“Table for three,” I announce, as I stride in proudly with my family.
But the lunchtime trade is unusually brisk, and so I end up plonking Baby Servalan into the fireplace and hoping for no sudden sootfall.
“Hello!” cries Eddie from the other end of the bar. I saw him on Friday night but we didn’t get a chance to speak. I stand to greet him, but am knocked over in his haste to see the baby.
“Afternoon!” greets Big John, elbowing me to one side to do likewise.
This continues several times over, the pub grinding to a halt with even the Chipper Barman dropping his stonewall façade to do a bit of googooing. By this point I am feeling like a bit of a non-person and am thinking of reporting the baby to the police for being in a pub whilst too young.
I haven’t got a clue why Al-Qaida bother spending time planning all these complicated terrorist acts in order to get back at the West for having freedom. They could bring our whole economy to its knees by simply infiltrating ten or eleven key organisations and companies that are vital to us (power stations, transport facilities, the people that write Sudoku etc), and co-ordinate bringing small cute babies in to their premises. It would cause chaos. But instead they sit around in their base in Iraq over-complicating everything.
I finish my lunch in quiet reflection. As a blog celebrity I am used to being the centre of attention, and I suppose I should be pleased that my offspring is achieving an equal status of achievement in their own right, like George Bush, Julian Lennon etc.
But I would not want her to get too big for her booties.