In the past fortnight the resident boy has been experimenting with standing. Watching him exchange the lows of the horizontal to the lofty highs of the vertical signifies a marked change in all of our lives, and already I’ve got reservations about this new direction. In fact, I’m thinking I preferred it when he just lay there being all small and chubby.

Every waking hour, when he’s not eating or being changed (we’ll touch on that shortly) he’s either attempting self-elevation, in the process of it or stood up, wobbling. The upshot of this is that he requires constant supervision, very much to the detriment of work, writing and Unchartered 4, and its sort-of getting on my tits. It’s not as if he’s the wherewithal to stand in places where he’s not going to hurt himself either. I’ve done a bloody good job at sorting out this flat, to make it safe for the little bloke to move about as he pleases in certain places, but this standing lark has undone most of that. Now a whole new world of potentially lethal disasters has dawned and quite frankly he’s not helping by choosing to practice his standing next to objects that were once safe, and now aren’t… Yes, I’d already secured bookshelves, bought those squishy things for the corner of tables, but there are no such things for the edges of said table, its actual legs, nor are there any protective devices for the lip of a bookshelf or the rim of a chair, all the objects he uses to hoist himself upright. And once he’s there, precariously positioned with beaming grin on his yoghurt smeared face, there is always the wooden floor (laminate, quite cheap) ready to deliver the final blow.

To make matters worse, he’s now access to those precious, fetishised objects that were, until recently, literally out of reach. Remote controls, i-phones, spectacles and, in one heart-stopping incident, the handle of boiling hot mug of tea that he was slowing pulling towards himself after managing to circumnavigate a not-so strategically placed chair. Take the mornings, they used to be a time of relative peace and calm, in the past his mother or I would gather him from his cot and feed him in bed until he’d fall asleep. Now he’s up and about, stamping all over the bed, hanging off curtains and lampstands and egging himself on with screeches of delight. Er, hello, I’m trying to listen to Today.

This increased activity has also had an effect on his appetite. He’s now wolfing down grub like Man V’s Food, and when he’s not doing that -or snacking between meals- he’s evacuating his premises. I’m not going into details, not because I don’t want to upset anyone with descriptions of what I, we, have to deal with on a regular basis, I’m just sparing myself from resurrecting memories best left dead and buried, well sort of. It’d be remiss of me if I didn’t at least hint at the horrific consequences of one distinguished occurrence when, during the circumspect removal of his overflowing nappy, he decided to suddenly roll over and attempt to stand via the wall and my hair.

The incident doesn’t bode well for when he’s walking, which seems like it’ll be no more than additional potential for serious injury coupled with an improved way of distributing shit. I for one can wait.