It is a nice afternoon, but I have no time to dawdle.

I am running a little late to pick up Child #1 from school. Again!!! Anybody would think that her arrival home is not the sunshine-drenched peak of my day.

The lane is single-track; it pootles along through farmland and coppices. I drive happily, listening to the hard-hitting sounds of Steve Wright in the Afternoon.

Ahead of me, I can see a Range Rover emerging tentatively from one of the tracks that leads on to the fields. The road is narrow at this point, and the track joins it at a slightly acute angle. The driver misjudges this a little and thus requires two attempts to turn, which means that they are stationary and blocking the road by the time I reach them. Not being in my enormous old gas-guzzling 4×4, I do not have the option to drive up on to the banked verge to give way.

The other driver, who turns out to be H.M. The Queen, looks a little sheepish at this. I am also a little foxed. It is my right of way in the big scheme of things, but then it is her highway. Fortunately, H.M. The Queen clearly feels the same, and turns to her companion in the passenger seat with one of those universal ‘oh dear, I really buggered up that manoeuvre’ embarrassed little laughs. She then grapples awkwardly with the steering wheel, and pulls the Range Rover up onto the verge to let me through.

I draw past, giving her a little fellow-driver ‘we’ve all been there’ wave of acknowledgement. I imagine that she was probably distracted by the non-stop oldies or suchlike. It is good to know that with all the talk of road rage etc. etc. there is still a little courtesy amongst our drivers.

Tired.

I am tired. I am desperately tired.

I am tired as only a newish parent can be; tired as a man whose nights have been interrupted and interrupted again for six months or more; tired as a lengthy comedy routine on BBC Radio poking fun at the fact that John Prescott might be overweight because he eats too much.

I stagger round the kitchen in my tiredness. The Baby has been awake even more over the past few days; he is up several times a night, boasts rosy cheeks and dribbles a lot. He smiles at me, just to be unkind.

Longing for a simple solution, I poke my finger in his mouth and scrabble around, desperately searching for teeth. But he is still as toothless as an elderly hen sitting on the Press Complaints Commission.

I am sure that he is doing it on purpose.

“I’ll see you later then,” says the LTLP. The door slams behind her, its echo causing a layer of doom to drift gently down into the kitchen.

I look at the Baby. The Baby looks at me.

As I gaze at him, I am once more overwhelmed with the situation. The LTLP has gone back to work, leaving me in sole charge. Not just of a house and of Child #1. Of a Baby. It is the most important role and responsibility that I have ever had in my life, ever ever.

The Baby inclines his head slightly at me. He has already contacted BT to place Social Services on our ‘Friends and Family’ and is no doubt now weighing up the most humorous time that he could do a poo. I sit down on the bottom step of the staircase and start biting my nails.

Updates might be a little sporadic for a while.

We are in the Village Pub.

“I cannot believe you did not notice them,” I scold Short Tony. “There were thousands of photographers, with their long lenses. Hundreds and thousands of them.”

Incredibly, Short Tony has been oblivious to the presence of the rare Gribledy-Grob bird that has been visiting the tree in the front of my garden. He just does not take an interest in important Village affairs like this. Anybody would think that he has some sort of proper job, a social life, etc.

“To be honest, that seems a bit dodgy,” he reflects. “Pointing cameras up at the front of the house. My teenage daughter’s window is up there.”

“It is all right. You cannot look into her window without climbing up on a stepladder to see over the hedge,” I reassure him.

We discuss the Gribledy-Grob for a while. It has been an odd experience, with the fame of the bird spreading round the UK and beyond. I am even number one on Google now for the rare Gribledy-Grob – higher even than the RSPB. That is the power of blogging. But the madness seems to be over now; the bird has not returned to my tree for many days.

The next day, a man calls at my door.

“Have you any tree or garden work that needs doing?” he asks. “I am in your area now.”

I scratch my chin.

“Actually,” I reply, “this is a stroke of luck. There is a tree in the front garden that needs pruning. Severely.”

We agree a price and he turns to go to his van. “While you’re there,” I add, “you could take that hedge down a bit.”