G'Night John-Boy

Lucy, following successful gender re-assignment and reconstructive mole surgery; 9.13pm yesterday.

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Considering her tender age and heady list of accomplishments, it's almost an embarrassment to take Lucy out these days. I'm not normally one to boast, but I have honestly seen other mothers turn green as Lucy yet again dazzles the playgroup with her reflections on the philosophical works of Kant, her knowledge of Super String Theory and, of course, her falsetto version of Chesney Hawkes' "I am the one and only".

As if that weren't enough for a 6 month old, when she's not banging on about the potential of supersymmetry or Copernican revolutions in philosophy, Lucy also manages to fit in a dazzling (if slightly deranged) smiling habit, the ability to dribble on demand, and, erm, the capacity to eat things that are not milk. So, all in all, I'm not that surprised other jealous parents are starting to avoid us.

Mind you, in this high feast of development, Lucy's new love of food is actually quite disconcerting: for kinky motherhood it seems, has unexpectedly turned me into one of the Waltons. I've uncovered a fierce desire to feed my precious one only the finest homecooked mush, and have been cheerfully steaming & pureeing more organically-grown, corn-fed, homeopathically-massaged parsnips than is strictly good for a girl.

Jesus. Pretty soon I'll be earning an honest crust in the woodbarn, resplendent in a gingham headdress and contentedly browsing through the Puritanical smock rail in Topshop after Wednesday's Church Club.

The other disturbing result of all this is the frankly startling, erm, "output" from Lucy; whole technicoloured dreamcoats of poo that Joseph himself would draw back a thousand curtains to behold.

Please forgive me, but it may interest the sicker folk amongst you (or perhaps just Joseph) to know a few more details. Swede, for example, is the same bright yellow at either end; chicken casserole looks, if anything, a tastier dish on the return journey; and avoid beetroot unless you particularly want to be confronted with an internal hemorrhage in your gurgling child's nappy. Oh, and going in or coming out, the damn stuff gets everywhere.

So yes - with homecooked gingham, and swapshop nappies - truly I am a fully paid-up member of the Ma Walton Impersonators' Club. And who cares if I'm regularly seen in public smeared in a £3.99 all-you-can-eat puree buffet? The men of North London may no longer be beating a path to my door, but I bet the hungry men of Walton's mountain wouldn't say no to a suck on my jumper.