THE DAD BEAT
Harry de Quetteville’s tales from the fatherhood front line
“Beloved,” I said with exaggerated largesse, “you have been so brilliant with the monsters this week… why don’t I sit with them on the row of three, and you have the seat on your own.”
In the row behind, an exhausted mum looked pointedly at an exhausted dad who looked at me with pointed loathing. But it was only a seven-and-a-half-hour flight, and I was feeling chipper. Much as I like going away, I love coming home.
“Can we watch the telly, Daddy?” the monsters asked, as we taxied.
“Sure. Yup. Absolutely.” Even I was shocked by my haste, plugging them in with the urgency of a doctor hooking a fading patient up to a vital IV. Hour after hour passed. This is a doddle, I thought.
When we landed. I smiled at Beloved with the air of a man who believes virtue is its own reward.
“Well done, darling,” she said.
“Pretty straightforward, actually,” I modestly murmured. But inside, the Credit Point bonanza bullhorn was sounding. I turned to my beautifully stewarded charges.