William’s Progress. Matt Rudd

social occasion as a mobile family unit. It was only lunch at Isabel’s parents who only live a ten-minute walk away, but it was still something of a milestone. We hoped, I think, that it might have gone better, that it might have been enjoyable, but even with military-style planning, it didn’t and it wasn’t.

      We asked Isabel’s mum to have lunch ready at midday because, if we have managed to establish any kind of routine – which we haven’t – it was that Jacob tends to need bouncing to sleep from 2 until 3 p.m., or he screams until 8 p.m.

      We arrived at 1.20 p.m. because we were about to set off an hour earlier, but then Jacob needed a feed. And a change. And another feed. And another change. Then it started to rain and I couldn’t remember where I’d put the waterproof buggy cover, even though Isabel had expressly asked me to leave it somewhere handy. By the time I did find it, the rain had passed but Isabel had hunger-anger. It comes on quickly in breast-feeding mums. So she demanded toast even though lunch was but a ten-minute walk away. Until, at last we set off.

      Frankly, Sherpas bound for the summit of Everest carry less. I had at least nine bags containing everything from nappies and wet wipes to toys, changing mats, breast pads and nipple cream, arnica, snack bars, babygros, backup babygros, backup-backup babygros and a kitchen sink. I walked ten steps behind Isabel and Jacob all the way to the in-laws.

      We had roast chicken accompanied by a relentless monologue about timekeeping from her mum and advice on no-nonsense parenting from her dad. Isabel had no appetite because of the toast. Then we set off back to base camp, me with the nine bags plus four Tupperware containers of some kind of Polish stew and, inexplicably, a very large photo album from when Isabel was a baby. By the time we returned, Isabel needed more toast. I needed a lie-down.

      ‘You can’t lie down. Jacob needs changing.’

      ‘Seriously, how many times can one human being need changing in one hour?’

      ‘Darling, you are at work all week. You can’t complain about a bit of light parenting at the weekend.’

      It has begun. The thing I had been warned about. Mothers, completely understandably, complaining about how much easier it is for fathers because at least they can escape to the office.

      Which, praise be to the Lord, they can.

      Monday 28 January

      I escape to the office. On the train, the lovely train. Again, the bliss was not ruined by the pointy-faced woman, even though she was sitting opposite me this morning and had a laptop. Even though she then angled the laptop’s screen well and truly into my airspace. And then typed very loudly, as if her laptop was a percussive instrument, as if by typing very loudly she was demonstrating that the thing she was typing was more important than the things the rest of us would be typing when we got to our offices. Even though it wasn’t because I had a peek on my way off the train and she was only playing Tetris.

      So I really wasn’t already in a bad mood when I arrived five minutes late and Anastasia told me not to be late again. I may have to confront her: I think she still holds the throwing (cold) tea incident against me.

      Wednesday 30 January

      First proper argument of parenthood. Isabel wants me to take another week off and rent us a cottage in Devon. This is madness on two counts.

      1 I can’t manage a whole week off again so soon after the previous three.

      2 2. How on earth are we going to get all the way to Devon if we almost killed ourselves going to visit her parents who live in the same town?

      I only mention point two to Isabel, but she reacts badly. ‘We’ll be fine’ / ‘I need a change of scene’ / ‘It’s all right for you. You get to go to London every day’. I react badly back, even though she’s right. I do get to escape on a daily basis, even though it’s only to a horrible office with a boss half my age who hates me. Now that we have both reacted badly, Jacob bursts into tears. ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ says Isabel, and I suddenly realise how tired she looks. So I apologise, spend the rest of the evening feeling like an arse and worrying that we will be the kind of parents who do lasting damage to their offspring by fighting all the time in front of them. I then agree to a week in Devon in just under three weeks’ time. On a farm. In February. Just what the doctor didn’t order.

      Thursday 31 January

      Anastasia frowns when I ask for a week’s holiday, makes a barbed comment about lack of dedication and storms off to her lunch interview at the Ivy with the Dalai Lama. I storm off to lunch at the pub with Johnson, but I am momentarily perked up by a text from Andy, best friend but strangely busy for the last six weeks. Can he join us for lunch?

      ‘Hello, stranger,’ I say when he walks in.

      ‘Congratulations,’ he replies, but he isn’t looking me in the eye, which is unlike him. People say that on becoming a parent, you lose friends, even best friends, because all you can talk about is nappies, sleep routines and birth stories. Friends without children have very little interest in these things. In fact, some of them would rather not hear anything about it at all. They would prefer to remain in denial about the whole messy topic until as late as possible. I assumed that the reason Andy hasn’t been in touch at all since the birth was because he doesn’t want to know what may await him if he ever goes out with anyone long enough to marry them and have children. And I don’t blame him. If he would rather steer clear of me while all I can talk about is Fallopian tubes and nappy rash, so be it.

      But here we are in the pub – him, me, Johnson – like old times. And he isn’t avoiding. He’s just oddly nervous.

      ‘I have some news of my own,’ he says after I’ve tried hard to have a whole conversion without mentioning tubes or rashes. ‘I have a new girlfriend.’

      This is hardly news. I’m convinced Andy, an incurable but dastardly romantic, only forged a career in the diplomatic service so that he could fall in love with as many girls in as many different countries as possible.

      ‘This time, it’s serious. I think she might be the one.’ He has said this before, many times, which Johnson and I point out in unison.

      ‘Yes, but this is different.’

      ‘…because you and she share a bond, even though she speaks only Farsi and you speak only nonsense?’ asks Johnson.

      ‘…because you and she transcend the boundaries of simple geography, even though you live in Tooting and she lives in Islamabad?’ I add.

      ‘No, because it’s Saskia,’ he whispers into his pint.

       FEBRUARY

       ‘The biggest thing I remember is that there was justno transition. You hit the ground diapering.’

      PAUL REISER

      Friday 1 February

      Punch, punch, punch, punch, first day of the month.

      Of all the women in all the world, Andy had to fall in love with the one who very nearly destroyed my marriage. It’s not like he didn’t have warning. She’s not called Saskia, the Destroyer of Relationships for nothing.

      She had been the most exciting girl I had ever met. She had strolled into a party several years ago, informed me that we were leaving and then pretty much forced me to have sex with her on Hyde Park Corner. It was every man’s perfect fantasy but, after a few more casual encounters, it turned to a nightmare. The fling finished because that’s what flings are supposed to do. I fell in love with Isabel