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He who hesitates

Apple opened its doors for iPad pre-orders in the UK on Monday, promising shipment by May 28th. Fool that I am, I deliberated, cogitated and digested, confirming in my own mind that I really did need - okay, really, really want - one, and then mulling over Heather's offer to defer purchase until my 40th birthday in September. (I did give that some consideration. Really I did. I even went so far as to agree to wait, although I must admit I was 95% certain she wouldn't take me up on it.)

Anyhow, I finally got round to placing my order this afternoon - the 32GB Wi-fi only model, in case you were interested - only to discover that, yet again, demand is far outstripping Apple's ability to manufacture and distribute the hardware. As a result of dithering for 48 hours, I now find that Apple have shifted shipping dates on new orders back ten days to June 7th. That's 26 - count them, 26 - days of waiting.

It's like the bad old days of the 70s/80s, when mail order companies would routinely advise you to "please allow 28 days for delivery".

What's the old saying about "he who hesitates is lost"? Or, at least, majorly incovenienced? Idiot, idiot, idiot. Why didn't I place the order first thing on Monday morning?

Yes, I know I'm being pathetic and childish. I know it's only another ten days, when I knew I was committed to waiting over two weeks anyway. But the whole point of being an early adopter and accepting that you will be paying a premium - for the initial version of a gadget which will be superseded within months with a vastly improved model anyway - is that you're, well, early. It's like paying for front row tickets on opening night and then arriving half an hour late and sitting ten rows back.

Now if you don't mind, I'm just going to sneak off to a quiet corner and throw a toddler tantrum Zac would be proud of.

Election 2010: the morning after the night before

After two hours' sleep, I would be lying if I said I was at my sharpest at this moment, but let me try and work out what's happened since I went offline at 4am.

The consensus opinion appears to be that we are heading for a hung Parliament in which the Conservatives will have the most seats, but not necessarily the keys to the kingdom. Forecasts project that David Cameron will fall around 20 seats short of being able to form a majority Conservative government. But such are the vagaries of the British electoral system that Cameron may find himself frozen out of Number 10 by a potential Labour/Lib Dem coalition. Whether Gordon Brown would stay as Prime Minister in such a scenario remains to be seen - the possibility of a palace coup should not be ignored.

While it hasn't quite been a bloodbath, there have been a number of high-profile casualties. Northern Ireland First Minister Peter Robinson was an early victim, as was Lembit Opik. The public paid for Jacqui Smith's husband to watch two porn films on expenses, but the former Home Secretary has ultimately paid with her seat. Other Labour ministers and senior names have also been removed by the Tories' 'decapitation' strategy, although Schools' Secretary Ed Balls survived by the skin of his teeth to hold onto his seat in Morley & Outwood, denying writers a plethora of pithy headlines such as "Labour loses its Balls" and "Balls castrated". (His wife, the Secretary of State for Work & Pensions Yvette Cooper, retained a large majority in the neighbouring constituency of Normanton, Pontefract and Castleford despite a double-digit swing to the Tories.)

As became clear early on, the Lib Dems' opinion poll gains from the three televised debates largely dissipated when push came to shove at the ballot box, with just a 23% share of the popular vote, and as many - in fact slightly more - losses as gains in what has been a topsy-turvy and largely disappointing night for Clegg's party. Opik is gone. So too Evan Harris in Oxford West & Abingdon - a safe 7,683 majority over the Tories being overturned as he failed to gain re-election by the narrow margin of 176.

The Green Party will be celebrating as leader Caroline Lucas earned their first ever seat in the House of Commons with her win at Brighton Pavilion. However, BNP leader Nick Griffin flopped in Barking, seeing his party's share of the vote in that seat fall compared to the 2005 election. I'm not shedding too many tears about that one, I have to say.

Okay, I think I've caught up on the headlines. Over to the live coverage.

6:33am: At long last Sheffield Hallam, Nick Clegg's seat, finally declares its result after a long, chaotic and controversial night, returning the Lib Dem leader to Parliament. With 85 seats still to declare, the running score is: Con 271, Lab 220, Lib Dem 47, Others 27.

6.40am: Clegg talked about patience and the need to get the 'right' government in his acceptance speech. From that, I'm assuming there will now be several days of behind-the-scenes negotiations as Clegg angles for Cabinet seats and promises of electoral reform. It's beginning to look like we may not know the final outcome of this election until next week, and there is no guarantee that we will not require a second general election in short order if the situation cannot resolve itself.

7.04am: Gordon Brown arrives at Downing Street looking somewhat the worse for wear, and is immediately bombarded with the question "Are you going to resign, Mr Brown?" The Prime Minister, who is staring at projections of having two million fewer votes and 46 fewer seats than the Conservatives, chooses not to answer. Can't imagine why.

7.15am: I wonder how the series of conversations between Clegg and Cameron and Clegg and Brown might go. "Hi, Gordon, Nick here. I think Home Secretary would suit me well, don't you? And then I want half a dozen other Cabinet posts for Lib Dems, I get to pick out the curtains, and for God's sake try to smile a bit. No? Hang on a minute, I've got David on the other line - I'll get back to you."

7.30am: Update on my watch-list:
- Newbury: Conservative hold, with increased majority
- Oxford West & Abingdon: As mentioned above, shock gain by the Conservatives from the Lib Dems
- Corby: Labour majority of 1,517 overturned by the Tories' Louise Bagshawe, who becomes the new MP for Corby with a majority of nearly two thousand
- Brent North: Safe Labour seat, not expected to declare until at least 9.30am (evidently everyone fancied a bit of a lie-in)

7.37am: Okay, bored now. Paxman talking to Michael Gove, Shadow Schools' Secretary, who is trotting out the Tory party line of thinly-veiled disgust - actually, make that not at all veiled disgust - at the notion that Gordon Brown has the constitutional right to attempt to form a coalition government, despite being roundly thrashed in the parliamentary vote and being forced to sit in the corner wearing a conical hat with a big 'D' on it. Many viewers waking up to this will be wondering how the bloke who finished second gets first dibs ahead of the chap who beat him. To be honest, even those of us who have some working knowledge of parliamentary politics are pretty confused.

7.49am: And now it's the turn of Mandelson, Prince of Darkness to peddle the Labour position. Paxman is exercising his full repertoire of eye-rolling, grimaces and eyebrow-raising - impressive stamina at the fag end of a very long night. Mind you, the over-the-shoulder shot that shows Jezza's expanding bald spot does him no favours at all.

7.58am: Zac has just marched into the living room and demanded that he be allowed to watch ZingZillas. Who am I to say no? Not much is going to happen over the next few hours in terms of resolving the big picture, so I guess it's time for a cold shower, some coffee and then drag myself into work. As I switch over to CBeebies, the current state of the parties is: Con 286, Lab 235, Lib Dem 50, Others 27. Byeee!

Election night: 3.00-4.00am

Okay, one more hour ...

3.05am: A bit of a lull in proceedings. Results continue to trickle in at a fair clip, but the narrative isn't really developing much at all. We think the Tories are doing quite well, but no one knows if they're doing well enough, despite the frantic spin being peddled by the various talking heads.

3.15am: Current state of play: Lab 89, Con 87, Lib Dem 13, Others 23.

3.17am: David Miliband is a slimy weasel, isn't he? Paxman utters my word of the hour: "king-maker". Let's go!

3.20am: Paxman to Liam Fox, Shadow Defence Secretary: "It's twenty past three in the morning. Can we just have a straight answer?" Oh, really, Jeremy? You know you're not going to get anything other than evasion and obfuscation. Why not just ask him whether he has ever led prayer sessions to 'cure' homosexuals, like Philippa Stroud?

3.23am: A thought. Wouldn't it be funny if Nick Clegg had turned his phone off, or was in a spot with no mobile reception? Can you imagine what that would do to Brown and Cameron's blood pressure?

3:30am: No one's rising to the bait. Everyone's studiously avoiding the use of the word "king-maker". Boo! The BBC studio panel is starting to repeat the same talking points they were discussing an hour or so ago. It's like watching Sky Sports News, but without the 'goal of the week' competition.

