The words of a pro

My mate Rodney can be very hard to get hold of.

He's also very good at coming up with an original excuse for why he's failed to return your calls.

But the following, received on a voicemail yesterday morning after several days of me attempting in vain to track him down, is possibly his best yet.

Delivered in a simple matter-of-fact tone of voice, here's what Rodney said:

"Hi Barry, it's me.

"Sorry I haven't been about for a couple of days. I had to do that spacewalk thing.

"You know, the Chinese Government couldn't trust one of their spacemen to do it so they had to get me to do it.

"So, I'm just back."

You would never know he's a barrister.

A special anniversary

Jamie was conceived a year ago today. (Yes, I thought that might grab your attention).

I know this because the Conservative Party Conference begins in Birmingham in a few hours. And this day last year, I was preparing to go to Blackpool for the 2007 event where I spent the next four days (without Vanessa).

According to the calculations, the moment when Mr Sperm and Miss (or Ms?) Egg got their act together was either on that Sunday or in the handful of days immediately afterwards. However, it clearly couldn't physically have happened whilst I was at the conference (I'll resist milkman references at this point).

I can also guarantee that it didn't happen in the days following my return either since I was recovering from something close to alcohol poisoning and therefore didn't have babies as a priority.

So that Sunday it was.

I actually remember quite a bit about the day in question. We made a baby, had breakfast, went into Leeds to find a new suit, I ironed my shirts (modern man, me) whilst listening to now Presidential hopeful John McCain speak at said conference which had already started and then watched Argentina hammer Ireland in the Rugby World Cup (the reason I delayed my departure to Blackpool).

Then I got on the Blackpool train, got off, got lost, found my B&B, met up with some familiar faces at a conference hotel and stayed up for most of the night "catching up on old times." All good fun.

I'm not sure how quickly these things happen but, for all I know, Jamie consisted of at least four cells by the time I finally got to bed - or maybe even eight.

Happy first birthday to them all.

Jamie Wonder

I'm sitting here, typing away, whilst listening to commentary on the mighty Coleraine FC's visit to the Linfield scumbags - the miracles of modern technology, eh? (It's nil-nil at the moment, by the way).

Today's been one of those days when I got up with so much to do yet am sadly destined to return to my scratcher with nothing done.

To be fair, I did get to the gym (still hate it) and I do hope to get the grass cut but, with the Ulster rugby team due to run out in less than an hour and three quarters (Live on Setanta Sports 2, in case you're interested) and with Vanessa then due to head out for a girlie evening shortly afterwards, time is not on my side.

Jamie's been in reasonable form for most of the day following a bad start which involved him projectile vomiting down my back, on Vanessa's pillow and all over the headboard of our bed. Good man.

I think the sun's the reason for his relative good humour, mainly because it's allowed him to wear his shades once again. They didn't come out once in Northern Ireland, which was hardly a shock. But he's making up for it today. They also seem to have a strange effect on him.

(Sorry, but I've just heard one of the Linfield fans call the ref a cheating b*****d via one of the effects mikes. Belfast scum. Still nil-nil).

Yes, Jamie's specs. He was okay with them for the first few minutes today. But then he started to rock his head from side to side in the style of Stevie Wonder which, if you think about it, is somewhat ironic given the fact he's wearing dark glasses.

Vanessa reckons he was simply trying to shake them off but, for my money, it was clearly a deliberate - and convincing - attempt at a Stevie impression. The boy's pool of talent and wit appears bottomless. Kind of.

(Nil-nil at half-time. Come on the Stripes).

Return of the Jac(qui)

A tough old day at work today but one I will remember fondly for a long time after a very old friend found me on Facebook.

Jacqui is a couple of years younger than me which, when at school, is almost an eternity. She went to Coleraine High School (which is girls only) and I went to Coleraine Inst (which is all boys - I appreciate people from the area will be aware of these things but stick with me).

Thinking back all those years - 18 to be precise - I always regarded Jacqui as one of life's "good" people. There was nothing not to like although she had a tongue which could cut tin if the need arose!

One of the last times I spoke to her was in my early days at university when a few friends and I embarked on a series of wind-ups involving people we knew. Jacqui was at the centre of one of these after I asked one of my hallmates in Newcastle - Steve Chee his name was - to pretend to be Peter Hooton (pictured below, lead singer of The Farm with their one hit) and invite Jacqui to appear in their next video.

As a result of an incredibly convincing performance from Steve, the poor girl fell for it hook, line and sinker. So much so that I felt bad telling her the truth at the end. Typically, though, she took it in very good heart.

Now with two girls of her own and a co-partner in her own very successful interior design business in Coleraine, Jacqui's done good.

She also ensured I came home to start my weekend with a smile - and I haven't even prised open my beer fridge yet. (Needless to say, that's where I'm heading off now).

Down the gym

A bad old start to the day after Jamie woke up with a bit of a fever.

