Readers, I must tell you that despite my initial misgivings about fathering the child of an Art tutor, I have warmed to the idea considerably. There are one or two things I fear about being a father, such as having to involve myself in the Father and Son Sack Race at school sports day. I am not proficient in athletics and worry that I will show my son up and embarrass him in front of his friends. Even if I just have a daughter, I will still be expected to give her a lift to the Brownies every week and I cannot drive. Above all, I live in terror that my offspring, whatever its gender, will develop a terrible wasting disease and die young, or that some awful calamity should end its existence, a tragedy that would break my heart. I would be unable to cope with the grief and would likely force a screwdriver into my ear to puncture my brain and expediate my own demise.
Such are the perils of parenthood. To protect my future offspring from disasterous death, I have taken further measures to ensure its wellbeing within my Dundee home. I have wedged Gluetack (a mixture of Blu-Tack and Glue of my own devising) into all the electric sockets in my home so that my baby does not electrocute itself by insering a metallic strip into one of the zapholes.
All poultry has been exorcised from my kitchen to avoid the risk of botulism. I have heard that babies cannot tolerate salt in their diet, so I have dutifully expunged my sellars and saltlicks. A grave risk to our nation's young is scalding: to remove this hazard, I have committed my kettle to the flames, and have cast away my plugholes - if a bath or sink cannot be filled at all, then there is less chance of it being filled with boiling water, and therefore less chance that I submerge my baby in it in a fit of pique.
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