little lie down and then I've got nine years worth of chores to catch up on. Marie will have gone from learning her letters to beating me at Scrabble before I've run out of things to do. Now, seriously, are you going to show me your new office or am I going to have to beat you to death with your own grin?"

Rob swiped his LBO staff card, entered a passcode and pressed the button for floor five. "I'd like to see you try. I've been taking fencing lessons."

"That's not going to help much unless you've brought your rapier to work," I replied and then registered the improbability of Rob choosing to do exercise without good reason. "Besides, it's the kind of 'special' fencing where the swords glow and you and your opponent make 'shwuuuuuummm' noises, isn't it?"

He looked shifty. "Well, erm..."

"Hang on. Didn't you say you were on the third floor?"

"Yep."

"Then why...?"

"The building's new - there are still some issues."

"But..." The lift stopped at floor two and the doors opened to give us a brief glimpse into the accounts department. Amidst the cubicles and fax machines, the sight involved far more middle-aged men wearing swimwear than I was expecting.

I bit my lip and tried to look nonchalant as a blast of roasting air entered the lift, closely followed by a plump, perspiring individual attired in trunks and a tie.

"Hi, Geoff," said Rob. "Heating vents still on the blink?"

Geoff mopped his brow with his tie. "Should be fixed by Wednesday."

"Great. Oh, this Ed. Ed this is Geoff."

We shook hands stickily, a look of confused recognition on Geoff's face.

"I used to work in IT," I explained. "You had to sign-off when I put in a budget request for a new vending machine and some shrubbery."

Geoff's eyes narrowed. "Was it you who requisitioned a van to retrieve office chairs from roadworks they'd fallen into at the foot of the Royal Mile?"

"In fairness, that was the result of a separate incident that had nothing to do with me. It was my first day and I needed something to sit on. I was acting on a tip off."

"You what?" said Rob, losing something of his air of professional politeness.

I sighed. "It was before your time, obviously. I could never prove anything but I think the nightshift mainframe operators had a low-budget street racing syndicate going. A couple of the chairs still had huge stereos strapped to them. The one I got landed with for the next six months had rear spoilers and lit up underneath with an eerie green glow whenever it spun round."

Rob blinked a few times. "Now I'm kind of glad those guys got out-sourced."

"Tell me about it," I said, nodding.

There was a short, awkward pause as the conversation died and everyone examined their fingernails. Rob whistled to himself quietly. Then the lift doors slid open with a ding and he shoved me out. "This is us. See you, Geoff." The lift seemed to think we were on fifth floor but we were actually on level four. "We can take the stairs down from here."

"That sort of thing is why I don't like visiting you at work," I said once the lift was safely on its way again. "Even after a decade, I'm nervous who I'm going to run into. The nice ones are liable to look on me with pity for having nothing to show for the last ten years but children, and the not-so-nice ones are probably still holding a grudge."

"Geoff's pretty harmless."

"Yeah, I know. It was rather hard to take him seriously in those clothes anyway."

"You should have seen dress-down Friday..."

Rob led me through the actuarial department towards the central atrium of LBO's new headquarters. The quality of the fittings was a marked improvement over what was visible in the troubling snapshot of the accounts department which was indelibly seared into my mind. The whole floor seemed more airy and spacious. There were also far more potted plants than semi-naked accountants, which I couldn't help feel added to the general ambiance.

"What's floor six like?" I asked.

"Is that where Sarah's going?"

"Yeah. It's another couple of months until her PR department moves in, though, so I said I'd get the low down on how the place is shaping up. She's slightly wary of the architect's glossy leaflets."

"Funny that."

"Not really," I said, unwilling to discuss the irony in case it got me into trouble later.

Rob shrugged. "Floor six isn't bad. That's where the gym is, and some of the meeting rooms and the AV auditorium. Should be quiet and relaxing. Even has all the walls it should have."

"She'll be glad to hear that," I said, nodding. "I... Oh, that's not... Ugh."

We'd reached the atrium, the building's central open area, which stretched all the way from the ground floor to the glass roof. The marbled-coated reception area was visible below, despite the wall above the main entrance being composed entirely of windows and half-blinding us with light. We stood on a balcony which ran all the way round the edge of the shaft.

"She and the kids OK?" asked Rob, oblivious to my discomfort.

"Vertigo," I muttered, grabbing the rail of the parapet for support.

"It's worse over there." Grinning, Rob pointed at the tier of balconies above the entrance. "Big drop one side; nothing but window on the other. Getting from the printer room to Desktop Services is like crossing that rope bridge in Temple of Doom." He slapped me on the back. "Come on. I wouldn't lean on that anyway. They probably checked it's screwed in but..."

I let go of the railing in an unseemly hurry and shuffled after him. The stairs jutted out from the balcony, suspended over the drop, and appeared to me made more of air than of metal. I began to find breathing difficult and my ankles started to feel strangely queasy. "This is mental," I said, backing up against the wall. "Why haven't they fixed the lift?"

"Other priorities. They've got to shoot some pigeons first and then make the toilets flush on sunny days."

"Pardon?"

"Really. The birds keep messing on the solar panels and someone needs to connect a mains back-up for the rainwater tank which fills the cisterns... Although there might be some delay on that..." He motioned across the atrium to another set of lifts, much posher than the one we'd used and made of glass. This was slightly worrying in itself but I was reassured the glass was fairly thick because the banging and shouting of the three plumbers trapped inside wasn't audible from where we were standing.

Rob rolled his eyes. "Security measure. If you don't swipe your card and enter your passcode within five seconds of the door closing, the control panel locks. The door won't even open again."

"Shouldn't you get them rescued?"

"They'll be fine," said Rob, dragging me towards the first step. "Someone will call the lift to another floor any minute and they can get out of it there."

"Good job they're not terrorist plumbers. I think there might be something of a loophole in the system."

"Try telling that to senior management." He shook his head. "The whole thing's a pain. Five seconds isn't long. A guard put his card in upside down the other night and he was out of time before he noticed. It was five hours until the cleaners found him."

"Urgh," I mumbled and edged my way down, wishing unpleasantness on whoever first imagined that risers aren't an essential part of stairs.

* * *

The next few minutes were a blur and we were in Rob's office before my legs entirely stopped quivering and my vision cleared. I had a vague recollection of corridors and an anecdote about losing a trainee. Somehow, a cup of coffee was in my hand.

No one else was around but the room fitted three desks, assorted filing cabinets and a whiteboard comfortably and seemed quite pleasant. It was a bit dark, though.

"Shouldn't you turn on the lights?" I asked.

"Yeah, just a minute." Rob promptly went out the door, entered the room across the hall and did a star jump.

A fluorescent tube flickered into life above my head.

I didn't even have to ask the question this time - Rob was explaining before he was back through the door. "It's to save energy when the room's empty. The lights have a motion-detector so they go off if nothing moves for a while."

"Like if everyone's getting on with work, staring intently at computer screens?"

"That's right."

"But then why...?"

"Some of the wires are crossed and not all the bulbs and detectors are paired properly. It's up to Roger across the corridor to keep the lights on in here but it looks like he dozed off in the middle of a code review a while ago. Tell me if you see anyone head along to the photocopier suite 'cos we'll have to do some stretches or they'll need torches."

Rob sat down at his L-shaped desk which nestled in one corner of the room and I pulled up a chair to sit beside it. He fished a packet of chocolate digestives out of a drawer and offered them to me.

"Should anyone actually be working in this building?" I said through a mouthful of biscuit.

"No one's had an accident yet. Least, not one that hasn't involved a stapler or lifting shipping crates. It's here or the street anyway. The old IT building's already been let out as a Laser Quest venue till they find someone to convert it into luxury flats."

"What happened to the support guys in the basement? You know, the hairy ones who grunted in UNIX?"

"They're..." A brief expression of concern crossed Rob's face. "Er... I should check someone told them we were moving. Could go badly for those Laser Questers if not." He scribbled on a Post-it and stuck it beside the screen of his monitor. Sadly, thanks to improvements in technology, this technique doesn't work as well as it did back in the day, when monitors were the size of fridges. The millimetres of casing surrounding the TFT display were already over-crowded with dozens of other barely-adhered reminders. As I watched, a couple gave up the struggle and slipped off, drifting down like autumn leaves to mulch in the tangle of cables and fluff between his desk and the wall. I idly wondered what effects this loss might have on the stability of the computer systems maintaining my pension...

Rob interrupted my thoughts. "So, as I said, how are Sarah and the kids?"

"Fine." I hadn't seen Rob for months. What with him becoming a dad and then moving out of town, it's been hard finding opportunities to meet. Recently, our conversation has been restricted to name-calling while shooting at each other online. Dropping by to check out the new building was really an excuse to catch up. "Sarah's got a lot on her plate but the kids are back into the swing of the new term. Marie's learnt about dinosaurs and pirates in her first fortnight. If she does Vikings and Romans next week, there'll be nothing left for her to cover before Primary 5."

"What about the usual suspects? How's Steve these days?"

"Between the consultancy business and the golf course, he's beginning to forget what his children look like again. Deborah's interior design work has dried up, so she's doing all the childcare while they search for yet another nanny, but Steve's dragging his feet over the expense this time because, as he puts it, they're 'coping fine without' at the moment."

"Same old Useless Dad then."

"Same old Useless Dad. Scary Karen's organising a Fun Day to raise funds for the Millennium Centre. She's wanting me to help out but she's hired a fire-eater and a taxidermist as the entertainment, so I'm not so sure. I may not be able to avoid it, though - her son's in class with Marie and I see her every day... Erm... My nephew Ned has just started at art college and is really enjoying it. My niece Lisa got into Cambridge, much to her parents' delight. I'm not so convinced it's the best place for her but there's not much to be done about it now. Who else? Oh, Mike was asking after you the other day. You and Liz are overdue for your one-year marriage MOT. If you don't arrange a date for him to come round soon, he's threatened to phone your mum and raise his concerns."

