15th January

15:00

A fine dining establishment overlooking one of the most renowned stretches of coast on our fair Isles. Immaculately presented tables. It appears that to even wait on tables here one must also be a part time model for Next or M&S. For this reason, and the fact that clientele enter through a revolving door, dining here is regarded as a rare ‘treat’ for us.

I therefore feel mildly self conscious as I enter not only in outward-bound attire, including a brief period with bobble hat still in place, but having already jammed myself and a large pram in the afore mentioned revolving door. Following an ungainly reversing manoeuvre in which a pram wheel rides up the glass of one door, we hastily slide into a comfortable leather sofa to join family for their post-meal coffees.

In. Relax. Unbutton the flattering hiking cagoule, and order a classy glass of water. And a de-caf latte, with a knowing “it’s the breastfeeding” nod to the waitress.

And so the scene is set for a relaxing afternoon, discussing the Sunday papers, the football scores, life with a newborn, the various impending journeys ‘up country’ for the family, the recent cold snap, and “his poo’s gone up his back”. Pardon? That wasn’t in the script. My ‘Christmas sweater’ ideal is shattered by this revelation from the wife, delivered very matter-of-factly.

It appears that a bout of wriggling has resulted in Sir’s nappy hanging perilously low around his derriere. This in turn has led to said nappy ceasing to function, and a redefining of the term mud-slide.

Change of plan. Three adults are now required to attend to one infant in the baby changing area. Three? He’s only just over 6lbs. The problem is, we’ve been caught short with no replacement baby-grow.

My next thought concerns the future of the dirtied garments. Being a little fussy, I’m not enamoured with the idea of carting soiled clothing around for the rest of the day. My first thought is to re-enact my own actions when faced with a similar predicament whilst out riding my bike at the age of 8; throw them in the hedge. It worked then and it could work now. Yes. We’ll throw them in the hedge.

Of course, we don’t throw them in the hedge, and I am assured that it will wash out very easily. But there are nevertheless consequences. The pre-planned walk will still take place, and Master Newborn must complete the designated route with no clothes on, just a few layers of blankets.

Walk complete, the threads, and the boy, live to fight another day.