‘I don’t know how you do it with three.’ I am at a child’s birthday party, working out how many Wotsits it is acceptable for me, an adult, to take. It is 10.13 a.m. and these Wotsits will be my breakfast. Something had to give in the morning routine to get my son here on time, and as usual it was daddy’s breakfast. I say my son – this one is my older son. Back at home is his four year old sister, and his new, two-week old baby brother.
It’s bad form to discuss Chinese expansionism while nibbling a Quaver
‘Pardon?’ I say. ‘Three kids, man,’ says the Other Dad, ‘we find one enough to handle’. I feign a chuckle, say that we’re doing pretty well for the first couple of weeks, and ask which of the children in the heaving birthday mass is his. Would he judge me for taking the Wotsits?
Later, I end up next to a grandmother – a lesser-spotted creature on the toddler birthday circuit.
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