Rob went pale. "Can he do that? Don't ministers take some kind of oath of confidentiality?"

"I don't think this counts. I'd just invite him over before it gets to that stage or you'll never hear the end of it."

"You're telling me." He hastily scribbled another Post-it and went to put it on the monitor but then hesitated. After a moment's thought, he stuck it to the packet of biscuits instead.

"How are you and Kate and Luke doing?" I asked.

"Luke's toddling around all over. Wish he wouldn't do it at three in the morning, mind you. Thomas the Tank Engine's really surreal when I'm only half awake but it's the only way to make him nod off again. Why didn't you warn me about the whole sleep thing?"

"I did. You laughed and told me it was my own fault for having kids."

He pulled a face. "Did I?"

"You know fine well you did."

"I'll take your word. I'm losing it. I was at work for ten minutes this morning before I'd been shot by enough teenagers with laser rifles to figure out I'd gone to the wrong place. I've forgotten everything that happened longer ago than last Tuesday. Sorry for any lack of sympathy I may or may not have given you in the past." All at once, he appeared very tired.

"You OK?" I said, becoming worried.

He sighed, rubbed his eyes and leant back in his chair. Then, after a pause, his grin returned. "Yeah, actually. Pretty happy. Luke's full of beans and laughs. Kate's work's been very understanding about her going part-time. The house is coming along nicely. It's all going not bad. I might just join Roger with his reviewing in a few minutes, though."

"Give it another six months and your sleep should be back to normal," I reassured him, relieved there was nothing wrong that a few nights of unbroken rest couldn't fix. Something about the look he gave me made me do a double-take, however. "Unless..."

He reached into a drawer and pulled out a black-and-white satellite photo of a hurricane over Cuba.

"Oh," I said, "you're screwed for another two and a half years."

"Thanks a bunch. Most people we've told so far have thought that, but they've at least managed to say, 'Congratulations'."

"I meant to say that. Are you sure I didn't say that?"

"OK," he said, his face creasing in pain, "now you're messing with my head."

"Totally. Congratulations - that's fantastic. I take it you put some planning into this one?"

"Yep. Not as much practice as I was hoping, though. I thought..."

My eyes went wide as I realised that in his sleep-deprived state, he was about to give me far more information than I wanted to hear. Thankfully, at that point the fire alarm went. The lights burned suddenly bright as, across the corridor, Roger woke with a start and did a couple of star jumps in panic.

"Not again," groaned Rob. "That's the third time in a week."

"Personally," I yelled above the din, "I'd be suspicious of the finance department setting it off as an excuse for some fresh air." We grabbed our coats and headed for the exit.

"Doubt it. Last time, we had to wait three-quarters of an hour for the emergency services to give the all clear. It's September in Scotland. Some of them got so much fresh air, they turned blue."

"Fair enough," I said. "Mind if we take the secondary escape route and use the back stairs?"

"Fine by me. That's the quickest way to the pub."

I checked my watch. "Sounds good but I don't have time. I need to head off to collect Marie."

"Shame. Still up for a shot of Killzone on Wednesday?"

"Sure. Talk to you then."

And with that, we stepped into the corridor and were separated by a raging throng of techies sensing an excuse for an early lunch.

I can only assume he made it out alive...

(Although the text message he sent me twenty minutes later commenting on the coldness of his beer is something of a hint. Grr.)

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Number 200

Dear Dave,

"Oooh!" said Scary Karen, squeezing past me on her way down the narrow stairs. "This reminds me of the time I got trapped in a lift with three bodybuilders and Sean Connery."

"Ungnh..." I grunted, caught between her ample form and the bed-settee which was wedged on the half-landing.

"Course, that took three weeks of planning."

"Ah, hngh..." I nodded, unsure whether this revelation or my actual predicament was the more likely to cause me nightmares. It was a close call. I tried to forget both and concentrated on not blacking out from lack of oxygen.

"We're going to have to back up," said Mike from behind the settee somewhere, "then tip it sideways so we can get round the banister."

"Right you are," said Trevor and started to shove up from below.

"Let me out of the way first!" shrieked Rob as the sofa pinned him to a wall.

"And me," I added. At least that's what I tried to say. It came out more like, "Ungheeee!" and trailed off into a whimper.

"Don't know your own strength, do you, my little honey-munchkin?" said Karen, finally compressing me enough to squash by and emerge next to Trevor with an audible pop. She grasped one of his bulging biceps appreciatively and tickled him under the beard.

"Not now, love," said Trevor. He was supporting most of the weight of the bed-settee. He was also, apparently, ticklish. My whole world started to wobble and shake.

"And why's that?" Karen said. "You're the one showing off your muscles." She started to snog him very loudly.

"Big sofa..." I gasped. "About... wheeze... to kill us all..."

"Couldn't you have found someone else to help?" muttered Rob under his breath, still trapped.

"You're the one who was too much of a cheapskate to hire removal people but then decided to move midweek so all your other mates had the handy excuse of being at work to avoid helping."

My words were mostly drowned out, however, by the sink-plunging noises coming from Karen and Trevor.

"Can't hear you," said Rob.

"Never mind," I said. "Almost done now."

It was true. Our various children had been farmed out to friends and relatives and we'd spent a couple of hours loading the contents of Rob's flat into a van. We'd then popped round quickly to my place merely to pick up my surplus bed-settee on the way to his new house. Since he was about to have plenty of extra space and I said he could have the sofa for free, he was more than willing to take it. Getting it downstairs to the front door from our lounge was proving trickier than I'd imagined, though.

"Where's Steve?" croaked Rob. "Has he sloped off again."

"He's not with me," grunted Mike's disembodied voice.

"Haven't seen him," I said.

Then, seemingly on cue, Useless Dad emerged from the direction of the kitchen, cheerily waving a mug around. "Cup of tea, any...?" he began and then noticed Karen and Trevor. He stopped and stared at them for a moment and then backed away hastily.

Luckily, it was enough to distract Karen from sucking Trevor's whiskers off. "Milk and four sugars for me! I'll lend a hand." She gave Trevor's backside a firm fondle and then followed Steve.

There was a muffled squeal of fright from the kitchen but I ignored it as the rest of us turned our full attention to the sofa. There was a great deal of huffing and shoving and turning and then somehow we were in the narrow hall and out the door with only minor strains and bruises. Trevor unlocked the rented van and we loaded up.

The bed-settee didn't fit.

Rob swore. "It's almost in. Maybe if we move some of the other stuff around..."

"Not worth it," said Mike. "We'd have to completely unload. We'd be as well taking what we've got to the house and then coming back."

"I suppose," said Rob, shrugging. "Let's get the sofa inside."

I shook my head. "There's no room on the ground floor. We'd need to get it up the stairs again."

No one liked the sound of that.

"We could just put some bin-liners over it or something and leave it in the driveway," said Rob.

I disagreed. "This is the centre of Edinburgh. If we leave it out here, someone will try to make off with it. I put a broken 28-inch telly out for the council to collect once. No way one person on their own could get far with it. Still disappeared within half an hour and that was in the middle of the night."

Steve and Karen brought the tea out as we discussed options. I took a sip of mine and nearly gagged. "I think I got yours, Karen."

Steve signed frantically behind her back, making it clear I was somehow in dangerous territory.

"I put four sugars in all of them," said Karen, "to boost your energy. Bit of sugar keeps you going." She winked at Trevor. "I gave you seven..."

"I..." I started to reply but Steve's flapping only increased. I noticed that his mug had an entire stick of shortbread poking out of it and realised he'd already had this argument and lost big time. "Er... How thoughtful..." I mumbled and sipped at the brew, feeling my teeth dissolve as I did so.

Eventually we decided that Rob and Karen would go in the van with Trevor, Mike would follow along behind in his car and I would remain to guard the sofa. I did suggest it might be a better use of resources if I helped with the heavy lifting and Mike or Karen stayed with the bed-settee. Mike had arranged to visit a church member who lived out in Rob's direction, though, and didn't have time for toing-and-froing. Karen, meanwhile, beat me in an arm wrestle.

I put on my coat, sat in the driveway and waved them off. Steve brought us both out a second mug of tea that was somewhat more drinkable, and kept me company. He couldn't stay long because he wanted to get to work in time to go for lunch.

I popped inside to find some biscuits. "How are things going in the consultancy business?" I asked when I returned with some chocolate digestives.

"Very well. Very well. There are plenty of firms desperate to cut costs right now."

"By hiring you at great expense to tell them to stop stocking free sanitary towels in the women's toilets?"

"Indeed," he said, entirely seriously.

I sighed and decided I really didn't want to know any more. "And what about your nanny situation?" I said, changing topic. "Fiona's bump looked the size of Switzerland this morning. Can't be long before she heads off on maternity leave. What are you going to do?"

"It's all under control. One of the other nannies we interviewed last year is only on a short-term contract and can take over when Fiona leaves in the middle of next month."

"Oh... That's good..." I tried to sound upbeat but Fiona had been chosen mainly by default on the basis that the others were unsuitable or positively certifiable.

"Yes, I called him myself. He was very enthusiastic."

I did a double-take. "The manny?" I was confused. The guy was a great choice but Steve had been utterly opposed to employing a man during the previous selection process. Nothing I, or his wife, Deborah, could say had been able to change his mind.

Steve mistook the reasons for my scepticism. "Come now, you of all people should know that men can look after children just as well as women. Ewan's extremely well qualified and the children really took to him. Of course, Deborah wasn't so sure but I managed to talk her round. He'll be a real asset to the household."

"Totally," I managed to mutter and then there was quiet as we drank our tea and I resisted the urge to slap him by texting Deborah to congratulate her on her exceptional powers of manipulation.

