“What do you think?” I ask the LTLP. “I have never worn braces before.”

From her expression, I can see that she is awe-struck. My new birthday braces were allegedly used on TV’s Black and White Minstrel Show; they have graphics of musical notes up them and are incredibly snazzy.

“What the fucking hell have you got on?” she replies.

I blink at her, puzzled, before cheerfully ‘pinging’ them, like people with braces do all the time.

“Can’t you adjust them or something? Your trousers are pulled up so high and tight – oh God, I can see the outline of your…”

I fiddle with the adjusty things. I will get the hang of it in a minute. “I have to say that I quite like them,” I report. “They seem ever so fashionable.”

“What’s that stain on them?” demands the LTLP, scrutinising the rust marks from where the clips have aged. “Ugh. They smell.”

That is the trouble with the LTLP. She is so conservative in her fashion sense. I stare at myself in the mirror, for ages. This could be a completely new look for me.

A small doubt crosses my mind. “Do you think if I go out in public wearing braces from the Black and White Minstrel Show then people will think that I am racist?” I ask.

“Well ARE they from the Black and White Minstrel Show?”

I consider this. They were a present from Glenn, who played bass on the song ‘Toast’, so he is a pretty central figure in the world of showbiz and light entertainment. There would seem to be no reason why he would claim to be giving me braces from the Black and White Minstrel Show if they were not, in fact, from such an origin. It would be a bizarre thing to make up.

I am still a little worried about the racist thing. I sit down and strum my banjo for a bit to help me think. Probably the best thing to do would be to establish their authenticity beyond all doubt. I am just about to fire up the YouTube to look for episodes of the Black and White Minstrel Show when it occurs to me that if I wear the braces out of the house and it incites some sort of public disorder and I am interviewed by police on suspicion of being a racist, and I claim not to be, they will probably examine my laptop for evidence and say ‘aha he has been downloading episodes of the Black and White Minstrel Show to view in his own home, throw the book at him.’

It is one of those common dilemmas of modern life.

I remove my braces after a few more minutes. They seem a little formal to be wearing about the house, and besides, my crotch is chafing. I hang them up carefully in the wardrobe. I will have to consider this further before venturing out into the Village.

It has been the best birthday ever.

The telephone rings.

It is Radio 2′s The Jeremy Vine Show! I would put them on my ‘friends and family’ thing, if I had not sacked B.T. for being annoying. The Radio Producer greets me warmly.

“A lady journalist has written something saying that househusbands are all useless and a complete waste of space,” she explains. “We wondered if you would be interested in coming back on to the show to demonstrate the opposite.”

I hastily check the skies for oncoming jets before puffing out my cheeks in some annoyance. “Of course,” I say. It is wrong to rise to the bait, I know.

She asks me a few questions to help her set up the interview.

I explain that I used to be a househusband, probably Britain’s leading househusband, and that it was an insult to say that my people are all rubbish, although clearly there was a bit of a gender divide thing over whether it was really necessary to move ornaments and dust underneath. I explain that during my househusband days I had personally booked and supervised the cleaner, which I had employed without mentioning it to the LTLP, in order that the house would be super-clean for her return home from work. I tell her about my repertoire of meals with a potato, a rich and varied diet full of interest and nutrients.

It is fortunate that they have decided to speak to somebody like me, with the ammunition to put this sexist harridan in her place.

“Riggghhhht,” replies the Radio Producer. “Well – what we’ll do is… we need to talk to a few more people in order to… well, we’ll give you a ring back at lunchtime if we need anything.”

“No problem!” I reply.

The Radio Producer does not ring back. I expect she had difficulty getting through, as the mobile reception is not very good in my part of the world. I take the Baby to play group instead, which is great as the ladies there hold him whilst I drink coffee.

It is a vibrant morning in Norfolk.

The Parish Council election votes are being counted; an important bowls match is scheduled for the evening. Further afield, the Canaries have won promotion; later, the disbanded XIII Squadron at Marham will be honoured with a thundrous supersonic flypast of six Tornado fighters over the skies of Norfolk. The weather is sunny and the birds are cheepy. My email explodes into life with a cheerful ‘bing.’

It is Radio 2′s The Jeremy Vine Show! Could I call them to arrange being on there, to talk about bowls.

I have been on the radio before, but Radio 2′s The Jeremy Vine Show has about a grillion listeners and occasionally plays really good stuff, like Leonard Cohen. Honestly, this is exciting. But I am determined to play it cool. About 0.00000000001 second later, I call them.

I get put through to a researcher. She speaks to me for some time, claiming to be doing research; after a while I twig that the research involves establishing that I definitely don’t possess some form of medical condition that compels me to shout the word ‘vagina’ at periodic intervals.

This confirmed, we chat for a bit about my knowledge of the current bowls scene. This chat tails off, and we conclude that I would best be used as light relief after the serious bowls conversation, which will involve John Woodcock MP talking about his ‘you must not build houses on bowling greens (2011)’ bill.

She goes on to explain that as Jeremy Vine (from The Jeremy Vine Show) is covering the elections, today it will be Matthew Bannister presenting The Jeremy Vine Show. My ‘oh’ in reply is meant to mean ‘I acknowledge that fact and there is nothing wrong with it at all,’ but unfortunately comes out as ‘I am crushed and disappointed that a lesser person like Matthew Bannister is presenting The Jeremy Vine Show.’ I immediately realise this and try to make it better by praising Matthew Bannister and slagging off Jeremy Vine, but that comes out wrong as well, so I just say something like ‘never mind’ which seems to make it worse.

“Could you get to a studio?” she adds.

I laugh. This is rural Norfolk. She may as well have asked me if I can get to a teleportation vestibule. There is very little background noise on the phone line, however, so phone it will be.

My appearance takes place as scheduled. John Woodcock MP talks about his ‘you must not build houses on bowling greens (2011)’ bill. They cut to me.

“Is it easy to learn the rules?” asks Matthew Bannister (for Jeremy Vine).

“Oh yes,” I say. “You just…”

I am interrupted by a thundrous supersonic flypast of six Tornado fighters over the skies of Norfolk.

Conversation tails off a little after that. We chat a little more. Matthew Bannister (for Jeremy Vine) puts a Barry White record on.

Testing 1-2-3. Is this thing on?

I am sorry that I have not written for a while. I will do so shortly. Promise. (Or threat, depending on how you see it).

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.