Argument # 5,679

The woeful contents of Lucy's toybox; 4.32pm, yesterday.
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Maintaining cordial relations with Lucy's dad is, it seems, a tad tricky these days. In fact, were I of a more pessimistic bent, I might be tempted to conclude it's nigh on bloody impossible, m'lud.

Having called the ceasefire on our relationship, you'd think that a fashion of peace could ensue: S no longer has to gameplay the dutiful father, whilst I no longer have to torture myself with thoughts of his other daughter and the bountiful Ms. Haythornthwaite. Ergo, we should both be happier, leaving me to concentrate on more pressing matters: like the washing up, my imminent return to the workforce, and just how many times I have to tell Lucy "no" before she stops trying to eat her way through all her dirty nappies. A surefire recipe for success that even Delia would be proud of.

Or so you'd think. Alas, it seems that there still isn't a subject borne in God's green land that we can discuss without a razor-bladed tongue or two and stake-burnt voices at the ready.

As a typical example, the latest topic for discussion has been my housewifery, or, to be more precise, my complete lack of it. Now then, it's true to say that Freud himself would have struggled to make the case for my housewife's psychosis, and those that know me well will freely admit I'm no Anthea Turner: I haven't got a clue about towel folding etiquette, have never paid a visit to my toilet with a lemon and some flat coca cola in hand and, more importantly, am clearly and very thankfully not married to Grant Bovey.

These things aside, although I'd probably not encourage my guests to lick the cistern, my flat's never truly hideous. It is, frequently, a complete mess; particularly when Lucy has been helping matters by distributing the entire contents of the fridge, washing machine and all my bookshelves across the floor with joyful abandon.

However, it seems that S has now decided that he's had enough of my scruffiness. And it really is a bit much to expect him to see his daughter when the toys are not safely aligned in their box and the carpet has not been scrubbed in honour of his visit. I can apparently expect the social services to come round and remove Lucy any second now, on the charge of my home being "a mess" and, more ominously my bedroom being "a complete state".

Clearly, I'd better engage a damn good lawyer in the face of such frightening accusations. I just hope the courts don't object to the pile of used syringes that I like to keep on the floor for Lucy to peruse at her leisure, when she's bored of her favoured collection of old condoms and fag ends that we collect after I've taken her out for a night's hard drinking.

Hmm. Perhaps if I keep them in some nice coloured boxes it'll be okay...

In The Name of The Father

Some confused children; 9.59pm.





Unless the phrase "nanagooie da!" has recently made an entrance into the Oxford English Dictionary, I'm saddened to report that, at the grand old age of one, Lucy has yet to say her first proper word.


Now don't get me wrong, she's brilliant at syllables. A veritable Jedi Master, in fact. From "aah" to "gah", and all the way through to "pah", there's not a far-rhyming couplet she can't make. And, had the mighty James Murray had the foresight to include these in the OED, he would surely have needed at least 5,000 extra pigeon holes to verify the sound provenance of Lucy's utterances.


However, when it comes to stringing them together into something a bit more like recognisable speech, she's, well, not quite there yet. With foolish enthusiasm, I did hope she'd finally managed to break into the world of talking way back in December, when "dada" made it's way into the conversational fray over present opening on Christmas morning: much to the delight of her actual Daddy, who happened to be there at the time.


And, for a while, it seemed that she was "dada" mad - muttering it away to herself at every opportunity, like a drunken 80-year-old on a crack & Werther's Original high. I'd open the curtains to an excited "dada!"; change nappies and remove carrot from my hair to yet more "dada dada!!"; walk for miles through the rain to it; and, excitingly, make lunch, do dinner, wash up and bathe my precious one to it.

Everything, in fact, was accompanied by a delighted high-chorus of da-bloody-da, whilst I quietly grated my eyeballs in the background and gave her an extra hundred lines on the benefits of the far more appealing "mama".


Since then, my digits haven't exactly worn themselves out in the mammoth task of counting how many times she's set sight on the clearly thrilling "dada". However, I am pleased to reveal that she has finally taken the hint and now knows "mama". She's not quite so free and easy with the expression though: "Mama", it seems, really is reserved exclusively for me.

Though, on occasion, the washing machine, the laundry basket, her pram and the settee do get greeted with the "M" word. But clearly when she says that, I know she's just trying to find me there. And I do often hide myself away with the dirty clothes. Honest.