Time passed.

"Rather cold out here, isn't it?" said Steve after a while.

I nodded. "Uh-huh."

Then the first flakes of snow started to fall.

* * *

Trevor, Rob and Karen returned with the van, skidding up at the end of the drive with a screech of passengers.

I went out of the house with an umbrella to meet them. "That was quick."

"Karen gave Trevor a second cuppa at our place," replied Rob, staggering from the van. "Meant he unloaded the stuff pretty sharpish but I think it would be better if you drove until the sugar high wears off."

"Might be for the best," I said as we watched Trevor heft the settee into the van by himself then flex his muscles for our admiration.

We climbed in after the sofa and set about removing the protective bin-liners without dropping too much snow down behind the cushions. Rob chuckled. "I was expecting to find you and Steve still sitting in the driveway, frozen solid, with icicles dangling from your noses."

"Sorry to disappoint you. He 'remembered' an urgent memo he had to write the moment things turned wintry and I'm not entirely daft. I wasn't going to freeze to death protecting what is now, officially, your sofa. I went inside, turned on the heating and glanced out the window occasionally."

"Fair enough."

"Oy," called Karen. "Is that thing tied down?"

Rob shrugged. "Sort of."

"Me and Trevor can ride in the back and keep an eye on it if you want."

I'd have been nervous about driving the van under normal circumstances, and the Arctic conditions only made matters worse. The thought of Karen and Trevor alone in the back with excess energy and a bed-settee didn't exactly improve my state of mind.

"That's OK," said Rob, thankfully coming to the same conclusion. "Appreciate all the help but we can take it from here. You guys can head home."

Karen looked slightly disappointed but then I added, "Aren't your kids going to be at your mum's for another couple of hours? You could get some stuff done round the flat or..."

Before I could finish, Karen screamed as Trevor hefted her up in a fireman's lift and jogged off down the road amidst a mix of shrieks and giggles.

"Er, yes, or I suppose you could do that..." I trailed off.

Rob and I looked at each other. "Time to go?" he said hurriedly.

"Definitely," I replied.

* * *

The journey to the outskirts of town was slow and the return trip to the van hire place was even slower, traffic crawling along in the light flurries of snow that count as a blizzard round here. Rob came back with me, just to make sure if I skidded off the road and lay dying in a ditch, that I wouldn't be lonely. We didn't talk much. I concentrated on the way ahead, he fiddled incessantly with the radio.

It was a relief to finally arrive.

"Might as well see you home," said Rob, once we'd handed in the keys.

"I'm 35, it's snowing and you've got unpacking to be doing. You don't need to walk me the couple of streets to my door."

"Humour me," he said, slinging a hold-all over his shoulder and setting off into the wind and a stinging barrage of sleet.

"What's in the bag?" I called after him.

"It's a surprise."

He didn't give me any further hints and, hunched over, we struggled onwards, icy rain attempting to rip our faces off. We did nothing but grunt and grumble for several minutes before tumbling in through my front door. I dripped over the carpet and put the kettle on. "It's not some old tat you found at the bottom of a cupboard that you're trying to palm off on me is it?"

"Nope."

"What is it then?"

Rob looked a little embarrassed. "Living across town is going to make meeting up harder - what with both of us having kids now, and all. I was thinking we should try and organise some regular online gaming to keep in touch. We can still shoot each other and chat and drink beer but we won't have to be in the same room."

I shook my head. "Nice idea but you have a PS3 and I have an Xbox - we're on opposite sides of the gaming divide."

"Er, you know how I never got round to buying you a gift for being my best man?"

"It had crossed my mind," I said but I was suddenly too excited to sound appropriately annoyed.

He handed me the bag. "They had a real bargain in the window of the secondhand place when I went past the other day. Happy belated wedding-help thank you!"

I unzipped the bag with shaking fingers, hardly daring to hope what might be inside. It was...

I stared at the contents in disbelief.

"It's a PlayStation 3," said Rob helpfully.

"Er, yeah," I said, "but why's it orange?"

"The casing's battered. Some genius tried to touch it up with an airbrush and give it a face-lift in the process. Still works, though. Well, it would, if it had a controller and cables."

"This gets better."

Rob had obviously expected this reaction and practised on his sales pitch. "I thought if anyone was likely to have the right wires lying around, it would be you."

I took a closer looker. "Maybe... The AV cable from my PS2 might work and the power cord from a desktop."

"And you'd be wanting to buy one of the newer controllers that has rumble anyway."

"True." I checked my watch. "I've just enough time to get to GAME and back before I have to collect Marie and then go along to school for the boys..." I put the console safely on the kitchen table, flung on a second scarf and ushered Rob towards the snowstorm, the thought of hot drinks forgotten.

"Come on, admit it, you're pleased," said Rob as we headed out the door.

"Oh, all right. If it works, I'm delighted. Thanks very much. It'll be a pleasure filling you full of lead, even if it's from a distance."

"Excellent," he shouted over the wind. "How about Wednesday nights?"

"Sounds good. Now, you really need to get home and help Kate with the unpacking."

"I suppose."

We parted company at the gate, shaking hands in an almost formal goodbye. It was weird. He's only moved out near the zoo but, all at once, it felt like a huge distance. Getting together will be much more of an effort from now on. As we trudged off along the pavement in opposite directions, I was briefly sad.

Then I remembered that he'll still be working quite close - once Marie starts school full-time in September, I'll be free to meet him for lunch whenever. I took some comfort from this...

Also, I had a PS3!

Despite a small sense of loss and the imminent threat of my ears falling off from the cold, it was hard not to grin...

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

The missing moo

Dear Dave,

Rob came round the other evening. I was somewhat preoccupied, so Sarah let him into the house and sent him through to me.

"Are you really dusting behind that radiator?" he asked as he entered the kitchen.

"No," I muttered and then cursed as I cut my finger.

"Oh..." he said, finding a beer and taking a seat. "It looks like you're dusting behind that radiator."

This was true. I was crouched in the corner of the room, shoving a duster (which resembled bright blue candy-floss on a stick) down behind a radiator. Beside me was a narrow table piled high with craft materials. It was at right-angles to the radiator and overlapped it slightly.

"I was tidying up and knocked a glitter-glue pen off the table and down the back," I said, tracing the item's disastrous trajectory in the air with my bleeding finger. "It's got jammed in a gap between the skirting board and the wall and there's some other stuff down here stopping me getting to it from below. I'm trying to knock something loose with the duster."

"Need help?"

"I'm not sure there's space." I was surrounded by bags, boxes and a couple of spare dining chairs which had been stacked up to keep them out of the way. I'd had to move them all to get to the radiator.

"Too bad..." He helped himself to some crisps while I gave up on the duster and scrabbled around underneath the radiator with my hands.

"How are things?" I asked.

"Great. Everyone's nervous at work again, Luke still wakes up for a cry three times most nights and half the flat is packed into boxes ready for next week. Couldn't be better."

"Ach, well, another year and things will have settled down. Luke will have a proper bedtime and you'll have the new house mostly sorted. Chances are, you'll only have a couple of the boxes left to unpack by then. Got to look at the long-term. Maybe you should get cracking on a second child so you don't have it too easy at Christmas."

"Don't," he said, shivering. "Kate's already talking about it and it's giving me a nervous tick. I want to get this move over and done before I start thinking about people carriers."

"Fair enough," I mumbled, my head lost amongst my knees as I attempted to get my hand a little further into the dusty darkness behind the radiator. I was almost there... "Just don't talk to me about potential down-sizing at LBO. I get enough of that from Sarah."

"Deal."

"Good... Oh, hang on, something's coming free." I gave a final tug on a lump of plastic and it jerked out from beneath the radiator. The sudden release made me begin to topple over and I put my hand out to steady myself against the table holding Marie's stash of art supplies. It rocked wildly, a bowl bounced off my head and then small, sparkly beads rained down everywhere. "Flip."

Rob grinned and gulped some beer. "Going well?"

"Not really." Beads continued to skitter across the laminate floor to every last nook and cranny of the kitchen as I examined my find. It was a bright green water pistol that I'd never seen before in my life. It must have been behind the radiator a long time. Putting it aside, I had a feel around for other treasure. With the water pistol gone, there was more room to manoeuvre. I pulled out the wheel from a toy car, a small, fluffy fish and an object made of white plastic that was about the size and shape of a box of matches. I knew instantly what it was.

"It's the missing moo!"

"You what?"

"The missing moo!" I squeezed the box and it made a series of electronic noises which roughly approximated the noise of a cow (or maybe a slightly ill sheep). "I've been wondering where this went to for about five years. It's from a squishy cube with pictures of farmyard animals on. I took the moo out to wash the cube, left it on a shelf and never saw it again." I waved the box around gleefully and set it off once more. "I searched high and low for this. We used to have the playpen here. Fraser must have got the moo off the shelf and given it to Lewis in the cage and then he posted down behind the radiator. It would have fallen straight through if it weren't for the water pistol. It all makes sense."

Rob didn't like the manic gleam in my eye. "You know when you say that being a housedad hasn't driven you crazy...?"

I cut him off. "But this finally proves I'm not mad. I didn't eat it or throw it away or put it at the back of a cupboard in a fondue set. It went missing through a simple mixture of children and circumstance."

"Kind of like the last eight years of your life?"

"Not exactly." I rooted around for the glitter-glue. "If I find my lost youth down the back here, I'm going to be very surprised." I finally managed to prise the pen free and return it to the rest of the set. It was the pink one. Marie would have been distraught if it had gone missing.

I sat down in the sea of beads and took a deep breath to recover from my exertion. Then I squeezed the moo again for old time's sake.

"Right," said Rob, shaking his head sadly. "Put that back in its toy and let's go fire up the Wii."