3.31am: Andrew Neil is now talking to Al Murray and Bill Wyman. That's my cue for a toilet break.

3.35am: Alastair Campbell's bad week continues, as the Lib Dems take Burnley from Labour.

3.38am: Back to Fiona Bruce in the vertigo-inducing BBC studio attic. The poor lass has to tell us in a slightly-but-not-at-all-different-really way that she thinks we're heading for a hung parliament, but nobody really knows. The latest scores on the doors are: Con 122, Lab 107, Lib Dem 20, Others 24.

3.41am: Dimbleby does his best Murray Walker impression as we await the result from Carlisle: "Anything could happen tonight because anything is happening." I have to take my hat off to him, though. A couple of missteps, but he's done incredibly well fronting a live, unscripted and wholly unpredictable programme for nearly six hours (so far). I'm having enough problems operating a keyboard in the privacy of my living room. Incidentally, the Tories take Carlisle from Labour courtesy of a 7.7% swing. That's a big win for the Cameron Crew - it must have been quite a long way down on their list of target seats.

3.45am: Rumours of a recount at one of the seats on my watch-list, Oxford West & Abingdon. Could be a big shock for the Lib Dems, as Dr Evan Harris's majority at the last election was a healthy 7,683. It would be consistent with the current trend though, which seems to indicate that the Tories are doing rather better in the south of the country than they are in the north.

3.53am: There were reportedly three hour queues at polling stations in Sheffield Hallam, Nick Clegg's seat. That's not a minor misjudgement: it's a gross error.

4.00am: We now have declared results from nearly half the parliamentary constituencies, giving us the following clear-as-mud picture: Con 148, Lab 121, Lib Dem 23, Others 25.

Right, I'm off to bed for a couple of hours. Kids permitting, I'll be back around 6am.

Election night: 2.00-3.00am

Right, I'm armed with one final coffee. Pretty sure this will be the last hour for me before I need to grab a bit of sleep.

2.05am: The sense I'm getting is that the Tories are doing a lot of damage to Labour, but perhaps not enough to secure an overall majority. And the Lib Dems are doing no damage to anybody. Beyond that, I'm committing to nothing. How's that for in-depth analysis?

2.15am: Toby's grizzling in his cot upstairs. I know exactly how he feels.

2.20am: Of the four seats I have a personal interest in, Newbury has already declared as a Tory hold with an increased majority, Oxford West & Abingdon is forecasting a declaration around 3am, Brent North at 4am and Corby at 5am. How the hell am I supposed to plan my sleep around that lot?

2.25am: Toby now crying. Time for another feed. Now I mention it, I'm feeling a bit peckish too. Oh, hang on, another big name casualty: Lembit Opik's out on his ear. I'd forgotten he was an MP; I thought he'd become a professional Z-list celebrity dater.

2.41am: Um, some stuff is happening. A run of three results in which Tories capture marginal seats from Labour. It's not looking good for Gordon.

2.48am: Jeremy Paxman unleashes attack-dog mode on Lembit Opik. Clearly not much love lost there.

2.57am: Over to Witney for the declaration in David Cameron's seat. Oh, this is brilliant. Not because there's any doubt over the result - we know he's going to win with an enormous majority (nearly 23,000 as it turns out) - but because we have a proper line-up of candidates. Ten in all, including candidates for the Monster Raving Loonies and the Wessex Regionalists. No surprise as Cameron's opening salvo gently implies that the earlier polling station fiascos are somehow Gordon's fault personally. The BBC studio pundits had been predicting a fairly equivocal speech from Cameron given that more than two-thirds of constituencies have yet to declare, but his words are fairly strong without being complacent: "I believe it is already clear that the Labour government has lost its mandate to govern our country. What is clear from these results is that the country wants change. That change is going to require new leadership." The cameras cut away at the end of the speech, so we don't get to see whether Cameron's next move is to speed-dial Nick Clegg.

Okay, that's 3am. Now what? This is quite good fun, this. Not quite the same as doing live text commentary on the football or cricket, but fun nonetheless.

Election night: 1.00-2.00am

Okay, it's 1am and I'm still here (just). Not sure how long it will be before I fall asleep over my keyboard, but anyway ...

1.03am: The Tories win their first seat, gaining Kingswood from Labour with a 9.4% swing. Now that's interesting, because it suggests that the prospect of a Conservative majority government remains very much alive. Way too early to tell one way or the other, of course. I suspect the word of the hour will be "bellwether", which is what Kingswood is.

1.08am: "Downing Street source - Brown to seek coalition if hung parliament." No surprise. So Gordon will not be going gentle into that good night, then. Is that the sound of scraping fingernails I hear? And Neil Kinnock has just used "bellwether" too.

1.14am: The Tories hold Putney with a significantly enhanced majority over Labour in this marginal - 10,053 versus 1,766 in 2005, a swing of 9.9%. I suspect the mood in Conservative Central Office is currently considerably brighter than it is with their Labour counterparts.

1.20am: If you're a geek like me who's into the nuts and bolts of an election, Wikipedia is a wonderful source of information. I've got Wikipedia and BBC tabs permanently open on my browser to dive into the detail of each constituency as each result is announced

1.21am: Alastair Campbell really being made to squirm by Andrew Neil. Pretty sure I can see Neil's teeth marks in his neck. It's not been a good week for Tony Blair's former king of spin, what with Burnley being relegated from the Premier League too.

1.26am: As has just been noted on the BBC coverage, every Labour talking head is saying lovely, fluffy things about the Lib Dems and gently hinting (in ten foot high pink neon lights) that they will be more than happy to offer a coalition deal to keep Brown in Number 10. I now have two horrible images in my head: (1) Noel Edmonds putting down the phone and saying to Gordon, "Deal? Or no deal?" and (2) Brown pulling down his trousers and bending over. Not good.

1.27am: Oh dear, I think Dimbleby must be getting tired, as he's just misread the swingometer twice in a row (declaring swings from A to B when it's actually B to A).

1.32am: City of Durham is, we're being told, the Lib Dems' top target against Labour. Get on with it, will you? Instead we switch over to Kirkcaldy, where Gordon Brown at least has the satisfaction of holding on to his own seat. Has any reigning PM ever been unseated at a general election? I don't know. After some frantic bashing of the F5 key, Wikipedia is telling me that Labour has held Durham with an almost identical majority to 2005. That's got to be bad news for the Lib Dems; Durham was, I believe, Nick Clegg's last campaign stop.

1.36am: It's all happening now as results start to come in from some of the tightest battleground seats. Battersea turns from red to blue, with a Labour majority of 163 becoming a Tory one of 5,977.

1.41am: Actually, I take back what I said earlier about bad news for the Lib Dems. As it stands, it looks like Nick Clegg has a fair chance of being in the position of king-maker later today, and if he ends up being courted by both Cameron and Brown he will be in a very strong position, even if the Lib Dems end up with fewer seats than 2005. Oh, the oddities of the British electoral system.

1.45am: Sadiq Khan holds on to Tooting, despite a 3.6% swing to the Tories.No joy for Wolfie Smith and the Tooting Popular front, either. (If you're under 40, that's a reference to the old BBC comedy Citizen Smith.)

1.52am: Times columnist Caitlin Moran on Twitter (@caitlinmoran) has just come up with the most succinct and accurate election analysis so far: "My professional view: absolutely fucking no-one has a titting clue what the pissing screw is going on."

1.57am: Oh my God. I was predicting the Conservatives' Richard Benyon would increase his 3,460 majority in my home constituency of Newbury, but over 12,000? I'm with Caitlin Moran on this one. Despite all the pseudo-statistical prognostications by the 'experts', it's very clear that the only thing predictable about individual results is that they are totally unpredictable. So there.

1.59am: I'm a bit disappointed that the early "bellwether" flurry didn't develop into anything more. Oh well. Four hours down, 90% of seats still to declare. Another coffee? Or admit defeat and go to bed? Decisions, decisions ... maybe 20 minutes more ...

