“You said you were just going for a casual look?!?” says the LTLP, as I clamber unsteadily down, having parked up in the drive.

“It was excellent value, and the salesman seemed like an extremely trustworthy man,” I reassure, following her into the Cottage.

“I see.”

The LTLP is on her maternity leave, which means that she does not need a woman’s runaround car to get to work every day. This means that we are able to get something a bit more sensible and appropriate for local driving conditions, e.g. we have minor roads and no motorways, so it is practically essential to have a 4×4.

“It is blocking out all the light in my kitchen,” she complains.

“You will love it. I will take you for a drive.”

We go back outside to the car. I fetch a ladder from the shed to help the LTLP get into the passenger seat, and fire up the diesel engine. It rattles and bellows into operation, like actor Brian Blessed, nursing a bad throat infection whilst operating some quarrying machinery and singing along to the first album by Leonard Cohen.

“It will quieten down in a bit,” I promise.

She is looking round the interior, taking it all in. I know that she will be as enthusiastic about this as I am. Especially when I tell her about all the practical features.

“You can fold all the seats down flat, to make a bed!” I tell her.

“Right,” she replies.

“And if you notice, it has a tape player rather than a CD player,” I continue. “Which is useful, as a lot of modern cars do not have the facility to play tapes. So we can listen to all my old tapes whilst we drive around.”

I put on a Steeleye Span tape.

“Oh God,” she says.

“You like it?” I say.

“Fotheroididdleoiday,” say Steeleye Span.

We drive on in silence (apart from the Brian Blessed/quarrying engine and Steeleye Span.)

“What, then, are we going to do with my car?” she demands.

“Don’t worry,” I reply. “I have thought of a plan.”

The past few days have been difficult and tiring.

Honestly, I am surprised that nobody with a new Baby has ever noticed this before. Truly, I am a master of acute and original observation.

“You look shattered,” I tell the LTLP. “Why don’t I take the Baby out for a bit?”

It is true. The LTLP’s head is lolling about with tiredness; her shoulders slump with the weight of constant responsibility and physical effort. Even though I am not feeling great myself, the least that I can do is to ease her burdon for a short while.

“While I’m gone, you can wash up the bottles and make more milks and sort out the stuff that he has been sick on and wash down the changing mat and do a bit of general tidying up, if you like,” I add. “In the meantime, I will take on the job of looking after the Baby.”

I go to the Village Pub.

The Baby has not been to the Village Pub before. It is difficult to tell what he thinks, as his face (when awake) carries a permanent expression of startled alarm and dismay. It is an expression that you only ever see on babies. We walk through the door into the bar.

The Village Pub is very busy. I am in luck. As new babies are basically exactly like those ultraviolet lamp-trap things that they hang in the corner of bakeries to lure in flies and insects, but for middle-aged women, I am soon divested of my load. I am able to sit at the bar and quietly drink cider whilst the Baby is passed around for inspection.

“Here is your bar bill. I’m afraid we are closing your account,” says the Well-Spoken Barman.

My face adopts an expression of startled alarm and dismay. But it transpires that this is only because they are moving to a new till system. I will get a new bar tab afterwards, although there is some worrying talk of itemisation.

The Baby is returned to me an hour or so later. I finish my pint and wish everybody well, as he is now screaming his head off.

Returning home, I find the milks made up and the kitchen tidied. Parenting is about teamwork; we have this sorted between us.