"We gave the cube to a charity shop ages ago," I replied. Nonetheless, I was still smiling broadly.

Rob was confused. "But...?"

"It doesn't matter. I've cut my finger, I need to hoover and the room's turned upside down but I've kept my daughter happy, gained a water pistol and solved a mystery at the same time." I let off some more moos. "Even if I'm years late, that's still a result."

Rob didn't know what to say. There was a pause punctuated by bovine noises. A bead fell out of my hair and bounded away with a plink.... plink... plink.. plink. plink.plinkplinkplinkinkinknkk. Rob looked at me and then at his beer. "Is this really what being a parent does to you?"

I pulled myself upright. "Oh, yes. You're stuffed." Then I threw the electronic cow at him. "Whoever's holding it when the mooing stops has to collect up the beads."

Rob caught the moo instinctively but it was a moment before his brain grasped what I'd said. "Hey! No fair!"

"Course it's fair," I cried and made a break for the door.

Rob squeezed the moo, resetting it to the beginning, and chucked it at me.

"Hey! That's cheating!" I said, catching it and sending it straight back.

"No, it's not."

"Yes, it is."

"You just did it yourself!" said Rob, so busy pointing that he almost forgot to throw the moo to me.

"Only 'cos you did it," I replied, doing it again and hurling it at him. My aim wasn't so good, though.

"Watch my beer!"

"It's my beer actually."

"I'm drinking it. Catch!"

"Ow! I bought it..."

This went on for a couple of minutes, the moo continuing to fly backwards and forwards. At that point, Fraser came downstairs and complained that he couldn't get to sleep because we were being too loud.

Seeing as he was awake, I got him to help pick up the beads...

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

PS Rob and I had to play on the Wii because my 360 has died again. It started crashing every so often last week in exactly the same way as before but without flashing up the three red lights which translate as, 'This console is seriously unwell but Microsoft will fix it for free if it's under three years old because they know they messed up big time.'

Since it's going to be the third anniversary of my initial purchase tomorrow, I was somewhat nervous. I kept playing it and every hour or so it would seize up, with the screen going green and jaggy. Still no red lights. Then the seizures became every few minutes. The machine didn't always switch on.

Still no red lights.

When it went belly up previously, Microsoft replaced it rather than repairing it. I seriously started to suspect that instead of fixing the design flaw in the newer version, they'd merely removed the red lights.

The warranty date drew closer.

Then, finally, I switched it on, the screen remained blank and those beautiful ruby LEDs lit up and flashed their message of doom. I was on the phone to Microsoft within minutes, arranging a pick up.

I'm probably the only Xbox 360 owner ever delighted to see the Red Ring of Death.

Making sure

Dear Dave,

"You do realise I could be at home, reclined on the armchair in my pyjamas, watching trash with explosions while drinking beer?" I said, hunched over the steering wheel of the van, trying to see if there was anything coming the other way as we went round a bend on the narrow country lane.

"Yeah, but wouldn't you rather be helping a friend in need?" said Rob from the passenger seat.

"I appear to be driving round in circles while a soon-to-be-ex-friend fails to read a map," I replied and then, at the last minute, I saw through the overgrown foliage on the verge and braked hard to avoid the enormous tractor heading straight for us. I swore under my breath and started to erratically reverse the hundred yards to the nearest passing place.

"Watch out for cows!" said Rob, chuckling to himself.

It was the fourth time he'd made comic reference to the unfortunate incident that had occurred the last time I'd driven anywhere. I was grumpy anyway. The combination wasn't going well. It was hot, the hired van's air conditioning wasn't working, we were lost and the tractor driver didn't even wave as I let him past. Worst of all, the kids were on holiday at their grandparents' house - I could have been at home enjoying some peace and quiet. "Do you know where we're going yet?" I snapped.

"It should be round here," said Rob. He was remarkably cheery for a man in the midst of last-minute wedding preparations. I suspected he was in total denial and simply enjoying the sunshine and the time off work. "It's beginning to look familiar. I think Aunt Maria's house is just over this hill."

"I believe you've said that about several hills during the last half an hour and a couple of bridges as well."

"I'm definite this time. Yeah, look in that yard - that belongs to the guy who does chainsaw carvings. Aunt Maria has a thing for him - keeps knitting him socks."

Afraid another tractor might sneak up on me on the twisty road, I only managed a brief glimpse of the wooden carvings as they went by on the other side of a dilapidated fence. Someone had been very busy. Twenty or so thick logs poked up out of the ground, surrounded by wood shavings, their top sections intricately whittled. Sure enough, every single one of them had been lovingly crafted into a three-dimensional replica of a chainsaw.

"And she lives close to this guy?" I asked, suddenly afraid of something other than tractors.

"Yep," said Rob. "That's one of the reasons I don't want to stay long."

"Uh-huh, good call."

"Yeah, cheer up," said Rob, still unnecessarily cheery himself. "We've just got to collect a few boxes, drop them off at the hotel and take the van back and we're done. We could go for a pint."

"I thought you had go help Kate with writing out the place cards."

"Damn. I was hoping she hadn't told you that."

"Nice try," I said. "As your best man, I'm under orders to get you home sober."

"OK, OK. Woh! Stop! This is it."

I pulled into the drive of a charming cottage, its garden full of flowers.

"Are you ready for this?" said Rob as we stepped out of the van.

"Er, should I be?" I asked.

Then a middle-aged woman, wearing far too much make-up and a rather too revealing dress, leapt out of the house, ran over to Rob, grabbed his head and attempted to suck his cheeks off. I stared in horror, unable to move. I was relieved when she finally let him go and it turned out to only have been some form of greeting.

Of course, the relief was somewhat mitigated when, far too late, I realised it was my turn.

"¡Hola!" she shrieked...

* * *

"Thanks, Aunt Maria," Rob called back to the cottage as we loaded the last of several large, but not particularly heavy, boxes into the back of the van. "Can't stop! Ed's got to get home to the kids."

"No, I don't," I said under my breath as we climbed into the oven on wheels ourselves.

"You want to stay for cheese and sherry?" replied Rob out of the corner of his mouth, smiling broadly and waving at his aunt. She was standing in the porch, blowing us exuberant kisses.

Thinking back over the events of the previous ten minutes, I decided to let the matter go. Our escape was even accompanied by a slightly unseemly touch of wheel spin.

"I never knew you were part Spanish," I said when we were on our way.

"I'm not."

"She married into the family then?"

"Nope," replied Rob, "she's my mum's sister."

I was confused. "Your mum's not Spanish."

"Nope."

"Er," I said. "Then why does your aunt speak with a Spanish accent, wear lots of lace and like to emphasise everything she says with the aid of castanets?"

Rob sucked his teeth. "Good question. It's mostly a hobby. She doesn't do it when she's dealing with patients. We're hoping she'll keep it low profile at the wedding."

"I can see that," I said. "But you let her make the wedding favours?"

"She insisted. They're very big on wedding favours in Spain. If the things weren't up to scratch, she'd apparently never live it down."

"Who with?" I said. "Your other Spanish relatives?"

"And chainsaw guy."

I nodded. "Now that's the wedding I'm looking forward to..."

* * *

It had been a long day. We'd been travelling all over the place, collecting this and checking on that. I was tired and hot and sticky. It was a joyous moment when we entered the grounds of the hotel and neared the completion of our final errand. I was very much looking forward to getting home, getting cleaned up and then sinking into the armchair for a couple of days.

I grinned happily to myself as we turned the last corner. Another three-quarters of an hour and...

"Hey!" yelped Rob as I slammed on the brakes. "Don't stop here. The car-park's over there."

"I..." I couldn't find the words to reply. I was too busy staring. The hotel was old, ramshackle and sprawling and came complete with turrets and gargoyles. I was surprised The Mystery Machine wasn't pulled up outside.

"You OK?" asked Rob.

"Er, yeah," I said and tried to keep quiet beyond that, doing my best to respect his choice of venue.

We unloaded a couple of boxes and headed into reception. A lovely woman wearing a floral dress with gossamer wings directed us to the furthest reaches of the east tower which seemed to have been set aside for storage. I continued to gawp every step of the way. The walls were painted with idyllic woodland scenes populated by mythical beasts. I was surrounded by unicorns and nymphs. I can only describe it as the house the Addams Family would have lived in if they were fond of pastel colours and ornaments adorned with fairies.

"Have Kate's parents seen this place?" I hissed when I was sure pixie-girl couldn't hear us, unable to contain myself any longer.

"We showed them photos," said Rob, fighting his way through some flowery curtains which had been hung across a doorway.

"Of what?"

"Here."

I didn't entirely believe him. "They must have been pretty blurry."

"They were... selective. Once we'd got round to deciding a date, there weren't very many places left at such short notice."

"I'm guessing there was only here."

"There was also a bowls club in Galashiels."

"That might have been cheaper, at least," I muttered.

We found the enormous cupboard we were looking for and dumped the boxes. Not for the first time, I couldn't help noticing they were very light for their size. Rob hadn't really needed me to help carry them - I'd merely been a good excuse to escape afternoon tea with his aunt. "What's in these?" I said, making to remove the tape from the one I'd been carrying.

"You don't want to know," said Rob, attempting to stop me.

I was too quick for him. "I'm going to find out in a couple of weeks anyway." I ripped off the tape, reached into the box and fished out a wedding favour.

It was more knitted than I was expecting. It took me a moment to work out what it was.

"Toilet roll covers?" I said, raising an eyebrow. "You're handing out toilet roll covers?"

I rummaged around in the box. It was full of toilet rolls sheathed in sparkly woollen wrappers. Each one had a little plastic bride and groom sewn to the top.

"Why didn't she just leave the covers empty?" I said. "The whole lot could have fitted in one box and saved us a journey. Couldn't people add their own toilet paper?"

