Diary Of A Bad Dad

The Peterborough Evening Telegraph - - Your Views -

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.

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