Election night: In the midnight hour

It's shortly after midnight as I start writing this pseudo-live blog - barely two hours since the polling stations closed - and there are already several major talking points developing as the outcome of the 2010 UK general election slowly unravels. I have no idea how long it will be until I run out of steam (and caffeine) and crawl into bed, but here goes anyway.

To start with, I was switching back and forth between the BBC TV coverage and an episode of the HBO vampire-based series True Blood. On the one hand, a load of blood-suckers; on the other, True Blood. (It's late, I'm tired - if you want decent jokes, go watch Jimmy Carr on Channel 4's Alternative Election Night.)

I'm trying to ignore the exit poll, which predicts the Conservatives will have the most seats in Parliament, 19 short of an overall majority. For all kinds of reasons, these are frequently inaccurate - most notably in 1992 when all the exit polls seriously underestimated John Major's share of the vote. The last hung Parliament was in 1974, and lasted just eight months.

The word of the night - at least on the BBC - is clearly "caveat". I wonder how many people watching actually know what the word means?

There is clearly going to be a big controversy - possibly even a legal challenge - about the fact that long queues formed at some polling stations shortly before they closed at 10pm. In some cases, people were shut out; in others, people were allowed to cast their votes after the official closing time, by which point it would theoretically have been possible for people to have heard the result of the exit poll. Such scenes are unprecedented, at least in this country. Did I fall asleep and wake up somewhere in Africa?

Statement by the Electoral Commission: "The Electoral Commission will be undertaking a thorough review of what has happened. There should have been sufficient resources allocated to ensure everyone who wished to vote was able to do so." Looks like someone will be getting a bit of a kicking in the morning!

The first three constituencies to declare were the three Sunderland ones - two of which were Labour strongholds. The scramble after each one to interpret the results "if this was repeated across the rest of the country" and attempt to predict the national picture is laughable. I imagine mathematicians everywhere will have been tearing their hair out. Except for the bald ones, that is.

12.15am: Toby crying. Time for a feed. Back soon.

12.25am: Feed done. Nothing appears to have happened in the meantime. Ho hum. Oh my God, now David Dimbleby is attempting to sound knowledgeable about Twitter and Facebook. Oh dear.

12.30am: Nearly an hour and three quarters since Houghton & Sunderland South became the first seat to declare, and we still have only three results (all in Sunderland), none of them in the marginals which will be key to the outcome of this election. I'm filled to the gills with coffee, and I'm getting bored of all the talking heads. It occurs to me that this whole process would be much more civil if (a) results could be spaced more evenly through the night and (b) we got to see the marginal seats first so we could all get more than two hours' sleep tonight. I know it's impracticable. I'm just saying ...

12.45am: Obviously, I'm trying to get a view of the big picture and the race towards the magic number of 326 seats which would give one party an overall majority. But I also have an eye on four seats in particular:

- Newbury, my constituency. The Tories hold a narrow majority over the Lib Dems here

- My parents are in Brent North, a reasonably safe Labour seat

- Oxford West & Abingdon. During my undergraduate days, I campaigned alongside Dr Evan Harris, who is the sitting Lib Dem MP with a sizeable majority

- Corby, where the Tory candidate is the chick-fic author Louise Bagshawe, who I know from her time in Oxford University's political circles. Labour held this seat in 2005 with a narrow majority of barely 1,500

12.50am: The Lib Dems win their first seat in Belfast East, deposing Northern Ireland's First Minister Peter Robinson with an extraordinary 23% swing. (The Tories are still seat-less.) It's the first genuine shock of the night; our first genuine Michael Portillio/Stephen Twigg moment. At last, nearly three hours in, it's starting to get exciting.

12.52am: Seriously, why should I give a toss what Maureen Lipman and Alistair McGowan think? Funny that former Sunday Times editor Andrew Neil didn't recognise McGowan's impersonation of him, though!

12.58am: At last, the pace is starting to pick up. We now have nine seats declared, with Labour leading the Tories by a 5-0 scoreline. It won't last, of course. We see this pattern in every election, as many of the Conservatives' safe seats are in rural areas who won't declare until much later in the day. I was going to go to bed by 1am, but I think I'll stay up for a bit. Things are just starting to get interesting ...

Election day

So, after three live televised debates, thousands of minutes of television coverage, millions of column inches and God knows how much frenetic online chatter, we finally arrive at the day of reckoning. Today is General Election day in the UK.

This will be the fifth general election since I became eligible and - due to my mildly nomadic existence with first university and then work - the fourth different constituency I will have voted in.

I'll be voting after I get home from work this evening. Newbury is a marginal seat with a Conservative majority of just 3,460 at the last election in 2005, when Richard Benyon (the Shadow Minister for the Environment, Food and Rural Affairs) overturned a small Lib Dem majority, so my vote does matter.

In previous elections, I have often stayed up into the small hours until the overall outcome is clear. In 2005, that was 4.28am when Corby in Northamptonshire gave Labour the 324th seat they needed to form a majority government. (Incidentally, the Conservative candidate for Corby this year is the chick-fic author Louise Bagshawe - who famously defected briefly to New Labour in the mid-90s - who I know from her time in university politics at Oxford.)

This time round, with two young children and a full Friday schedule, I'm not quite that committed. My current plan is to settle down in front of the TV after I've voted, see what the (notoriously inaccurate) exit polls are saying, then wait up to see the first few results before heading to bed around midnight. There I'll have the TV on mute to cast an eye on how things are progressing during the small hours.

And tomorrow morning we shall see what we shall see. It promises to be the closest election since 1992 - the last Tory win, incidentally - and possibly the first hung parliament since the ill-fated eight-month Wilson Labour/Liberal government of 1974.

Interesting times.

Swaps!

In yet another instance of reliving my childhood, I bought a Panini World Cup sticker album yesterday - for Heather, not for me, honest!

It brought a load of memories from when I was 11 or 12 flooding back. Buying a new pack or two of stickers from the newsagent before school every morning. The excitement of discovering and then carefully attaching a new player neatly into his allotted spot, mixed with the disappointment of finding that you had just got Ray Clemence again. Clutching an ever-growing stack of 'swaps' (including nine spares of the aforementioned Clemence, say), carefully arranged in numerical order and ready to be bartered in the playground for Little Jimmy's unwanted foil Arsenal badge. Memorising the players of each team on each page and their individual statistics. The pride you felt once you were finally in a position to send off for the last few stickers needed to complete your album.

Ah, innocent times.

These days, there's no need to find a playground to engage in swaps; eBay serves as an excellent substitute (and one which doesn't run the risk of you being placed on the sex offenders' register). But the sense of anticipation which comes when you open a fresh pack of stickers hasn't gone away.

There are many, easier ways of preparing for a major football tournament. And with football websites two-a-penny, there are certainly more accurate, up-to-date and cheaper ways of getting to know the 32 teams who will line up in South Africa in 36 days' time. (Even taking advantage of retailers' multibuy offers on sticker packs, it would cost around £55 to complete the Panini album, assuming no duplicates whatsoever.)

But you know what? It doesn't matter. Whether it's childhood nostalgia or the simple thrill of assembling and then completing a collection, the humble, outdated sticker album still has a place in my heart - it certainly does in my household.

The hard part

After a week away, it's back to the grind of refocussing on what I eat and monitoring my weight and exercise levels.

During our five days on holiday, I was pretty good but nowhere near as strict as I could have been with myself. Normally I'm terrible when we're away, eating with abandon and expecting to put on weight at around a pound a day. This time, however, I avoided major pig-outs - I didn't single-handedly empty the buffet at Pizza Hut and made sure I had two large plates of salad and a limited amount of pizza - and consumed the grand total of no chocolate, no ice cream and three individual sweets. Sure, we treated ourselves to desserts with dinner, and I snacked more than I normally would (treating myself to nuts and flatbreads rather than sweets), but overall I think I managed to strike a reasonable balance without being too draconian.