Rob gave a despairing shrug. "It's all sewn in. People aren't actually supposed to use the loo roll. It would be bad luck for me and Kate."

"They're supposed to sit this up a corner of their bathroom for all eternity to ward off a divorce?"

"Yep," said Rob and then noticed my other eyebrow raise. "You're going to use yours and then give it to the kids to wear as a hat, aren't you?"

"I couldn't possibly comment," I said, setting off for another box.

* * *

We delivered the van back to the rental place and walked to the end of the street, where our ways parted.

"Fancy that pint?" said Rob, lingering on the corner.

I shook my head. "Got to get back for some quality time with the Xbox," I said.

"OK, then. Suppose I'll have to go write place cards. Think of me while you're shooting zombies." He reluctantly turned to leave.

I put out my hand to stop him. "Are you sure about all this?" I said.

"What? The fairies and the toilet roll? No, not really. Wish we could have had sandwiches at the Millennium Centre like you suggested. Too late now, though."

I looked him in the eye. "I meant about getting married."

He did a double-take. "You're the one that's been telling me it's a good idea for, like, half a decade - that it's just accepting reality and that I won't notice the difference."

"That's not entirely what I said. I said it won't make any real difference to your everyday lives apart from that you'll be able to refer to Kate as 'the wife'."

"I do that already," he chuckled.

"I meant without the ironic smirk."

"Oh..." he said and paused. He was still puzzled. "But if that's the only change, then why talk me into it?"

"To get you to the point where I could ask if you're sure."

He blinked. "That's cold."

"Not really." He knew what I was getting at - we'd talked about the issue before. You see, he hadn't necessarily imagined it as a long-term thing when he and Kate had moved in together. Even when they'd gone on to buy a place between them, he hadn't seen it as settling down. More than that, parenthood had been a surprise. He had plenty of commitments but he hadn't really signed for them all. If he didn't fully accept them, things were bound to go badly eventually. I didn't want him to wake up in ten years time, suddenly panicked that he might be getting tied down, and go running off to Jamaica with the postman, leaving Kate with three kids and a mortgage.

"So..." I said. "Are you sure?"

He thought about it, his head bobbing from side to side a bit as he did so. Then he did a strange combination of nod and shrug. "Yeah," he said, genuinely meaning it.

"Drat," I said, sighing. "Guess I'll have to write my speech after all."

"What?" he said, wide-eyed. "You haven't written it yet?"

"Have you written yours?" I countered.

"I never said I'd written mine."

"Well I never said I'd written mine."

"Yes, you did," he said, his voice rising.

I shook my head. "No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did..."

We continued arguing as we proceeded along the street. Somehow we ended up in a pub. We discussed things over a pint or two...

Boy, did we get into trouble when I took him home.

I'm getting two toilet roll covers as a special punishment...

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Babies or Bahamas?

Dear Dave,

Personally, I don't really fancy going to a school reunion - well done for surviving yours. It's bad enough having to deal with odd reactions about being a housedad from strangers. Coping with them from a string of old enemies and acquaintances would be tiresome. Then again, I went to a school that was only for boys - unlike you, I wouldn't get to meet up with a load of women who found me hugely more attractive than they did when I was seventeen. It would all be blokes going, 'You do what?', 'Rather you than me', 'You enjoy that then?', 'What else do you do?', 'I wouldn't mind staying home all day and sending the wife out to work', 'Did you lose your job?', 'Does your wife earn lots?', 'I couldn't stick it myself' and 'What are you going to do once the kids are at school?'.

It would be worth pretending to be an accountant just for a little peace and quiet.

As you mention, though, it's the people who are envious that are hardest to talk to. The people who say, 'I wish I could spend more time with my children but I can't afford it.'

I'm never sure how to answer. I know people who are desperate to spend more time with their kids but simply can't for all kinds of reasons, some of them financial, such as a large mortgage or child support payments, others practical, such as a career which involves lots of travel or a partner who isn't well. Changing their lives would be serious upheaval; it would involve risk and real sacrifice. These people deserve sympathy. Conversely, there are people I talk to who claim to want to spend more time with their kids but, in reality, don't want to give up their fortnight in the Bahamas every year. A few basic sums and they'd see that with a little belt-tightening (combined with diminished childcare costs, reduced commuting and increased tax credits), more time with their kids would be perfectly possible. Nevertheless, both partners continue to work full-time and complain about how stressful it all is. These people deserve less sympathy.

I had one of those conversations the other day:

"I wouldn't mind being a housedad myself," said Derek.

"Uh-huh," I grunted.

"Yeah," he continued. "My daughter's eighteen months and I barely see her during the week."

I was distracted. "Mmmm?"

"It was so great getting to spend some quality time with her when we went to the Bahamas this year but it's not the same as being around her all day. I'm missing out on watching her grow up."

I was becoming very distracted. "Ungh!?"

"The childminder got to see her first steps and hear her first words. If we could afford to... Are you all right?"

"Not... so... good... I think I'm going to fa - Arghhh!"

I finally lost my grip on the rock-face and fell straight down, plummeting feet-first into the raging torrent below.

Everything went grey and wet and cold. I flailed about. The direction of up became debatable and finding something other than water to breathe suddenly became a consuming issue. There was shouting, muffled but frantic. My life flashed before my eyes.

It was a very short experience. This was initially quite gratifying, since it seemed to suggest that I'm not as old as I often feel. Then I remembered that having children has addled my brain so completely that I can never recall anything much from before a week past Thursday. I got thirty-four years edited into an instant of highlights and then a several second montage of school-runs and CSI from the last ten days. It was followed by a brief recap of a long journey in a minibus full of blokes called Rick, getting mildly drunk in a chalet with (possibly) twice as many blokes called Rick and then losing badly at go-karting to Rob, Derek and some blokes in helmets. Even in my befuddled state, I hazarded a guess that these blokes were called Rick.

"Are you OK?" said Rick, fishing me out by my wetsuit.

"Uh?" I said but then put my feet down and discovered the water was actually only about waist-deep. "Oh... Yeah. I'm fine." My glasses were strapped on with elastic. I did my best to wipe them dry with wet fingers but I wasn't very successful. Squinting, I pulled myself back onto the rock and began inching my way along the side of the narrow ravine with the others.

"It was your idea to go gorge walking in Wales," Rob shouted from further behind, my muttered cursing obviously audible above the rushing of the river.

"No, it wasn't," I snapped. "I wanted to go for a drink and then eat some chips. You were the one who insisted on making a weekend of it."

"Got to make the most of it," he said. "It's not like I'll ever get another stag do."

"You'd better believe it," I said, my voice straining. "I'm not doing this again. More than that, if you walk out on Kate, then you won't get a second chance. Her mum will track you down and flower-arrange you to death and then come after me for encouraging the pair of you to get together in the first place."

"Don't worry," he said, "I'll stick with her for your sake. Now, will you get a move on? I've had about enough of this. We're all freezing back here." A couple of Ricks echoed agreement. "Can't wait to get to the chalet."

"OK. OK," I said, picking up my pace as we scrambled along the bank, sometimes climbing, sometimes walking. I was tired and cold and keen to get back too, even if I would have to share the shower with a whole load of blokes called Rick.

It was Saturday afternoon and Rob's stag weekend had started the day before. Sarah had taken some holiday to look after the children and they waved me off with plenty of instructions to be careful. Marie gave me a cuddly rabbit to keep me company on the adventure.

I met the others at the minibus hire place. It was me, Rob and his friends from work, whom I didn't know very well. Most of them had had a drink already and I was the only one with experience of driving a minibus. I reluctantly took the wheel. I haven't driven much of anything in ten years. Launching into central Edinburgh was 'entertaining'. There were some screams, both from inside and outside the vehicle, but it mostly came back to me in between my passengers asking me what I do and whether I enjoy it. In turn, I asked them what the road signs meant and which way to go round roundabouts. They thought I was joking until we reached a double roundabout at the bypass and even they weren't certain. Fortunately, the minibus was built like a tank and other traffic got out of our way on the occasions when I had to change lane in a hurry.

We headed off down the motorway to a secluded corner of Wales, making only a minor detour to stock up on beer, crisps and Cornflakes. We arrived at the chalet and the others set to work on the beer. I had a couple of cans and then went to bed, the road stretching out ahead of me whenever I closed my eyes.

I woke in the morning to find a Rick passed out in the bed next to me and a sheep in the kitchen, munching on a washing-up bowl full of Cornflakes. I let it out, cleaned up and served everyone crisps for breakfast. They moaned and groaned. I chivvied them along and out the door. It was scarily reminiscent of my normal mornings but we had go-karting to get to rather than school.

Not that I was that keen myself, you understand, but as Rob's best man, I'd had to put a fair amount of effort into organising it and it was all paid for, so we were flipping well going to go. (Which reminds me, one of the Ricks still owes me money. If only I'd learnt to tell them apart...)

I'm not a speed freak. I have no grasp of racing lines or braking zones or even when the best time is to put my foot down coming out of a curve. My main aim at the go-karting was to try not to get lapped by absolutely everyone else... well, not twice, anyway.

You'd think I'd have picked something up from playing computer games but my usual technique in them is to accelerate insanely towards the first curve, skid into it sideways, take out half the competition in one fell swoop and bounce off them round the corner. I then zig-zag along the course at supersonic speeds, ricocheting off the advertising hoardings on either side of the track for most of the rest of the race.

This doesn't work so great in real life.

Dropping banana skins behind me on the apex of the bends isn't very effective either.

I pottered round the track and tried to stay out of the way as everyone else yelled abuse at each other and took it all very seriously. Then we had chips and went on our gorge walking expedition. I was extremely tired by the time we were finished but I insisted we stop at a supermarket and buy some proper food. I counted out five portions of fruit and vegetables for each of us.

