I go to the Village Shop.

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The Village Shop has been going from strength to strength since my extensive multi-channel leafleting campaign.

I am pleased to see it doing so well. They have a good combination of standard things that people need and finer things that might make them a small profit. I always nose around the displays whilst my pint of milk is being rung up on the sophisticated electronic till.

Something stops me in my tracks.

“What,” I ask, very slowly and carefully, “is this?”

The Village Shop lady looks up from her transaction.

“It’s mustard!”

I stare at her, and then stare at the three jars in front of me, given a prominent position above the pork chops. “It is German mustard. In the pot the shape of a beer glass. German mustard.” I wave my hands helplessly around the shop. “People do not come in here to buy German mustard. Not even the tourists.”

She purses her lips. “Well Granville brought it in from the cash and carry this morning – he was very proud of finding it.”

“It is German mustard, in a pot the shape of a beer glass. How many of these do you expect to sell?!?”

“All of them!”

I shake my head in exasperation and read the label carefully.

“It’s from Aldi!” I boggle at her. “You are trying to sell, on your premium display, three items of German mustard, in pots the shape of beer glasses, from Aldi. You cannot sell stuff from Aldi in here. It is the Lidl Lidl.”

“It’s not from Aldi is it? Where does it say that?”

“I tell you what,” I offer generously. “I will give you half price for this now. That way it will save you time when the sell-by date expires and you have to mark it down to half price.”

She turns this down, offended. I don’t know. I try to help people with the benefit of my extensive retailing knowledge but they just won’t be told.

The next morning I go to the Village Shop once more, to buy bread and a newspaper. I glance over to the display. Only two pots remain.

There is a big smashing noise.

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And a shriek of pain.

The old half of the Cottage plunges into darkness; the sharp sound of glass scattering is followed by the crunch of feet treading it into the floor. Through the corridor, drifting into my startled nostrils, wisps the unmistakable aroma of burning hair.

“Short Tony is on the Wii,” I sigh to myself.

I am not saying that the Wii Fit has been a white elephant, but as something that has fulfilled its promise it does approach the status of a Millenium Dome that’s been filled from top to bottom with an assortment of Hummers, flavoured Kit-Kats, the BBC 3-D flying weathermap and fifteen boxes of DAB Digital radios, all painted white and fitted with a large trunk. There comes a point when abuse about your weight has ground you down so much that you are just afraid to step on to the thing, and so the balance board is gathering dust in the corner.

Quite heavy dust, I would imagine, should I use it again.

“I’ve had a bit of an accident,” informs Short Tony, limping ruefully into the kitchen, his head slightly smoking.

However, I have to say that the game where you have to hold the control things and dance along to the Jackson 5 is endlessly entertaining. As I have mentioned before, I was a bit disappointed to find that modern video games didn’t all consist of running people over in fast cars and murdering prostitutes, as it says in the papers, but – for me – dancing along to the Jackson 5 is a pretty close second, even if it doesn’t match the games of the classic era. If they could have a game where you danced along to the Jackson 5 whilst climbing things and avoiding barrels being rolled at you by a big gorilla then frankly that would be gold dust. But there is no imagination amongst developers today.

“I’d better get a dustpan and brush,” I tell him, as he puts out his head.

I clear up most of the glass after resetting the fusebox. Short Tony apologises about the light fittings. The LTLP returns home. There are some awkward explanations.

We sit down to lunch.

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There is an undercurrent of conflict. The Toddler does not want to eat her Big Soup.

“I cooked that for you especially,” I warn her. “You said that you wanted some soup, so I went to the cupboard, and I got out a tin of soup, and I showed you the tin, which has a picture of soup on it and the word ‘SOUP’, which I spelled out letter by letter, and I put it into a saucepan, and I cooked it.”

“I went to all that effort,” I continue. “So you are going to eat it.”

The Toddler dons her strop expression, sitting motionless with a face like a slapped arse. I am not prepared to compromise, especially as her contribution is just “don’t want my soup.” If she had bothered to be a bit more articulate with something like “daddy, this soup is essentially shit and a truly worthless nutritional exercise,” then I would be more sympathetic. But no.

I do not back down. She does not back down.

“I’m sorry,” I state finally. “You have to eat your soup. There are children starving in Africa.”

I have used the children starving in Africa line!!! This is a first for me. I immediately worry that I am being culturally imperialist, and perpetuating negative stereotypes which will stick with her for the rest of her life. I wander over to the laptop and put on ‘Drive’ by The Cars to emphasise the soup point.

The Toddler picks at her soup. “I tell you what,” I say. “If you eat your soup, I’ll change the music to that song from Disneyland about dreaming it.”

She eats her soup. I put on the song from Disneyland about dreaming it. I die inside.

Mouse #3.

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We go to Disneyland.

“ItsmickeymouseitsmickeymousedaddydaddydaddyitsMICKEYMOUSE!!!” cries the Toddler.

Mickey Mouse appears.

I am determined, for a few days, to leave my natural English miserable-bastardness in the hotel for the sake of family unity. I take a photograph of a man in a giant mouse suit and we walk to the theme park. Burly men at the gates are opening peoples’ bags and checking them for any negative thoughts.

The recipe for Disney is very simple: 2% pudding, 98% egg. The fact is that small children are thrilled by the basics of a) going on brightly coloured things that move and b) meeting giant mice, and you could probably leave it there and go down the pub. But they do insist on slopping on all these concepts of wishing and dreams coming true and the world being a wonderful place and all that.

Nowhere is this more prevalent than in a constantly repeated song called ‘Just Like We Dreamed It’. This plays over the tannoy on some form of constant loop, whilst made-up loons prance around with fixed smiles in the big parade. A soft-rock number in the boy/girl duet mould, it has the unusual effect for an art form of making you want to cut off your own cock in order that the pain will cause you to pass out and make the song go away. Then, just as you are scrabbling in your bag for a big knife, a truck-driver’s gear change reveals that – no – it will never go away, and will be stuck with you for ever. I have subsequently – and very foolishly – found this song on Spotify, and my life will never be the same again.

We watch the St Patrick’s Day tribute to Ireland and the Irish, which features riverdancing chipmunks.

Songs aside, I enjoy my trip. And food. Songs and food aside. I am a big fan of true American food, and it distresses me when it is spoilt by being prepared in the European fashion, ie boiled in the microwave and served in small portions for lots of money. But everything else is good.

The LTLP takes the Toddler for a wee; I sit at the entrance of the park, people-watching whilst I wait. It is the best bit. I could never get tired of spotting each child’s face absolutely light up as they step through the gates and realise that they are in a place that will provide them with brightly-coloured things that move and giant mice. It is truly heartwarming. Then I realise that I am turning into Noel Edmonds, which is wrong.