THE FRAZZLED DAD JONNY COOPER, 33

Mornings are a melee in my household. There are nappies to be changed (we have two children, aged three and nine months), showers to be had, fights over Cbeebies to be aired (“Pleeeease let me watch one more Postman Pat,” I whine, as my other half tells me it’s time to go to work).

I find it easiest to either skip breakfast or inhale whatever happens to be in the bread bin. And really, that sums up my approach to food at the moment.

My partner and I are mired in the trench warfare of early childcare: every time we think it’s safe to pop our heads over the parapet and enjoy a well-constructed meal, we’re hit by a volley of baby vomit or a toddler tantrum grenade.

I look forward to my lunch at work as the one meal of the day that isn’t interrupted by enemy fire. I probably drink a bit too much, too. But then, show me a parent who doesn’t.

THURSDAY

7am: slice of brown toast, butter and Marmite, black coffee 1pm: bowl of vegetarian chilli from Tortilla: rice, beans, peppers, salsa, guacamole, cheese, sour cream 4pm: flat white 7pm: bowl of homemade vegetable dal, two slices of bread and butter

FRIDAY

7am: black coffee, hot cross bun 1.30pm: falafel wrap with salad 3pm: flat white 7pm: two fish fingers, chips, peas 8pm-10pm: four squares of Galaxy Caramel, three gin and tonics (at least doubles; home measures)

SATURDAY 8am: two scrambled