I am fatigued, lost, convalescing and having strange nightmares about talking trees and Martians eating cheesecake, but otherwise in good shape on this, my last full day of Single Daddin’ It.
I’ve already told the children how immensely proud I am of their great accomplishments and fine behaviour in their mother’s absence, because, whether this is actually true or not, children need to hear this sort of thing at least three times a year to turn out well.
Liz, the nine-year-old, said she was very proud of me also, that I did quite well through these 17 days (Seventeen Days Babe!), except for one thing.
‘You worry too much,’ she said.
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Well, that’s what parents do.’