The good news is that I have ended the week at exactly the same weight - 16st 10lbs - at which I started it. The bad news is that towards the end of the week, despite not going overboard with the eating, I could feel some of my high-sugar symptoms returning. That was pretty dispiriting, as it showed how little it takes to push me back over the edge, but I suppose now I know what to expect in the future and have a better idea of what I need to do to keep things in check.

It's not that I'm feeling down or demotivated, but a bit of that initial rush of adrenalin-fuelled I-can-do-it optimism has worn off, as it always does. I now know how much - or little - leeway I have to keep my symptoms under control. I'm having to face up to the fact my weight seems to have stabilised, having lost just two of the seven pounds required to attain my target of 16st 5lbs by the end of June. And it's cold and wet outside, which (literally) dampens my enthusiasm for heading out for a brisk walk later.

But I know that what I need to do remains unchanged. I need to go back to restricting what I eat and upping my exercise regime, and stay focussed on driving my weight down. Things were going well pre-holiday and I was feeling noticeably better for it, so it's down to me to just grit my teeth and get on with it.

The honeymoon period is over. Now for the hard part.

The last resort (part 2)

If the sign of a good family holiday is that you're all knackered by the end of it, then Butlins was a surprisingly good holiday (at least, surprising to me).

Having already recorded my initial, positive impressions at the mid-way point of our holiday, and having now been home 24 hours, here are my reflections on what made this a good holiday.

Firstly, it provided me with a timely opportunity to do some father/son bonding with Toby. Having only just stopped breast-feeding, Toby had previously spent the vast majority of his time with his mother. But, armed with bottles of formula and without work impinging on my days, I got to spend lots more time just sitting around with my younger son, communicating with him and just getting to know him a bit better. It's a small thing, but a really important one for me. (Conversely, Heather got to spend some decent one-on-one time with Zac, something she hadn't really had the time and space for since Toby's birth.)

You want cute? I'll give you cute

Butlins' proximity to the beach - literally, across the road from the front gate - was also a big selling point. Zac had loved his previous experiences with beaches, and this was no exception. Whether it was playing in pools of water, wandering out to investigate the sea, or just generally messing around in the sand as kids do, he lapped it up. (Toby, on the other hand, just blinked at the bright sky.)

Watch as I miraculously suspend globules of sandy water in mid-air. No strings, honest!

I'm sure I left the sea out here somewhere ...

Where did he come from?!?

And when the weather wasn't so good, there was plenty of stuff for young kids to do indoors too - stage shows (Zac continues to show a preference for Angelina Ballerina over Bob the Builder), swimming, fairground rides and - Zac's favourite - the amusement arcades. (I found it mildly perturbing that he sussed out how to play the Deal Or No Deal machine within five minutes.)

Faster! Faster!

By the time we set off for home on Friday lunchtime, Zac was so tired he could barely stand up, wandering past the big soft play area he had scrambled up and down so enthusiastically on Monday with little more than a weary glance. I think that counts as a success.

We're already talking about going back next year, by which time hopefully Toby will be mobile and able to start enjoying some of what this type of holiday has to offer. And his brother will be a year older and able to participate in even more stuff. I'm really hoping Zac will take Toby under his wing and show him the ropes; we'll certainly give him every opportunity to do so.

So, Butlins gets the big thumbs-up from me. It may be a touch chav-tastic, but it really was a great place for a toddler to spend a few happy and tiring days. And it wasn't bad for the parents either.

The only problem is that we now all need another holiday just to recover from this one ...

The last resort (part 1)

It would be fair to say that, prior to the birth of our sons Isaac and Toby, Butlins would have been pretty much our last resort in terms of holiday destinations. But, as they say, having children is a life-changing experience, and if there is one thing that demonstrates just how much my life has changed over the past two years, holiday choices are as good a discriminator as any.

Pre-kids, Butlins would not have even registered on our radar for manifold reasons, including:

1. What's the point of staying in one place when there's a big wide world out there to explore?

2. It brings to mind images of the 80s sitcom Hi-de-Hi.

3. It's full of chavs.

But here we are at Butlins in Minehead - halfway through our five-day stay as I type this (on my iPhone, a painfully slow experience) - and I have to admit it's been pretty good so far.

Sure, it's much more crowded and downmarket than the distinctly middle-class experience that is Center Parcs. And, yes, it is overflowing with chavs, and the Welsh, and even Welsh chavs. But before I come across all snobbish (OK, OK, too late), it's absolutely fine for what it is - which is about half the price of Center Parcs. Fair enough, the accommodation isn't a patch on Center Parcs, the range of activities more limited, and you could never pretend that you were in a little isolated bubble far from the madding crowd (there's a Tesco five minutes' walk from our front door). But when you have an excitable toddler and a young infant, there's a lot to be said for having all the facilities you want a short stroll away, and for having entertainments and activities which are slanted towards pre-schoolers and pre-teens, rather than catering for older kids and adults.

So far, Zac has worn himself out in the soft play area, on the rides in the funfair for smaller kids, swimming in the pool, playing on the old-style amusement arcade machines and generally running around everywhere at top speed.

Never mind that there's nothing in particular for Heather and I to do - with the boys, it's not as if we have the opportunity to do anything anyway - but then it's satisfaction enough watching your toddler having so much fun that he doesn't know what to do next. And that's kind of the point, isn't it?

Hi-de-Hi

I've written previously about our first experience with the family-friendly world of Center Parcs, which we visited a year and a half ago. Tomorrow all four of us will be squeezing into the car to head down to Butlins in Minehead - or 'Center Parcs for chavs', as I may have uncharitably referred to it on more than one occasion.

Actually, I am really looking forward to it. It will be lovely to have a few days of proper family time, away from the stresses and responsibilities of the real world. Minehead came recommended to us by some local friends, with the added bonus of being right by the beach, Zac's favourite place in the whole wide world.

Mind you, I still can't quite get the mental image of the fictional Maplins holiday camp from the 80s sitcom Hi-de-Hi out of my head, which was supposedly based on Butlins. As long as Su Pollard isn't cleaning our room, I'll be okay with that.

I'll report back upon our return.

A man with a plan

I had my first appointment at the diabetes clinic this morning. The nurse wanted to put me on medication straight away, but I asked to defer for a couple of months to see if I can control my symptoms with a combination of diet and lifestyle changes. (She said the probability was "at least 99%" I will have no choice but to use medication, but if there's even a 1% chance I can avoid it - once you are on tablets, there is no going back - I want to give myself that opportunity.)

As a result, I am now formulating a firm plan for dealing with my diabetes. My next blood test will be in 12 weeks or so, and if things don't improve significantly I will probably have no choice but to start popping pills - so the clock is ticking.)

To be fair, I already had a pretty good idea of the key things I needed to focus on, having already gathered some initial advice from my GP and by scanning the wealth of online resources, such as the Diabetes UK website.

The three key things for me - all, obviously, interlinked - are as follows:

1. Diet: This is easy, at least in principle; a bit trickier in reality. Given my somewhat less than healthy diet recently, a dietician would have a field day with me. At least that means there's a huge upside, as there are a number of obvious quick wins I can focus on which will improve my diet enormously. In truth, a diabetic's diet is little different to what you would tell someone to do if they needed to lose weight: cut down on fat, cholesterol and portion sizes; try to avoid 'empty' calories (e.g. chocolate) which give you sugar but little else; grains, oily fish, fruit and vegetables are good, as are reasonable portions of starchy carbs.

Basically, less pie and chips - more pasta and salads. I've already started doing a lot of this over the past two weeks. Obviously, sustaining it is a trickier deal, but so far so good.

2. Weight loss: In addition to controlling my glucose levels, one of the obvious benefits of managing my diet more sensibly is, of course, weight loss. The less overweight I am, the more efficient my body should be at processing glucose, and the less likely I am to keel over from a heart attack. (Diabetes significantly increases the risk of heart disease.) Having already lost over a stone in the past two months (largely as a result of my diabetes), I'm already off to a good start, but I've been trying to work out what my ideal weight should be, or at the very least set a pragmatic target.