Somehow I ended up cooking it all with help from Rob and Derek. We were the only ones with children and we were beginning to wilt. We were glad of some peace in the kitchen before joining the Ricks for beer and curry in front of The Eurovision Song Contest.

My alcohol consumption pattern has changed considerably since I became a housedad. I used to have two or three pints on a Friday night and a glass of wine now and then. Now I have a small can of beer almost every evening but I can't cope with much more in one go. A little reward at the end of the day is what I'm looking for. Binging just makes me feel unwell.

I wasn't that much older than the others but I felt like a dad surrounded by teenagers. It turned out I had twice as many years of marriage behind me as all of them put together. I had a couple of beers and went to bed.

I was woken in the morning by a sheep licking my face, demanding its bowl of Cornflakes.

I needed three mugs of coffee before I was prepared for paintballing. I dragged the others into the minibus, gave them a slice of toast each and headed off. Most of them fell asleep again, their breakfast still clutched in their hand or clamped in their teeth. One Rick slumped sideways against the window, his toast acting as a pillow.

We reached the field of battle and staggered into the sunlight. We were not an imposing sight. We were bedraggled, barely able to walk and one of us had a slice of toast stuck to his ear. Fortunately, our opposition consisted of a motley band of teenagers and a group similar to our own. In fact, the other stag party looked in a worse state than us - they possibly hadn't slept at all, two of them were handcuffed together and one of them had trouser pockets full of baked beans.

We got our guns and equipment and hoped for the best. I still had a ring-shaped bruise in a sensitive location from my previous paintballing trip, so I was particularly nervous. It went fine, though. The play area was only a hundred metres across, so each game was very short and we didn't spend hours skulking through undergrowth or running through woods. There were fences, sheds, walkways and barrels littered about to hide behind in order to stop the whole thing turning into an instant paintbath but each match seldom lasted more than five minutes. Even so, my legs began to complain from the strain of having to crouch behind low cover. I opted for sprinting suicidally at the opposition, shooting anyone that got in my path, getting shot myself and then going for a sit down before the next game.

I was one of our more effective team members. The Ricks' reactions were not at peak performance. They mostly shot each other.

Afterwards, we wiped ourselves down and went and bought some sandwiches and a couple of crates of bottled water. I wasn't feeling too bad and the others started coming round. We drove to our final activity - whitewater rafting...

"The boat only takes six people," said Rob, peering anxiously at the small dinghy that was pulled up next to a shed by the side of a surprisingly fast flowing and angry looking river.

"Your point?" I said. The Ricks and Derek were already eagerly pulling wetsuits on again.

"There are eight of us."

"You think I'm going in there?" I said. "I'm tired, I'm aching and I've got to drive us all home in a couple of hours. Besides, I have a young family - I don't think they'd appreciate me risking my life in a dubious dinghy crewed by your hapless, hung over mates. There's no way that thing isn't going to capsize. Can you be bothered bobbing along for a couple of miles, trying to get the thing the right way up again while they all blame each other for tipping it upside down?"

"See what you mean..." said Rob, sagging. "I haven't had a decent night's kip since Luke was born. I'm knackered. Shall we wave them off and go sit in the minibus?"

"Yep. Then we can drive down to the finish and take bets on which one of them washes up first. It'll be like Pooh Sticks but with IT contractors rather than twigs. My money's on Rick."

"Which one?"

"The loud, annoying one who thinks he's funny and keeps referring to me facetiously as 'mum'."

"That doesn't narrow it down," said Rob.

"Once again: your point?" I said, rather more forcibly than I'd intended.

"Fair enough. You are tired, aren't you? Thanks for organising this, though. It's been fun."

"Yeah, that's OK. Glad you enjoyed it and I hope you and Kate have many happy years together."

There was a pause. "That's just 'cos you really don't want to have to do this again, isn't it?"

"Not entirely but... yeah. Come on. Let's go."

We got to doze in the minibus for half an hour before the first Rick floated into sight, closely followed by the rest of the group and the upturned dinghy. The cold and wet had revitalised them. There was plenty of jocular recrimination. After they'd dried themselves off, we began the journey home with singing and laughter.

The weather was turning horrible and I had to drive some of the way along a twisting mountain road in the fog. At least, we were fairly sure it was mountain road - there was a wall of rock to one side of us and a low barrier and a drop to the other. The mist made it impossible to tell how high or low the hillside reached. None of us could remember the stretch of road from the outward journey and Rob had lost the map.

We were discussing whether we were lost, when a cow fell on us.

It came from nowhere, bounced off the bonnet of the minibus with a plaintive moo and then hurtled over the barrier and out of sight. It looked quite startled. I probably looked quite startled as well. I slammed on the brakes and we came to a halt. Rob and I looked at each other, each checking the other had seen the flying bovine too.

"Should we go back?" he said.

"And do what?" I replied. "Stop on a narrow road in the fog and lean over a precipice to see if we can see beefburger?"

"You think we should phone someone?"

I shrugged, put the minibus back into first and gingerly moved off. "We don't know where we are, we're on a stag weekend and we'd be reporting a sky-diving heifer. You can give it a go if you like but I don't think they're going to believe you." Nothing juddered or thunked. The steering seemed to be fine. We'd got off remarkably lightly.

"There's a cow-shaped dent on the bonnet," said Rob. "The rental people aren't going to be happy."

I nodded. "We should report the accident at the next town we come to, to cover ourselves. Not much we can do just now."

The singing in the back of the minibus had stopped and it was deathly quiet apart from the noise of the engine. Everyone was shocked by how close we'd come to unforeseen total disaster. My life had flashed before my eyes again but I'd been concentrating too hard on the road to notice. Besides, I'd only added a paintballing trip and Eurovision since the last time I'd watched it - I had the basic gist. The experience did remind me of a conversation I hadn't finished, however.

"Derek!" I yelled over my shoulder.

"Yeah?" he said from a couple of rows back.

"If you really want to look after your kid more," I said, "you should do something about it."

He mumbled a reply but I didn't catch it and I left it at that. Sometimes people simply need to be reminded that they're able to make choices...

The singing started back up eventually and the rest of the journey went smoothly.

The children were in bed by the time I stumbled in the front door. I kissed Lewis and Marie in their sleep and snuggled Marie's rabbit into the bed beside her. Fraser was still awake reading. I gave him a hug. "You smell horrible, Daddy," he said, pulling a face.

It was good to be home.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Three words

Dear Dave,

It's amazing how quickly things change when small children are around. They're constantly getting bigger, developing new skills and requiring different care and attention. Just when you think you've got it sussed, they learn a new trick that turns your world upside down. Whether it's rolling over, eating solid food or knackering the lock on the front door so you have to climb in and out a window (been there...), you adapt to their behaviour. Within days, strapping them down, carrying a spoon and hiding your keys are second nature. Shortly after that, it becomes difficult to remember what life was like beforehand. Besides, there's never time to reminisce - you're already having to deal with the next change.

Do you recall what it was like having only one child? I suspect the memories are hazy now that it's been six months or so since Daisy's arrival. (Sorry to hear she's not coping well with teeth, by the way.) As for not having any children at all, that must seem like a half-forgotten dream. Isn't it weird going to visit people and discovering that their cupboards don't require a special trick to open and their kitchen chairs don't have plastic covers? It's like a strange alternate universe where kids aren't in charge. Freaky.

A couple of years ago, when the guys came round to shoot each other in computer games, I always lost because I was permanently distracted. It's not easy keeping a bottle in a baby's mouth when you need both hands to hold a controller. I kept ending up using my chin in some fashion or other but none of the possibilities really did wonders for my aim. Having to frequently leave the room to get more milk or wipes or a fresh nappy didn't help either. I always returned to find Rob grinning and my virtual self replaced by a pair of smoking boots.

Last year, things were different. All the kids were tucked up in bed by the time Mike and Rob arrived. We normally got to shoot each other in peace. I still tended to get blown to bits on a regular basis but it was much more relaxing without having to juggle an infant.

Now, it's all gone and changed again. The other night, we had to wait our turn for the telly. Marie gets to listen to some music at bed-time but she shares a room with Lewis and he doesn't like the music. Somehow he's managed to negotiate to be allowed to sit in the lounge and watch a Sonic the Hedgehog cartoon while her tape is on. We couldn't get going on our game until Dr Robotnik had suffered his usual 'hilarious' comeuppance. Even then, we had to keep relatively quiet so he got to sleep and so that Fraser didn't emerge to complain that we were disturbing his obsessive reading of Harry Potter.

All the interactive fitness gizmos I'd been mucking about with the other day were still lying around, so I thought we'd have a go on those, drink a beer and then see if our scores improved. I was looking forward to watching Steve flail about in front of the EyeToy. (That's another change - Useless Dad is now a regular at our little gatherings. Shockingly, perhaps that name isn't even accurate any more. I think the time has come to acknowledge his hard work and perseverance in the field of childcare, while still recognising his reluctance, insensitivity and lack of initiative. He is hereby promoted to Mostly Useless Dad.)

Things didn't go entirely to plan. We ended up playing Burnout with the music turned off.

"This is harder than it looks," said Rob, as he smacked his gleaming sports car into the front of a bus at a hundred miles an hour. Metal crumpled, other vehicles swerved, an HGV jack-knifed and a wheel bounced off down the street.

"Told you so," I said, steering my own car round the mayhem and claiming the lead.

"What was that thing you did with your chin?"

The race through city streets packed with traffic was moving too fast for me risk taking my eyes off the screen and check how he was doing with feeding baby Luke. The light splatter on the side of my neck suggested that all was not going well, however. Steve, meanwhile, was busy discouraging Josquin from chewing on a dance mat. The poor kid had some teeth coming through and had barely slept for days. (He's eighteen months or so. You've got a long way to go yet. Sorry.)

