Babe: 3 years and 2 months
Babeling: Out next week, please God

I was with my parents and the babe in the Fenwicks self-service restaurant at Brent Cross when I was about six months pregnant. There was a Mediterranean-looking bloke waiting at the till, and when he saw me sliding my tray along the thing you slide your tray along, he was horrified. He rushed out from behind the till and insisted on sliding it along for me. Then when we’d paid he had to carry the tray to our table. I felt all feminine and Madonna-like (no, not that Madonna).

Where, I want to know, is my waiter now? If I am too delicate to slide a tray at six months, surely at nearly nine months I need help in lugging up washing from the basement to the airer on the first floor? Or climbing into the loft with huge sacks of outgrown toddler clothes? Or painting ceilings? Or, for that matter, skirting boards? What about picking up my two-stone daughter when she is inconsolable? How about just walking upstairs? I tell you, someone has messed with the altitude in our house and the oxygen is very thin on the top step.

In any case, he may be worrying about me. If you are that man, just leave your details in the comments section. Thank you.