To this end, I calculated my Body Mass Index (BMI) over the weekend, which told me I need to be under 210lbs (15st) to be merely 'overweight' (as opposed to obese) and no more than 175 lbs (12st 7) to be 'normal weight'. Having started out only just the right side of 18st after Christmas, that immediately had the theme tune from Mission Impossible playing in my head. Although I got down to 15st 3lbs five years ago - when I was walking 15-20 miles and going to the gym three times every week - the last time I weighed less than 210lbs was when I got married in 1997, and I have no idea when I was last as low as my maximum 'normal weight' of 175lbs. (13? 14? Certainly before I was fully grown.)

Now I don't realistically think I could ever be as low as 175lbs - I'm way too thick-set for that - but I suspect that somewhere around 195lbs (just under 14st) would be my theoretical target weight. For now, I think my medium-term objective has to be to get from my current weight of 16st 12lbs down towards 16st - I don't doubt that will require considerable and sustained effort on my part - because otherwise I'm beaten before I've even started. Losing - and then keeping off - the best part of 30lbs in nine months would be a pretty decent effort, wouldn't it?

3. Exercise: Along with diet, this is the other big lifestyle change for me. During school, university and my twenties, I did sports regularly and still struggled to control my weight, but over the past three or four years exercise has become increasingly sporadic - and correspondingly my weight has ballooned - to the point where I have never been this unfit, and I realistically know that even a gentle half mile jog will leave me puffing, beetroot-faced and with a host of muscle twinges (assuming I can still actually run that far). So my starting point is, let's face it, poor.

This is definitely the biggest challenge of the lot for me. Focussing on diet and weight does not require a significant investment in time; exercise does. The literature recommends I should be doing 30 minutes of moderately vigorous exercise three to five times a week. This is quite easy in theory, trickier in practice. But I need to find a way to make the time in my week to aim for a brisk walk on average every other day, just to start building some base fitness. I've bought myself a heart rate monitor - well, it's a gadget, isn't it? - to help me get the most out of whatever I do without overdoing it. The biggest single problem I have is constant and severe cramping in my calves - a symptom of my high sugar levels - which is really most unhelpful. It's frustrating, but somehow I need to break the cycle and get myself out there.

Which is why I'll be leaving work early this afternoon to make the time to go for a walk, even though my calves are still as tight as an overstretched drum skin.

So, overall I have two new, stretching targets for the end of June (that's 11 weeks today):

Weight: Start point 16st 12lbs, target 16st 5 lbs - i.e. lose half a stone

Exercise: 33 sessions (i.e. three per week), starting at a minimum of 800 and rising to 1,000+ calories per week. Calorie expenditure target for the 11 weeks: 10,000 (about 900 pw).

As the cliche says: no pain, no gain. Off we go.

Day 1 of the rest of my life

I'd been aiming to be 17st 2lbs by Easter, and so I should have been pleased when the scales flashed back 16st 13lbs - fully three pounds better than my target - this morning, meaning that I have shed 14 pounds in just eight weeks.

Of course, I now know that there is a medical reason for my dramatically successful weight loss, which came with my diagnosis of diabetes earlier this week. Unexpected and significant weight loss is often a symptom shown by people developing the condition. (As the body does not convert glucose effectively, it starts to burn its reserves of glycogen instead, leading to weight loss and fatigue.) So I can't really take the credit for the noticeable improvement to my waistline - call it a disqualified success, if you will.

In my last post on Tuesday, written a couple of hours after my initial diagnosis, I was quite upbeat. Since then, I had my blood tests done on Thursday, which showed a fasting glucose level of 16.3 - more than double what it should be - and confirmed the diagnosis of type 2 diabetes (type 2 being less serious than type 1).

In truth, my outlook hasn't changed: I'm still feeling positive. I know I need to manage my diet more carefully, and it's now even more important that I get my weight down. An appointment with the diabetes clinic next week is my first step in determining my plan for the coming months and getting my glucose level down to something like 7 or 8.

This is the easy bit. I have had the sudden jolt of the bad news, and the wave of determination and even enthusiasm that comes with it. I'm already taking little steps to make my diet healthier, and with the days growing longer and warmer it will be easier for me to ensure I take brisk walks into town or around the estate on a regular basis.

The hard bit will come once that initial wave subsides and I have to face up to the fact that this is not a brief phase or a crash diet to drop a few pounds pre-holiday. This needs to be a permanent lifestyle change to maximise my chances of a full life and minimise the prospect of my children having to deal with their father's early demise.

I've always known I needed to be lighter and fitter, but lacked the willpower to turn good intentions into actual outcomes. Now the choice is a little more stark. In truth, there is no real choice.

So, for now it's the first baby steps on a long journey. Step one is to get to the end of April, be doing at least three lots of moderately vigorous exercise a week, and aim to get my weight down to 16st 9lbs - that's a pound a week. We'll worry about step two and onwards when we get there.

It starts right here, right now: the rest of my life. Off I go.

An epiphany of sorts

I have posted a couple of times in recent months (here and here) about being increasingly conscious of the fact I am getting older and increasingly susceptible to health issues (not least the small matter of, you know, dying).

I have also written - most recently here - about my most latest attempt to lose weight and the surprising ease with which I have been succeeding (14 lbs in less than seven weeks as of this morning).

This morning, I've been to the doctor and discovered that the two are not unrelated.

I have diabetes.

With hindsight, I cannot believe I hadn't put two and two together already. I have a family history of diabetes - my mother developed type 2 diabetes in her fifties - and, having just done a quick bit of research on the subject, it is clear that I have developed pretty much every symptom of the condition - the vast majority of which I was already aware of. (Although, in my defence, you can also put many of them down to having recently had a baby.)

An on-the-spot urine test supported my doctor's initial diagnosis. (I will have blood tests done later this week to provide a definitive answer, but given my existing symptoms there can surely be little doubt.) I don't yet know whether it's type 1 or type 2 - apparently, around 85% of diabetics have the more easily-treatable type 2 - so a quick return visit to the doctor to find out more is in order.

It's not the end of the world. According to Diabetes UK, 2.6m people in the UK - that's about 4% of the population - have been diagnosed with diabetes, with a further half a million undiagnosed. The course of treatment - insulin and a healthy lifestyle - is long established. And as long as I am sensible about things (historically not always one of my strongest suits, admittedly), there is no reason why I should worry unduly. After all, my mother's still going strong nearly 20 years after her initial diagnosis. Sir Steve Redgrave isn't doing so badly either.

There are many, many worse things I could have been diagnosed with which would have had a far more limiting impact on my lifestyle and life expectancy, so you won't catch me complaining about the hand I've been dealt. Maybe I could have prevented or delayed the onset of the condition by being a bit healthier over the last few years, but there's no way of knowing and no point second-guessing myself. After all, with a family history of diabetes, I have known for a long time that I was at high risk of developing it. Now I do have the condition, all I can do is deal with it.

In the meantime, I'm going to process the news internally and handle it the way I normally handle this sort of thing. For one day I'm going to abandon the diet and I'm going to eat comfort food. Lots of it. Bring on the ice cream.

Wordle

I've always been a sucker for things new and shiny, and I've just been introduced to Wordle - www.wordle.net - a web-based tool which you can use to generate your own word clouds from random text or any blog/RSS feed.

It's a great way of pictorially giving a sense of what a blog, document or other piece of text is about. For instance, here's one for this blog which gives you an immediate impression of what's been on my mind recently:

Is it me being a geek, or is this not extremely cool? I'm just saying ...

Four seats or two?

And so it begins again.

Now that we have Heather's new car - a sensible family estate - my thoughts start to turn towards replacing my own car.

When I bought my current car (a BMW 3-series saloon) nearly two-and-a-half years ago, it was always with a view to it being our main family car until such time as we had a second child or it reached 50,000 miles (the milestone beyond which dealers start to get sniffy about part-exchanges). Having ticked the first box with the arrival of Toby, I am on course to hit the magic 50k mark shortly after Christmas, which gives me five to six months to make a decision and place an order.

