Diary Of A Bad Dad

I’ d barely recovered from Valentine’s Day and the pressure of being nice to Mrs T for 24 hours non- stop when Mother’s Day reared its ugly head.

Flowers, a card, a gift, breakfast in bed, no footy on the telly... it’s a tough ask.

I wouldn’t mind but it was only 48 hours after International Women’s Day which I had been fully supportive of – to show solidarity with the sisterhood I let Mrs T put the bins out.

But Mother’s Day was a day too far.

The problem is I now ef- fectively have two mothers to keep happy.

My own - Yorkshire mother - who is quite happy with a card, a bouquet and a phone call.*

But now I also have to be Baby T’s agent sorting her mumout who is altogether more demanding.

There was Baby T all smiles and gurgles with mum in bed while I was downstairs beavering away with the breakfast.

“Oh thank you, darling,’’ said Mrs T giving baby a big hug as I handed her flowers.

“You do know it was me, who traipsed round Queensgate sorting all this out,’’ I inquired increduously.

I wouldn’t mind if there was some sort of quid pro quo on Father’s Day.

But I know there won’t be. I’ll get the usual “every day’s Father’s Day - you should try being pregnant for nine months blah, blah, blah’’.

I won’t even be allowed to watch sport on the telly, it not being on the designated list of “things we do together as a family’’.

* You won’t be surprised to know I sent the card and flowers to HIS mother – Mrs T