Diary Of A Bad Dad
I’ve been married to Mrs T for seven years and been with her for many more so I don’t expect her to be at a fever pitch of excitement when I walk through the door after a hard day’s grind at Telegraph Towers.
But I do wish Preschooler T would be interested enough at my return home to avert her gaze from Horrid Henry on the telly for just a minute. She seems to have perfected teenage indifference very early in life.
At least Toddlernator the Terrible is pleased to see me. Every evening he comes hurtling down the hall bare chested (I don’t know why he never seems to have a shirt on) arms raised and fists clenched like he’d just scored a last minute winner at Wembley.
“Daddeeeeeeeeeeeeeee,’’ he shouts. It melts my hardened journalist’s heart but sadly after this initial burst of enthusiasm he joins his sister and mum in barely acknowledging my existence.