The Baby is teething.

Regular readers will know that I do not usually write about the Baby, except in passing or if she does a really interesting and unusual poo etc.

This is mainly because there is only one thing more boring than writing about the day-to-day minutae of looking after a cute but intellectually unadventurous Baby, and that is reading about it. Twee anecdotes about sterilising bottles are supremely Not My Bag, plus I have lots of readers in the social services and I do not want to drop myself in it.

Sooner or later, however, you find yourself in a situation akin to spotting Ann Widdecombe glaring at you from behind a pillar as you stand up to make the keynote address to the annual conference of the National Sexist Society. At some point it is inevitable that you will mention the elephant in the room.

I am not a particularly stoic person, and being woken up for attention on an hourly basis through the night is starting to get me down a little. It is a bit like when the LTLP and I first met, without all the pretending to like each other’s records, but I was young then and could manage that sort of routine. Now I am old, and I am knackered.

I dropped her off at Nursery this morning, then went on to Tesco for comfort food. The peace and quiet of the aisles cushioned my soul; I found myself walking round slower and slower, savouring the solitude of breakfast cereals, jams and spreads, home baking. The fit girl on the checkout who wants to sleep with me helped pack my bags and I blinked as I emerged into the morning air.

I drove home in a daze, to make the Replacement Replacement Carpenter’s breakfast.

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