Broadly speaking, the decision facing me is whether I want a car with four seats, or one with two.

Two seats equates to something small and sporty for me. (I've got the recently-updated BMW Z4 or possibly the new TT squarely in my sights.) There are obvious disadvantages to this, in particular the fact that we would have no back-up to carry the boys if Heather's car has any problems. But in the past I have always alternated sensible cars with fun ones - Citroen Saxo, Peugeot 306 GTI-6, Lexus IS200, Audi TT and my current 3-series - and the (admittedly selfish) desire to have something fast and impractical is a strong one.

Four seats means buying something large and family-friendly, that will carry everything we need for two adults and two children to go away for a week. We can probably just about manage it in Heather's car (a Focus estate), although it might be a tight squeeze on long journeys - we're away for a week next month, which will be a good test of how practical and comfortable that is.

Going for another family car would mean either a large saloon (a 5-series or Audi A6, say), a large-ish estate (just no, okay) or - whisper it quietly - a 4x4 or SUV (probably something like a BMW X5). I've never been a fan of big cars - my 3-series is about as big as I would ever really want, and more than roomy enough on the inside - so I would take some convincing before heading for the next size up. But the arguments in favour of having two cars suitable for the family are also quite strong: Heather's car would then be the day-to-day family car, with mine being used for longer trips when the extra space and comfort are at a premium.

That's the dilemma, really. Buy a car for the family that will be a compromise solution for me 50 weeks of the year, or get one I love which is utterly impractical. Four seats versus two; head versus heart. Decisions, decisions. I can see a long summer with much hand-wringing ahead of me ...

Shopaholic?

There is definitely something of a role reversal in our household insofar that it is only me (as opposed to Heather) who truly believes in the restorative powers of retail therapy.

Many has been the time that Heather has thrown open her wardrobe and declared despairingly that she has nothing to wear. (When she does it, she's not being melodramatic - she really means it.) I have toddled dutifully off with her to Oxford or London or some other high-density retail location for the day, during which time she will only find one item of clothing she wants - and I will buy ten on a whim. Such expeditions typically end up with one of us grumpy and the other feeling not a shred of guilt. (I'll leave you to work out who's who.)

We have fundamentally very different approaches to shopping, she and I. Heather tends to only buy things she needs. It's not that she pursues a spartan lifestyle by any means - and it isn't as if I'm not forever encouraging her to treat herself to some new clothes or a book or some other trinket - but she lacks the basic impulse to go out and splurge.

Me? I'm actually reasonably conservative in the sense that I don't spend beyond my means. However, I do earn more than enough for me to enjoy a sizeable disposable income - and my philosophy has always been that I work hard enough for what I earn, so I might as well spend some of it on stuff that makes me happy.

I freely admit that my expenditure has probably increased at a near-exponential rate over the past ten years or so as my spending power has increased. We average at least two Amazon deliveries every month. I have more clothes than I need, but at least I have something to wear for every occasion. And our house contains more than its fair share of gadgets and other consumer technology: some of it 'essentials' (my definition) such as TVs, Sky+ and computers; others more discretionary, such as my iPhone, iPod, PS3, SLR, video camera and other assorted gadgets.

This has been a particularly good week in terms of acquisitions, with a new lens for my camera, a new Playstation game and Heather's new car being delivered. (It's not mine, but surely it's reasonable to get excited over the arrival of any purchase of this magnitude, no matter whose it is?)

Being able to order pretty much anything you want 24/7 online is manna from heaven for someone who buys as often and as impulsively as I do. Amazon is probably the most regular beneficiary of my attempts to help the UK spend its way out of recession - particularly now I can place orders on the go with a couple of prods of my iPhone touchscreen - but I have also used the internet to buy everything from fridges and TVs to ISAs and car insurance, and even cars. (We have bought our last three new cars via an online broker, saving ourselves a very tidy sum in the process. See, it's not just about spending.)

Is my spending out of control? No. I know Heather would prefer it if I spent a bit less, but our credit cards are paid off in full every month, we go on our family holidays and there is still enough left to put some aside in savings. I'm sure as Zac and Toby grow older we will need to spend more on them and less on us (okay, okay, me), but for the meantime I'm enjoying myself while I still can.

I know I can dial the spending back when I need to. I can give up the spending splurges any time. Honest. Now if you'll just excuse me, I'm off to see what I need to do to pre-order an iPad ...

An embarrassment of genre riches

TV trends often go in cycles, and 'genre' shows seem to be very much on the up at the moment. Although the failure rate is high - the cancellation of the new Knight Rider and the oh-so-disappointing US version of Life On Mars were not great losses; Dollhouse, however, was killed well before its time - there is still a wealth of quality genre programming (both American and British) available on UK screens, either currently or due for broadcast within the next few weeks. Here's what I'll be setting my Sky+ box for:

1. Caprica (season 1), Sky1: A rarity in that the UK is seeing first-run episodes of the Battlestar Galactica prequel 3 days ahead of US audiences. I'm generally wary of prequels - Enterprise, for instance, was poor, and I have never understood the longevity of Smallville - but Caprica is a stunning piece of small screen drama. Taking both visual and narrative cues from the likes of Goodfellas and Grand Theft Auto, the show is packed with weighty philosophical themes (can a computer-generated avatar really be alive?) and contemporary allegories, from religious fundamentalists carrying out acts of urban terrorism to a generation of youth becoming lost in their own virtual worlds. At its best, science fiction poses difficult questions about the world we live in; Caprica is a challenging inquisitor. There are only 2 more episodes to air before a mid-season hiatus - if you do nothing else, catch it before it disappears.

2. Doctor Who (s5), BBC1 (from April 3): The baton - well, three batons, really - has been handed over. Russell T Davies to Steven Moffat. David Tennant to Matt Smith. Catherine Tate to Karen Gillan. Moffat pens taut, simple drama/horror perhaps better than any Who writer past or present, having produced some of the new series' most memorable moments: the Hugo Award-winning stories The Empty Child/The Doctor Dances, The Girl In The Fireplace and Blink (an episode which prominently featured Carey Mulligan, since Oscar-nominated for An Education), and Silence In The Library/Forest Of The Dead. How will Smith and Gillan fare versus their illustrious predecessors? Can Moffat transfer his episodic magic to a full season? We will soon find out, but my money is firmly on the regenerated 11th Doctor being a runaway success.

3. Lost (s6), Sky1: Airing in the UK just three days after US transmission, Lost's final season remains just as demanding on its viewers' concentration as ever, with the new story-telling mechanic of the 'flash-sideways' posing as many questions as are being answered. With only a couple of minor missteps along the way, Lost has consistently baffled, challenged and at times frustrated viewers with a complex narrative which even now, as it hurtles at breakneck speed towards its closing hours, feels as fresh as it did in those opening moments when we first witnessed the aftermath of Oceanic 815's crash on the mysterious island. We demand answers - and, slowly but surely, we are starting to get them.

4. True Blood (s2), FX: The series based on Charlaine Harris's Southern Vampire Mysteries remains a glorious mish-mash of blood, sex and mystery in America's deep south, all beautifully observed and rolled together with a style and confidence that makes the vast majority of mainstream hour-long dramas look plain dull. And, in an advertising-heavy world which has all but seen the death of the great title sequences of yesteryear, True Blood's opening credits rank right up alongside HBO stablemate The Sopranos. There is no higher compliment.

5. Ashes To Ashes (s3), BBC1 (from late March, TBC): Yes, yes, yes: it isn't as good as the original Life On Mars. But it's still bloody brilliant. Politically incorrect and an unashamed throwback to its audience's youth, ATA has always been more about rollocking good fun than the science-fiction conceit which threw Alex Drake back to the 80s. The might of the Hollywood machine - Harvey Keitel and all - made a terrible, soulless hash of LOM, underlining just how difficult it is to do this kind of thing well. Gene Hunt will shortly be firing up the Quattro for the last time - we won't realise quite how much we miss him, Alex, Ray, Chris and Shaz until they are gone.