The poor little bloke had his second set of jabs yesterday and, according to Vanessa, yelped when the needles went in but was otherwise fine.

However, last night he started to get unsettled so we pumped him full of Calpol. And then this morning, he was burning up so we pumped him again.

He's now snuggled down in his cosy sleep bag on the sofa and all seems calm. For a little while at least.

Meanwhile, I'm just back from my first proper session in the gym at Pudsey Leisure Centre and, whilst the facilities there are good, I was very quickly reminded of why I've always hated the gym so much.

I must've been a member of about eight different gyms down the years. And whilst I do tend to go after joining, I just get so bored.

You set there on a machine and you lift a weight 10 or 15 times. Then you stop. Then you do it again. Boooorrrriiiinnnnngggggg.

Or you run on the treadmill for however many minutes and don't actually get anywhere (it's worse when you're facing the window). Same thing on the rowing machine. Dull, dull, dull, dull, DULL!

Unfortunately, after all the running I've been doing over the last year or so, both my knees are weak so drastic action was needed i.e. come off the roads for a while and try to stay fit some other way. And whilst I HATE the gym (have I mentioned that?) I see no alternative at present.

On the up side, earlier today I bought five new tee-shirts and a new pair of shorts in a conscious attempt to raise my enthusiasm. But, whilst I undoubtedly looked the part, I ended up feeling somewhat on the warm side.

Perhaps I'll just wear the one tee-shirt when I go back to the gym on Saturday.

Amongst friends

Last week, I was proud to show Jamie off to anyone remotely interested. But two stop-offs last Friday teatime gave me special pleasure.

First was a short drop-by with the Fitzpatricks. Regular readers have met Sean and Melanie before - he the Police Detective Inspector who likes to dress up as a fairy; she his long-suffering wife and sometime leprechaun.

Vanessa and I had been out with the pair of them the previous night. Indeed, my head still hasn't fully recovered from the experience - but Guinness definitely is better back home.

Sean doesn't do babies - as his body language above clearly and deliberately demonstrates - but it doesn't stop him looking like a giant one himself.

And, pictured below, is Geoff and Karen Walls together with their gorgeous five-year-old daughter Ellen.

Like Sean, Geoff and I first met at school almost exactly 25 years ago. Until he met the lovely Karen, Geoff needed a bit of taming - and she was certainly the girl for this.

Unfortunately, with happiness, came adversity when, just hours before baby Ellen was born in 2003, Karen was found to have a very large malignant tumour in her bowel. She was taken immediately into theatre to have this removed, returning again within hours for a second procedure which led to Ellen's premature birth.

As Geoff said to me afterwards, "at one point I thought I was going to lose both my girls."

Due to the determination and incredible bravery of both Karen and Geoff, things began to look up and a wedding date was set - only for everything to go back on hold when a secondary tumour was found on Karen's liver.

But, typical of the pair, they battled on and beat that too.

Last week, Karen was at home recuperating after the reversal operation on her bowel a few days earlier. And, as you can see, the three of them are looking good (Geoff will tell you he always looks good) and ready to finally move on with their lives.

Water baby

Having had a few days to reflect back on Jamie's first trip to Ireland, it occurred to me what a large part water played in proceedings (and not just because he peed on me a couple of times).

First, there were the ferry trips across the Irish Sea and back.

He wasn't particularly impressed by the sight of Liverpool from his cabin window (as you may notice above) but thankfully cheered up a bit once he got out on deck later in the day.

Our trip to Donegal involved another return ferry trip, this time across Lough Foyle. He seemed a little happier with that (left), principally because the journey time was only 13 minutes as opposed to eight hours on board the "big boat."

Then there were the occasions he took to the water himself, first in Granda' White's sink for a bath (below). And then in the children's pool of our Buncrana hotel were he grizzled a little but didn't properly kick off (at least until I tried to extract him from his swimming nappy). Unfortunately I wasn't allowed to take a pic of this in case I was a closet paedophile (which thankfully I'm not).

And, of course, throughout out trip, we were always a stone's throw from the most beautiful coastline in the world and, with it, the North Atlantic.

I was forever chucked into that particular ocean during my own childhood but thought it best to give Jamie a few more tries in warmer waters first before introducing him to the experience. Next time, he's going in (with Vanessa - I'd better mention it to her).

Up with the kids

Still more than a little under the weather which is why earlier tonight Vanessa and I did the obvious thing - and joined the gym. More of that another time.

But with regard to our holiday, it was - as ever when we cross the Irish Sea - very hectic and not in the least bit restful.

That is not in any way meant as a slight on anyone we met up with. Far from it. But there were just so many people to see or, to put it another way, just so many people who wanted to see Jamie (Mummy and Daddy now know their lowly place).

Top of the list were his new cousins Katie and Sebastian, pictured with him above.

The two of them have been very keen to hear all about our little man since his recent arrival and it was therefore a pleasure to do the introductions the Saturday before last.