"He's looking tired," Steve said, prodding Josquin in the hope he'd fall over and pass out from exhaustion. "I think it's working. Drive faster, you two!"

I was already driving at such speed that my eyes were watering from squinting at the blur of polygons in my half of the screen, but I did my best. Engines roared, headlights flashed and obstacles swished past.

Josquin watched the screen. The sights and sounds became mesmerising. His eyelids drooped, the plastic slipped from his mouth and slowly, so very slowly, he keeled over sideways and started snoring.

At the same moment, I took the final corner at supersonic speed, spun out of control and crossed the line going backwards. It wasn't pretty but it was a win, nonetheless. I did a little victory dance - quietly and without moving much. It was more an excited toe-waggle than anything else.

"Luke's nodded off, too," whispered Rob. "Turn the sound down."

"I thought the little horrors were never going to stop crying," said Steve, slumping onto the sofa. He reached for the universal remote before I could stop him and failed completely in his efforts to work it. He proceeded to switch the TV to a repeat of Only Fools and Horses, turn on the surround sound and pump up the volume to maximum.

"You plonker!" yelled me, Rob and Del Boy in unison. A deafening roar of noise shook the walls, the subwoofer sent a seismic ripple through the carpet, Josquin stirred and Luke's eyes opened in shock. I grabbed the remote and pressed my specially-programmed emergency button. The surround sound went off, the VCR spluttered to life, the TV changed channel and the Teletubbies started to splash around in a puddle. We all held our breath. Luke looked at Laa-Laa blearily, smiled and fell back to sleep. Josquin rolled over but didn't wake. We all let out a sigh of relief.

"What did I miss?" said Mike, returning from a trip to the toilet.

"Shhh!" We all made the noise so loudly that it nearly woke the children again.

"Fine," he whispered. "Does this mean we can shoot things now?"

I nodded. "If you get me a beer."

"Right you are," he said and was back before I'd finished setting up the PlayStation. I was the only one drinking. Steve and Rob required their wits about them in case the kids tried anything. Mike had had all he wanted already. Unlike me, he's somehow able to hold a controller and a Guinness at the same time without mishap or impairment. I'd had to hold off because, up until that point, putting a can down would just have been an invitation for Josquin to try and eat it.

We settled to blasting each other with shotguns. I took a big swig of my beer so I could handle what I knew was coming.

"So, Ed," said Mike, "have you worked out who you are since last time?"

"Not really," I replied. You'll recall that Mike is concerned about me and how I'm adjusting to my ever-increasing obsolescence now the kids are getting older. As my friend, he's taken it upon himself to make me think a little harder about where I'm headed. Since he's also the minister at our church, he's been trained to a professional level of persistence that's wearing down my defenses. This was his third or fourth attempt to get me to talk in a couple of months. Pretty soon, I'm actually going to have to do it. "I'm still a housedad..."

Even as I said it, it felt unlike it had ever done before. Things have changed. I looked over at Steve, who had the pasty, grey complexion of a dad who really knew the meaning of full-time. He had dozed off himself, doubled over and with his controller acting as a makeshift pillow on his knees. The analogue sticks were creating little dents in his forehead. Every so often, the controller gave a faint rumble in a hopeless attempt to wake him.

Seeing him, I realised that describing myself as a housedad means a very different thing from what it did a couple of years ago. Even being a dad has changed:

Rob was still cradling Luke, afraid to put him down and cause another bout of screaming. The constant shifting about to maintain grip, avoid over-heating and stay comfortable was affecting his aim. I, however, had the kids in bed until morning. I was missing out on a stack of cuddles but I had the freedom to have a drink (or maybe two!) and relax for whole hours at a time.

Theoretically, anyway. After years of rushing round all day and being on call all night, it's hard to relax. I keep thinking, 'Time to myself and some semblance of energy to go with it - I must get things done!' Marie's started nursery but I feel like I'm getting less rest than I did before. Maybe it's good that I've got enthusiasm for other projects or maybe it's avoidance of Mike's question. I don't know.

"What three words would you use to describe yourself as a dad?" said Mike, pressing me further.

Since the kind of dad you are is really just an extension of who you are, that was simply another way of getting me to describe myself. Unfortunately, there was only one answer I could think of straight off. "Efficient," I said. "There's food in the fridge, the kids are ready for school on time and the house gets cleaned on schedule."

"Sounds fun," said Rob.

"I try to be fun as well," I said hurriedly. 'Efficient' - was that the best I could do? "And, er, sympathetic. I like to think I'm sympathetic."

"Are you?" asked Mike.

"I'm more sympathetic than I am fun, to be honest. Sarah's the fun parent. She's the one who comes home and plays with them before bed and takes them on trips at the weekend. I'm the one who has to make sure they get dressed on time, do what they're told and eat their vegetables."

"So you get things done and it's dull but you listen when the kids complain?" said Rob.

"That's not what I said."

"What did you say?" asked Mike.

"Hey! Stop ganging up on me!" Mike was serious but Rob was merely trying to distract me while he crept up behind me with a bazooka. I let him have it with a very large gun.

Before I could say anything else, Fraser appeared at the door. He was almost crying. "I've had a bad dream," he said.

I frowned. "Your light's only been out for ten minutes. You can't have been asleep."

"OK," he sniffed, "bad thoughts then."

"That was very sympathetic," muttered Rob.

"All right, all right," I said. "Back into bed Fraser. I'll come through and talk to you."

Once we were in his room, I asked him what the problem was.

Through tears, he said, "I was thinking about when we die and go to Heaven and we're with God. It'll go on forever and it'll never stop and that will be bad."

"Er, why?"

"Because we won't die and it will just go on forever," he said. Considering he has an aversion to change that stretches as far as never wanting the laminate floor in the kitchen replaced, this fear of eternity was perplexing.

"Not exactly," I said. "God is outside time and space and without time there can't be forever. Yes, Heaven won't end but that's not the same as..." I trailed off. Fraser was looking at me blankly. I cursed my natural propensity to mix physics and theology. I decided to go for a different approach. "We don't know what Heaven's going to be like. It's going to be so different from here that it's hard to describe, but Jesus promised that it will be good. Do you think he keeps his promises?"

Fraser smiled and nodded.

"Right, then don't worry about it. Lie down, close your eyes and think about Pokémon." I gave him a hug and he nestled back under his duvet. I returned to the lounge.

"Everything OK?" asked Mike, as I took my seat.

"Yes..." I said. I'd dealt with the issue sympathetically and efficiently and I'd managed to raise a smile in the process. It was a pleasing outcome. Maybe my self-analysis had been accurate after all. It was certainly something to think about.

"Good," said Mike. "Rob shot you fifteen times while you were gone."

Rob grinned. "It was an accident - honest."

"That's fine," I said. "I'm guessing from the smell that you're going to have to leave the room soon to change a nappy. I'll take the opportunity to be careless with a sniper rifle."

"Hey!" said Rob. "No fair!"

"You started it..."

"I suppose." He began to get up but the movement caused Steve to tip forwards and land kneeling on the floor, his face buried in the carpet. He continued to snore. "What do you reckon? Should we wake him up?"

"Let him sleep while he can," said Mike.

Rob sniggered as an idea struck him. "How about we shave off one of his eyebrows?"

It was tempting but I shook my head. "A couple of years ago, that was me. Another few months and it could be you. Leave him be. Go change that nappy and bring me another beer on the way back."

"As long as you don't shoot me while I'm gone."

"In your dreams."

"All right," he said, "as long as you don't shoot me much while I'm gone."

"Deal."

And so it was. The rest of the evening passed quite pleasantly...

* * *

Good luck coping with whatever the kids throw at you this week. It will probably be unexpected. It may well be pointy. It will almost certainly be different from last week.

That's part of the fun.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Coffee

Dear Dave,

Thanks for the congratulations. I'm still somewhat confused by the whole situation, though. It's kind of hard to explain. I tried to explain it to Rob yesterday but, between his new phone, the curtains and the... No, hang on, I'm getting ahead of myself. I'll just tell you what happened:

Rob looked around suspiciously. "When you suggested meeting up for coffee, I was thinking Starbucks or Waterstone's. I would have settled for the Debenhams cafeteria or even that dodgy place at the end of your road that does all-day breakfasts. This is... What is this place?"

"It's very cheap," I said, pointing to a chalk board with the prices on. "I thought you were broke."

"Well, you know, wedding and baby and stuff, but doesn't mean I can't drink proper coffee." Rob squinted. "Flip, that is cheap!"

"Exactly. Now quit complaining."

We were in a little community centre housed in a converted Anglican church. It was still all stone pillars, stained-glass and gravestones set into the floor, but the pews had been removed to make way for a cafe, a gift shop and a lounge area where some elderly people were sitting dozing in a selection of tired old armchairs. At the far end, the altar was still intact and the area around it had been left as a chapel. The cafe was empty apart from a couple of mums who were sitting at a table with hot drinks and cake, while their small children played with some battered toys from a tub in the corner.

Rob had the day off work to get organised for the imminent arrival of his first child but, with only a week to go, he was still in denial and more than happy to meet up with me rather than buy nappies. It was ten o'clock in the morning. I had two children at school and one at nursery. I had no children with me. It was strange. I felt liberated and oddly exposed. I was able to leave the house on my own but, on the other hand, I had no young children with me to explain my disheveled appearance, the bags under my eyes, my permanent manic grin nor why I kept inadvertently humming Old MacDonald.

"Would you stop that?" said Rob.

"Was I doing it again?"

"Yes."

"Sorry. It's in my head. Particularly the verse about subsidies. You know, 'With a ching-ching here, and a ching-ching there. Here ching, there a ching, everywhere a...'"

Rob looked at me sadly. "You've finally lost it."