6. V, Sci Fi (from April 13): Despite an alarming ratings slide during the initial four-episode run- something which seems to afflict all new genre shows these days - I am really looking forward to seeing this remake of the classic Kenneth Johnson-penned mini-series, due to land in the UK next month. The original was a whip-smart Nazis-as-aliens allegory focussing on how ordinary people band together to resist a seemingly all-powerful oppressor, which sadly descended into a by-the-numbers mission-of-the-week episodic series. I'm hoping for the former rather than the latter, obviously.

7. FlashForward (s1), Five (from March 22): Returning in a fortnight's time, this series (based very loosely on the Robert J Sawyer book of the same name) started spectacularly but had started to lose a bit of pace by the time it went on hiatus. The basic premise remains strong - what would happen if everyone in the world blacked out for a couple of minutes and saw a glimpse of their future lives? - but the plot needed an injection of 24-style pacing to move things along with greater alacrity. Hopefully that is what we will see, although the murmurings coming out of the US suggest that a second season is far from certain. Enjoy it while you can.

8. Heroes (s4), BBC2: Another series very much on the bubble, Tim Kring's vision of ordinary people suddenly blessed with extraordinary abilities has struggled to recapture its initial magic and yet still has much to offer, not least an array of specially commissioned additional online content which includes comic books, webisodes and RPGs (role-playing games). Heroes has mapped out an impressive canvas for telling complex, multi-faceted stories which can be enjoyed either as a standalone TV series or as a more immersive online experience, which may well provide a template for future series to adopt and build upon.

Beyond this list, I haven't mentioned Being Human and Vampire Diaries (among others too numerous to list here), both of which come highly recommended by many genre fans but which I have never got round to watching. There just aren't enough hours in the day - still, it's a nice problem to have when you have programming of this quality to select from. It's a good time to be a genre fan right now.

Mission (almost) accomplished. Next!

I'm pretty much exactly halfway in my latest attempt at dieting, with the aim of shedding eight pounds by Easter (target weight: 17st 5lbs).

It must be said, things are going pretty well. I have just weighed myself and the scales - with whom I am now back on first name terms after a major falling-out over Christmas - declared my current weight as 17st 6lbs, which means I am just one pound short of my target with four weeks still to go.

I've given myself an encouraging pat on the back and am now optimistically reassessing my target; I'm thinking 17st 2lbs, which represents a further pound a week to Easter.

By the time Heather's dad and family arrive from Perth on their holiday in late May, I want to be lighter than I was when we last saw them two years ago: pretty much bang on 17st, from memory. That would essentially mean losing a stone in total in just over three months, which I would be very happy with.

I don't see why I can't achieve that, as I don't actually feel I've got out of second gear so far. I've certainly been concentrating on eating more sensibly at work and cutting out the snacks, while allowing myself one day a week where I treat myself to whatever I fancy (a denial-and-reward routine which has worked well for me in the past). But I still haven't actually managed to squeeze any exercise into my evenings, which I know is something I need to do regardless of the weight loss because I have never felt as unfit as I currently do.

So, really I've done pretty well in spite of my continuing laziness by just applying a modicum of self-discipline. Can't complain. Anyhow, no point dwelling on the negatives; I prefer to think of it as having an extra gear in hand for when I need it down the final stretch.

Now it's time for my breakfast of gruel and water. Honest.

Rules for dads

In my previous post last week, I outlined five basic rules of parenthood. In general, though, it's not so much parents as fathers who need the most help when it comes to this parenting lark. So here are ten additional rules that all dads should take heed of.

(A health warning: tongue is inserted firmly in cheek here, but many fellow fathers will recognise a grain of truth in most of the following situations.)

Rule #1: If you're not doing something, you should be. You may not know what it is, but there is definitely something. (It will be written on a list somewhere, even if it's one that only exists in your wife's/partner's head.)

Rule #2: Watching The Gadget Show or playing Call Of Duty while occasionally talking to your child does not qualify as 'quality father/son (or daughter) time', no matter how interested they are in what you're doing.

Rule #3: Even if you are the sole bread-winner, change every nappy and are the CEO of a multinational industrial conglomerate, as a father you are the least important person in the household (and that includes any and all pets). Deal with it.

Rule #4: You will lose every argument with your children. If you're already in a long-term relationship, you should be used to that by now, though. (Zac's current ace-in-the-hole is to fire up the death stare and ask "Why not?" with utter conviction when told he can't do something. It's really quite disarming.)

Rule #5: The slightest whiff of criticism of your partner's abilities as a mother is a straight red card offence. However, expect to be told on a daily basis about all the things that you do, don't do, should do more/less of or just plain do wrong. It's a mother's God-given right. Grin and bear it.

Rule #6: Under no circumstances - irrespective of how many times your sleep was interrupted during the night or what time your children dragged you out of bed in the morning - ever mention to your wife how tired you are. Unless your ears need clearing out, that is.

Rule #7: When your other half gets all teary-eyed and emotional because they've had only three hours' sleep for the fourth night in a row and have just had to deal with a poo-up-the-back incident, the only correct response is to be understanding and supportive. However, if you go all emo, you are being a drama queen. Man up and crack open a beer like any self-respecting, emotionally-stunted male should.

Rule #8: Whatever you most want your child to be is the thing they will be least inclined to do. (For instance, I want Zac to be as interested in sports as his parents are, but the moment I put the football on he runs over to the TV, switches it off and goes back to his macramé. Okay, I'm exaggerating. But only slightly.)

Rule #9: If, like me, you delivered your own baby BBA (Born Before Arrival of midwife/ambulance/other person who has some vague idea what they should be doing), this automatically confers a degree of coolness upon you as a father, no matter how uncool you really are. Dine out on it while you can. The effect wears off as quickly as your holiday tan.

Rule #10: The 'illusion of free will' is a reality. There is no such thing as a free lunch. Or a free evening out with the lads. Or a free round of golf. Everything comes with a price tag. It's just that you can't always see it.

The formula to calculate 'free' time (where 'free' means time for which there is not some quid pro quo child/mother-related action required in return) is as follows:

Free time (in hours) = 0

Think about it. For every boys' night out there is an agreement (either explicit or implicit) to babysit for a girly shopping trip. Your Sunday round of golf is worth its weight in chocolate. Even that new Wii controller will be offset by an afternoon pushing the pram around Mothercare. It may not always be obvious, but like taxes you will end up paying somehow some day.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go. I'm pretty sure I'm contravening rules 1, 2 and 10, and I'm heading for another slap-down from rule 4.

Rules of parenthood

As the proud father of boys aged two years (Isaac) and one month (Toby), I have learned to accept my place as the fourth-most important person in our household. I've read the books (well, some of them, anyway), I've compared experiences with other mums and dads, and I've decided it's a shame no one ever tells you what the real rules of parenthood are, the ones that really govern our lives as parents and that most of us end up discovering only through painful experience.

Off the top of my head, here are five valuable and immutable rules of parenthood:

Rule #1: Newborn babies are public property (just as pregnant mothers' bumps are). So when complete strangers descend on you in Waitrose, peer into the pram and engage you in conversation when all you really want to do is pay up and go home, just smile and remember that you're only the parent and have no rights as such.

Rule #2: Keep the remote control - and any other valuable gadget with buttons - out of reach. You may think it's difficult to delete the contents of your Sky+ box. To a child it's, well, child's play.

Rule #3: There is no better negotiator in this world than a 2-3 year old toddler. By this age, they possess significant native cunning (and aren't afraid to use it), they have enough vocabulary to state exactly what they want, they are well practised in the art of mega-tantrums and they know they can punch/pinch/slap you in public without fear of retribution with the might of disapproving onlookers and the Child Protection Agency on their side. Just learn to be gracious in defeat: it makes life much easier.

Rule #4: You will always need to do an emergency nappy change when you are already running late for that important doctor's / dentist's / hairdresser's / insert as applicable appointment.

