THE DAD BEAT
Harry de Quetteville’s tales from the fatherhood front line
Have you ever had such good fortune that it becomes a problem, because you’re going to need a bit of luck soon and you don’t want the gods to have turned on you by then? Sure you have.
You curse as your favourite team flukes goals in a series of easy games, because the chances of another one in the knife-edge derby are then shot. You lament the absence of rush-hour traffic because it’s actually next week you will need a clear run.
Or, if you are a parent of a small child at school in the autumn term, you cast an increasingly jaundiced eye over each day’s return of the monsters without some ghastly lurgy.
“I know what will happen,” said
Beloved after the first week without so much as a sniffle. “They’ll go six weeks without anything, and then they will come down with everything just as we are about to go away.”
Yes, we have been away this half term. Special trip.
“All I want is for them not to get sick,” Beloved repeated, like some voodoo