"I'm not sure you're wrong." I sighed and tried to shake the nonsense out of my head. "What are you having?"

"A cup of tea and a doughnut." He looked at the price list again. "Actually, make that two doughnuts and a scone. These prices are just mad."

"Yeah, that sign over there says this place costs £1200 a week to run but I don't know whether we're supporting them, or they're subsidising us. Maybe if you eat enough doughnuts, it'll cost them £1400 this week."

"I'll give it a go."

We went up to the counter and ordered. I had a black coffee and a scone. The man found a mug and immediately put some milk in it. "Ah, you said black, didn't you?" he muttered. I nodded. He found another mug, held it ready to pour water into and then hesitated. "It was tea, wasn't it?"

"Coffee."

"Oh, right, right." He put a spoonful of instant coffee in the mug and then filled it until it overflowed and he had to mop it up with a tissue. He put the mug on a saucer and then had a similar level of success with Rob's tea. He put the doughnuts on a plate and told us the scones would be brought to our table once they had jam on. We picked our way through the sleeping old people and found a table that, according to the inscriptions on the floor, was situated above a particularly large concentration of dead people.

"I think I know why this place is so cheap," said Rob.

"Well, when you're buying, we can go to Starbucks, Mr Two-Incomes-And-Not-Quite-Any-Kids-Yet."

"I do have an iPhone to support."

"Seriously?"

He whipped it out and took a photo of me looking incredulous. Then he uploaded the picture to Facebook.

"Honestly, you have more money than... than... Oh, I don't know..." I grabbed it from him for a quick play. "Than is probably good for you."

"Cool, though, isn't it?"

I shrugged. "Yeah, well, I doubt this will survive being tumble-dried as well as my brick-like one did."

"I'm not going to let the kid near it."

"Not even if it turns out to be the only thing that stops him or her crying?" I asked.

"No," said Rob definitely.

"Yeah," I said, trying to make my derision clear, "whatever..."

At that point, the manager arrived with one scone and informed us that our order had been mis-read but assured us that the other was on its way. Her large and conspicuous name badge was on upside down.

After she'd left, Rob gave me a look. "Don't be too hard on them," I said, handing back his phone, "I'm assuming they're all volunteers."

"Next time - Starbucks," he mumbled through a mouthful of doughnut.

I changed the subject. "You got the bag packed yet?"

"Bag?"

"Kate's bag for the hospital."

"It's on my list," he said.

I couldn't believe it. "Please tell me you're joking."

"What?" Rob said, defensively. "I've been busy. Some of us have work to go to, you know. The weekends are taken up with buying things like cots and buggies and cottonwool, and I've been spending evenings eBaying my stuff after you told your wife to tell Kate to tell me to get on with it."

"You still need to get the bag packed. If you have to do it at the last minute, who knows what you'll end up throwing in. You'll get to the hospital with your Game Boy, two Star Wars action figures and a packet of biscuits but without the TENS machine. It won't go well."

"I..." He stopped as a text message arrived for him. "It's probably Kate. I saw a set of four matching bridesmaid dresses in a charity shop this morning - only a tenner each. I sent her a photo." He showed it to me. The dresses had a muted, floral pattern and an excess of pink ribbon.

"My sister used to have curtains like that twenty years ago," I said. "I always wondered what happened to them."

"Wearing curtains didn't do the girl in Enchanted any harm..." He read Kate's message. "Oh."

"Let me guess," I said. "She wasn't thrilled?"

He pulled a face. "That's an understatement."

The other scone arrived and we tucked in. "How are you doing now Marie's at nursery?" Rob asked. "I bet you don't know what to do with yourself."

I resisted the urge to slap him. "Everybody keeps saying that but it's only a couple of hours a day and I've got plenty of things to do."

He chuckled, as if humoring me. "Still," he said, "you must be enjoying the chance to put your feet up."

"That's another thing people keep saying. It's driving me mad. If you ask if I miss the children really, and then argue when I say, 'No,' I'm afraid I will have to kill you with..." I grabbed the first item which came to hand. "...this!"

"Don't be stupid," said Rob, chuckling some more. "You can't kill someone with a sachet of sugar."

"Want to bet?" I said, waving the sachet at him menacingly. "It's amazing what can be achieved with seemingly limited resources. Remember the time I saved your career with a packet of Polos?"

He rolled his eyes. "How can I forget? I had to hide the flipping things from a Dell service technician only the other week."

"They're still there?" I flicked the sachet at him in irritation. "That was supposed to be a temporary fix. I told you to get it sorted. Haven't you managed to replace one pack of mints in eight years?"

"It's not just the one pack now."

"What?"

He looked sheepish. "It's possible I might have got drunk one night with the hardware support guys and told them about it. They actually thought it was a pretty clever solution I'd come up with and they liked it so much..."

"You came up with? I... No, hang on, I don't think I want to know where this is going. I still have a pension with LBO. My future financial security depends on the IT equipment not dying in a super-heated eruption of breath-freshening caramel."

"Yeah, well," he said, "the hardware guys liked the solution so much..."

"I'm not listening! I'm not listening!"

"...they've gone and used it all over. Every time we get a new server we have to send a trainee to the newsagents to buy some mints. The last guy was useless. He came back with Extra Strong rather than Polos."

I took my fingers out of my ears and stopped humming. "How was that going to work?"

"Exactly!" said Rob. "Too big, too thick and no hole. Never going happen."

We both clicked our tongues and shook our heads. There was silence for a few moments as, in mutual despair, we contemplated the incompetence involved.

"Seriously," said Rob eventually. "How's it going?"

I stared into my coffee. "It's all a bit weird. I had lots of plans as to how I was going to celebrate when Marie started properly but I haven't really done any of them. I guess this is it." I gave a quick sweep of my hand to take in everything from the dubious coffee to the comatose octogenarians. "Not exactly wild, is it? I just got thrown on Friday and I haven't quite recovered. I was expecting to have to hang around in the building in case the girl had a strop. I even took along a pen and some paper to write to Dave while I waited. I wasn't prepared when they said that, since she'd settled so well on Thursday, I could just leave her. They took my number and I got to wander off."

"Except I had to go back to the house," I said, taking off my glasses and rubbing my eyes. "I couldn't remember my mobile number off-hand so I gave the nursery my home number. I spent a couple of hours sitting in the kitchen, feeling confused and slightly ill."

Rob smirked. "See! You do miss them really."

"Right, that's it!" I grabbed a handful of sachets and made to lunge.

"Woh!" He threw up his hands to ward me off. "Sorry! Sorry! Calm down. You were the one who spent the whole walk here going on about how exposed you felt without them."

I slumped back down. "I suppose I hadn't thought about it that way. Maybe you're right. Maybe I do miss them a little. But it's certainly not like I get to the middle of the morning and hanker after a long, complicated explanation of the life-cycle of the monsters living in my child's elbow."

Rob raised his eyebrows.

"Don't ask," I said. "If you want the full story, I'll send Lewis round to explain."

"He's the one that spent two hours telling me about Wario World, isn't he? I'll pass, thanks."

"Good call - I'm glad of the break myself. It's just... I don't know." I drank some of my coffee and tried to think how to explain. "Have you ever lost your ID badge from work?"

Rob nodded. "Yeah, dropped it in a shredder once."

I raised my eyebrows.

"Don't ask," he said. "If you want the full story, I'll send Gerald from Corporate Regulations round to explain."

It was my turn to pass. "Anyway, as I was saying, not having the kids about is like having lost my work ID badge. It makes me feel the need to explain who I am, what I'm doing and why I don't have my ID."

"Yeah, know what you mean," said Rob. "Must be odd not being able to wave them in the right direction and have doors open for you automatically, either."

"That's maybe taking the analogy a little far..." I said.

"Maybe." He leant back and munched on his scone. "So did you do anything exciting on your first day of freedom then?"

"I killed an Action Man in a freak death-slide accident."

"Er..." Before he managed any further questioning, his phone went again. He checked the message.

All the colour drained from his face.

"You OK?" I said.

"I've got to get home." There was panic in his voice.

"Is everything all right, though?"

He opened and closed his mouth a few times before saying, "I've got to get that bag packed."

"Yep," I said, standing to leave. "You'd better go."

"Uh-huh." He didn't move. He continued to stare wide-eyed at his phone.

"Do you want me to call a taxi?" I offered.

"No... No... I'll flag one. I, er... Do you want some Mars Mission Lego?"

"Excuse me?"

"I haven't got round to eBaying it yet," he said, sounding far away. "I haven't sorted through my books, either. Or painted the spare room. Or bought any nappies. Or completed Tomb Raider Anniversary. I can't do them all this afternoon."

Having recently convinced myself that I really wouldn't like some space Lego, even though, in some sense, I really would, this put me in a quandary. Suddenly, there I was, being offered some for free. Being free is always a big plus. Also, Rob has the deluxe set. I was tempted.

Still, really, really...

Ach, I don't need any and I didn't want to take advantage of Rob in his deranged state. Besides, I felt he could do with a happy thought to hold onto.

I made a difficult decision.

"You should probably save the Lego for Squirtle," I said. "He or she might want to play with it eventually. It'll be a few years but I'm sure you can find some storage space somewhere."

"Oh... Oh, yeah. That's a thought. Yeah, we could play with it together. I..." He wasn't entirely in his right mind.

I hauled him out of his seat. "I tell you what, let's go flag that taxi together." I dragged him across the room. He stumbled along in a daze, a doughnut in one hand and a half-eaten scone in the other. Once we were outside, I bundled him into a taxi, wished him luck and sent him on his way.

I made sure to remind him where he lived first.

Hopefully, he'll be OK and didn't try to pay with the doughnut. I haven't heard any news yet; I'll let you know when I do.

Regards to Liz and the kids.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

PS Marie's at nursery just now and I'm still feeling quite strange.