Rule #5: Here is the formula for calculating how long you need to get ready to leave the house with children:

Time required (in minutes) = n(t+15) + x + r

Where n is the number of children you have, t is the time (in minutes) it used to take you to get ready pre-children, x is the number you first thought of, and r is a random number between 5 and 60 to cover emergency nappy changes, toddler tantrums and returning to the house to retrieve wallets / birthday presents / favourite toys. It doesn't really matter, because you'll still be late anyway no matter what.

There are many other rules governing parenthood; I'm sure you will have some of your own. Feel free to share - after all, us parents are in this together ...

Diet, here we go (again)

At the beginning of December I weighed in at 17st 7lbs, with the ambition of emerging post-Christmas no heavier than that.

Fail.

By New Year, I had gained about three pounds, to which I had added a further three by last weekend, tipping the scales at 17st 13lbs.

In my (admittedly feeble) defence, there were some mitigating factors. The three major snowfalls we had - one the week before Christmas, two in the first half of January - left me housebound and suffering from cabin fever, and with that a concomitant need to comfort eat for long spells. And then there was my two weeks of paternity leave after Toby's birth, which afforded a welcome opportunity to spend some quality time in the kitchen and cook proper meals- tasty, but not exactly conducive to weight loss.

With hindsight, it was no surprise I gained a significant chunk of weight. (Still, it could have been worse: one more pound and I would be starting from 18-something, not 17.)

Anyhow, I'm now back at work and back on the wagon, with my dieting mojo fully restored. Sensible eating and a gentle (to begin with) programme of exercise are the orders of the day. 17 st 5 lbs was my pre-Christmas target, so by my reckoning a pound a week will get me to my target by Easter.

Willpower on. Let's go.

A long time in parenthood

It was Harold Wilson who said "a week is a long time in politics". Well, it's a pretty long time in the world of parenthood too.

Today is Toby's one-week 'birthday', and already the circumstances of his sudden arrival are starting to feel slightly surreal. (We have joked about marking the spot on the living room floor where he was delivered with a ceremonial 'X'. Me, I'd go for one of those round plaques you see on the side of famous people's homes.)

Apparently, in certain circles I am now unofficially 'Superdad' or alternatively 'The Coolest Dad In Town' (I'm thinking about filing for the latter as a personal trademark). I have to admit, though, I don't feel particularly super; I've certainly never been cool. In fact, looking back, the sum total of my achievements appears to be (a) I was there, (b) I didn't pass out and (c) I didn't drop Toby. So, I wasn't down the pub, I stayed awake and I am overqualified to play cricket for England. Hey, if people think that's cool or super, then who am I to question them?

So, what's happened this week while I've been at home with my feet up? (Yeah, right, ha ha.)

Well, Toby has taken to breast-feeding like a real natural, eating for England at every possible opportunity, a trait clearly inherited from his dad. (I'm thinking about putting a vending machine in his room.) He also seems to have settled into a three-hourly routine during the night, which is good news. He seems pretty bright and alert too; he is certainly awake for more of the day than Isaac was at a week old.

You talking to me?

Speaking of whom, Zac has taken everything in his stride reasonably well. Given that he's always been a real mummy's boy, he doesn't seem too jealous for the most part (although he keeps demanding a cuddle whenever he sees Toby being fed) and he's even being quite helpful at times. When Toby cries, Zac will wander over to the crib, peer in, say "Toby's crying. I'll sort it", and then give it a rock. Quite cute, really. He might get a bit more antsy once I'm back at work next week and he can no longer demand both our attentions, but he's doing okay.

Heather is understandably tired but seems to be recovering well, and managing the sudden transition back to night feeds without too much trouble. She's certainly pleased to be able to see her feet and tie her own shoelaces again. And it has helped that she has had a steady stream of friends coming to visit too.

Finally, me. I'm having a really good time. Other than finishing a few bits and pieces, I've been able to take my mind off work and actually enjoy my paternity leave. I've been able to spend some quality time with Zac - well, I appreciate it, I'm not so sure he does - taking him to playgroup sessions a couple of times and generally keeping him out of Heather's hair. Being home during the day also means I have time to indulge in proper cooking - a saltimbocca last night, and I'll be hand-making gnocchi tonight - in between all the household chores. (How can one small baby get through so many clothes in one day?) And I've even had the chance to start catching up on my large collection of unread books and unwatched TV programmes.

Just chilling with my dad

All in all, it has been about as smooth a first week as we could have ever hoped for.

What's next? Well, I don't go back to work until Thursday week, so we're hoping to get out and about a bit more over the next week. We're taking Toby down to see Heather's mum for the first time tomorrow, then hopefully the three of us (minus Zac, who will be in nursery) will head into Oxford for lunch on Thursday. And then I've got dinners to plan, and photos to sort out, and ...

It's a busy time, but I wouldn't change it for anything.

And then there were four

If this was a cricket scorecard, it would have read: Liew c Liew b Liew.

Allow me to explain.

Long story short, by the time I got home at 6:30 last night, Heather had been having regular contractions for a couple of hours, so we knew we were in for an eventful evening. Having phoned my parents - who had been on yellow alert for more than a fortnight - and asked them to head westwards out of London, we decided to settle in and have as normal an evening as possible under the circumstances to take our minds off things. Which meant putting Zac to bed, followed by takeaway curry in front of Countdown and Hustle on TV.

So far, so mundane.

The grandparents pitched up at about 9:30, quickly followed by our midwife, Amanda. A quick physical exam suggested everything was fine and we were still several hours away from serious action, so Amanda headed off, suggesting we all get some sleep.

We were preparing for bed at around 11:10 when, without any warning, all hell broke loose. Two huge contractions sent Heather scrambling downstairs while I dashed around phoning Amanda, grabbing towels, firing up our birth playlist on the iPod and so on. Although things had moved on too far too fast to make use of the birthing pool, fortunately everything else was proceeding without complication. Textbook stuff.

The only problem was I hadn't actually read the textbook. I had literally just been settling down with the book to revise the details I had so studiously memorised when Zac was born when I was suddenly called up to perform my practical exam. And as the contractions came harder and faster, it became clear that Amanda wasn't going to get here in time. I was on my own.

Fortunately, earlier in the evening I had watched an episode of the American TV drama Brothers & Sisters which - instructively - featured a birth scene. They didn't actually show the detailed process, but I nonetheless followed carefully as a group of actors in matching, pristine surgical gowns glided purposefully around a delivery room in beautifully choreographed slow motion to the strains of Coldplay's 'Fix You'. Surely that's all you need to know to deliver a baby yourself? (The sequence also featured the father-to-be collapsing in a car park as he rushed to the hospital, with what turned out to be a non-fatal heart attack. I thought it best not to try and replicate that particular bit.)

Anyway, I had enough of my wits about me to project an air of calm reassurance for Heather (in truth, there simply wasn't enough time for panic to set in), to remind her about her breathing at the appropriate moments, and to be in position as the baby manoeuvred itself into launch position with one contraction, crowned with the next one, and finally with a deft wriggle of the shoulders slithered gracefully out where I was waiting to make the catch with a towel at the ready. A quick glance at the clock to note the time of birth, and a pause to register which song was playing on our randomised playlist - Sinead O'Connor's classic version of Prince's 'Nothing Compares 2 U', in case you were wondering - and job done.

Amanda arrived five minutes later. Which was good, because (a) I got to cut the cord without having to worry about cleaning up the surrounding mess and (b) I really didn't fancy filling in the paperwork myself.

(Incidentally, I wonder if there is a separate name for the male equivalent of a midwife - 'midhusband' doesn't really sound the part, does it?)

By 1 o'clock, everything that needed to be done was done (including a beer for me to balance the slide down from my adrenalin high). We started the evening as a household of three; we ended it as a family of four.

Toby, aged 15 hours (and a bit)

This entry and the series of blogs preceding it comprise the birth journal of Tobias Alexander Liew, who was born at 11:27pm on Tuesday 19th January 2010, weighing 8 lbs 9 oz. Welcome to your life, Toby. Make it a good 'un.