Booooo – the Toddler’s nursery has gone bust. So I have had no time to write an’ stuff, what with the looking after her.

But in the meantime, a short piece of mine appeared on the excellent Newsarse website. Newsarse is great – often laugh-out-loud funny, and has many more hits than misses, which is unusual for the genre.

And I was interviewed by Bren and Soph of This Reality Podcast. (Starting at about 18:15 in, if you’re in a hurry). This was actually from a while back, but I hadn’t got round to linking to it. If you haven’t heard TRP yet, I’ve very much got into it – it’s a really nice, relaxed hour or so of chat, generally about unsigned bands and films – and the presenters’ love for those topics comes through. (Although to be fair, Bren did get a little hung up about speed limits on this particular show. Most of the time, the show is not about speed limits.)

Anyway, it was a very enjoyable chat – Bren and Soph have followed Private Secret Diary for years, and it was great to talk to them. There’s some quite interesting stuff in there about anonymous blogging, if you’re into that sort of thing (“hahaha, you pseud!!!” – the LTLP). Aside from that, it will be interesting for stalky JonnyB completists.

I have to go. She is smashing up the guitars.

“Well what’s on your list?” she demands.

I show her my list. I examine her list once more. Our lists are not quite like those Venn diagrams where the circles don’t overlap, but are more like those Venn diagrams where one circle is at the centre of your piece of paper and the other is in your mate’s kitchen, in Chelmsford.

“I am not calling my child ‘Humphrey,’” I insist.

“I am not calling my child ‘Floyd,’” she insists. But she has fallen into my trap; by putting a ridiculous name on my list, I have started my negotiation with an impossibly high demand, and everything else that I will ask for will seem reasonable. I stare at her list again.

“Charlie,” I read. I think about it. “Hm. That seems reasonable,” I admit.

We have borrowed Big A’s baby names book, and I am bored with reading through it. It is basically just a list of names. Which is very useful and all that, but not incredibly interesting. All I can say is: show me a kid called ‘Aaron’ and I will show you some fucking lazy parents.

I am also bit torn with the issue of Googleability. This is a new consideration for parents. Is it an advantage to have a fairly anonymous, privacy-friendly name, e.g. ‘John Marsh,’ where nobody can particularly track you down? But on the other hand I am obviously expecting my children to be highly successful and renowned. Would it be more helpful to them to name them something like, e.g. ‘Xylophonehead Marsh?’ It is tricky.

I grab my list back and write ‘Xylophonehead’ at the bottom.

Neither of us can agree or compromise. We put the book down. It can wait.

We travel to Longleat Safari Park.

Longleat is fairly unique amongst major tourist attractions in the UK, in that it is not rubbish. I have been there once before, and whilst it is expensive – and no Dollywood – it clearly has a heart and offers value for money.

I think this is probably something to do with it not being owned by an Evil Corporation. As most people know, Longleat belongs to the Marquis of Bath, a man who, let’s face it, commands a certain amount of respect amongst the English heterosexual male fraternity. He provides good recreation facilities and quality animal contact opportunities.

The only thing that spoilt my previous visit was that the monkeys had herpes. I was disappointed by this, as to me a safari park is defined by the monkey experience, and not being able to drive in to the monkey enclosure (due to the herpes) had been a blow.

We trundle up the long drive towards the pay kiosks.

‘Due to unforeseen circumstances,’ reads a sign, ‘the monkey enclosure will be closed until further notice.’

I do not believe it!!! There are no monkeys once more!!! I wind down my window as the ticket lady looks down on me.

“Are there no monkeys today?” I demand.

Her eyes refuse to meet mine. “No. I’m afraid the monkey enclosure is closed,” she says. “Until further notice,” she adds helpfully.

“The monkey enclosure was closed last time,” I complain. “What is the problem with them?”

The lady shifts her stare once more. “They have… a virus,” she replies evasively.

I fix her with a look. “Is it the herpes again?”

She confirms that the monkeys have herpes once more. It is typical. “I can’t believe your monkeys keep reinfecting themselves,” I reply.

“It is not them; it is the humans. They get it from the humans. Then they give it back to us. The monkeys themselves are not that affected.”

“Oh,” I say, taking my change from her before scrubbing at my hand with a baby wipe.

We drive on into the attraction. We have a fine, monkeyless day.

I have heard it said before: there is something beautiful about seeing a person in their twilight years, serene and at peace with themselves in a hospital bed.

Whereas my father looks like a pissed off man covered in probes.

“Hullo!” I beam at him. “What happened to you?”

He shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “Nice probes,” I add. The things are sellotaped all over him. It is quite impressive.

“Absolutely nothing happened to me,” he complains. “One minute my blood pressure dropped a bit, so I felt a bit faint. But because I was standing on the stairs, it got all spectacular. If I’d have been sitting down in an armchair then nobody would have taken any notice.”

I study his probes. “It is quite bad luck that you weren’t in an armchair at the time,” I agree. “What were the chances of that?”

A nurse wanders by and gives my father a selection of studious pokes. “We should have you out of here in three or four days!” she promises.

“Three or four days?!?” he replies in alarm.

I look at my watch. “Well, time is getting on. Did you sleep well, by the way?”

My father glares at me. “What, with all these bloody probes?”

The Hospital Meal Operative approaches with her trolley. She passes over a card, which contains meal options and some instructions to place a tick beside the items required. My father studies the card with the out-and-out enthusiasm of a Christopher Hitchens addressing a creative writing group of left-leaning scampi.

He finally places a tick in a box. The Operative takes the card from him. “You’ve written on the card!” she laughs. “You’re not meant to tick on here – this is for the whole ward!”

“But it says to ti…”

“Look! He’s gone and ticked on the card!” she announces to the ward, before turning back to him with pitying eyes. “Don’t worry love, we’ll sort it anyway.”

“It clearly says to ti…”

“What are you having, anyway, love?” She stares hard at the card. “You’re having the pie, but you’ve not said what sort of potatoes.” She turns to us. “He’s not said what sort of potatoes.”

“I don’t really want any potatoes.”

“No potatoes?!?” She turns to us. “He doesn’t want any potatoes?” She turns to the ward. “Pie but with no potatoes! Oh, you are a one.” She reaches for a loudhailer, throws the window open and announces across the plains of South East Essex “no potatoes! You see he has ordered pie, but has not taken the potato option!!! Honestly!!!”

“Are you sure?” she adds.

My father looks on helplessly.

“Anyway, it’s been good to see that you’re ok,” I say. “I’ll leave you to it – I was planning on going to the pub for lunch.” I take my leave and go to the pub for my lunch. It is good to know that he is in capable hands.