One of the highlights of our trip was Sebastian's agreement, shortly before we departed for home, to be one of Jamie's two Godfathers.

Anyone who read my London Marathon blog from earlier this year will know all about Sebastian's bravery after he was diagnosed with congenital heart disease shortly after birth.

We've no doubt he will prove to be an excellent role model for Jamie (which is welcome, given the opposite effect my mate John, his other intended Godfather, is likely to have on him).

I'll tell you a bit more about our trip tomorrow. In the meantime, have you ever noticed how much Coronation Street's Liz McDonald now resembles Big Bird from Sesame Street?

I did tonight and, as Roy Walker used to beseech contestants to do on Catchphrase, "say what you see." So I have.

Back home

We're back from our week in Ireland - North and South as it turned out - and we're wrecked.

My poor physical state, coupled with the fact that the Ryder Cup singles are about to tee off, means I'm going to wait until next week before telling you more about the first White family holiday. No doubt you'll cope.

However, to hopefully keep you interested, I thought you might like to see a pic of Jamie doing his Father Jack impersonation on a Donegal beach. Pretty convincing I'm sure you'll agree.

Now then - come on Europe!

Off on holiday!

Yes, the Whites are about to set off on their first family holiday - to Northern Ireland.

The ship sails from Liverpool at 10.30 tomorrow morning, arriving in Belfast eight hours later. And we've even got a cabin!

Jamie is clearly a little nervous at the prospect of meeting his new Ulster aunts, uncles, cousins and friends who talk funny. But he's also very excited.

After a good night's sleep at Granda' White's, a Sunday afternoon back garden barbecue is his first planned engagement. And, with the sun set to shine, he hopes he's chosen an outfit appropriate for the occasion.

Looking good, I'm sure you'll agree.

As well as the Whites, this blog is also taking a short break.

But do not fret, it shall return next Sunday (21st) with a special report detailing exactly what we got up to - hopefully accompanied by a few pics.

We'll aim to have fun 'til then and trust you will too.

Boys' night in

Vanessa went off to a "candle party" tonight which she has since best described as "a modern day Tupperware party. With candles."

I was obviously very sad to miss that one.

My huge disappointment at not receiving an invite was initially lessened by the fact that Jamie and I would have the opportunity to hold our first ever boys' night in.

But, our evening now over, I would have to say that junior could've done better.

Whilst I appreciate the fact he's not yet on to solids, I thought he could at least have tried his steak.

He wasn't interested in the rules of poker. And, perhaps worst of all, didn't touch his whiskey.

Thank goodness the stripper didn't turn up.

Tomorrow, Daddy back at work, he can return to his mother's arms.

But I cannot help but think - opportunity wasted.

Putting the record straight

About five weeks ago, I agreed to write an article on fatherhood for The Suburb, a glossy lifestyle magazine published here in West Yorkshire.

As sometimes happens with these things, the words which have just appeared in print in my name are not a wholly accurate representation of those sent across by me.

This irritates me greatly so, if you haven't seen the article or wish to read what I actually wrote, you can do so below. I think my version is better.

* * *

Fatherhood

"I won't lie to you, fatherhood isn't easy like motherhood."

Not my words, but those of probably the world’s most famous dad, Homer Simpson.

Now, clearly, I would not possibly suggest that motherhood is in any way easy (you probably haven’t met my wife) but, as the father of a six-week-old boy, I can at least agree with Homer’s assertion that fatherhood is far from being a walk in the park.

Prior to the birth of little Jamie, I was unsure about what exactly I could offer in my impending new role.

As the youngest child of three, I’d never previously spent much time around babies and so had little experience to draw on.

And, whilst I’d been given several books to read by family and friends – Pregnancy for Blokes being one that springs to mind – I hadn’t quite found the time to actually open them.

Given that this was our first baby and therefore expected to be perhaps a week or more late, I was sure that a slot would become available before the big moment.

It was therefore a matter of some regret when, two days before the due date, I was sitting in the delivery suite at the Leeds General Infirmary wondering what was going on before me and what in goodness name I could do to help.

But, as soon as Jamie showed his face at 8.49pm that Monday night, nature sort of took its course with me just as it had done with him.

Admittedly I did get off to something of a false start after being asked to hand him back to the midwife only two minutes after holding him for the first time following fears that I would faint and drop him.

But things got better. Early next morning, I was given responsibility for pushing him down for a precautionary scan and then an x-ray on his sore right shoulder. Thankfully all was fine and I only crashed once, a glancing blow off a set of double doors.

I changed my first nappy shortly afterwards, following up with three more before I was kicked out the hospital at the end of visiting time.

Since then, I’ve done the lot – bathed him, picked out his clothes, lugged him around the supermarket in a baby carrier (something I thought I’d never do), fed him expressed milk in bottles, got up with him in the night, talked to him, even sung to him.

Now, I appreciate that none of these activities are exactly radical and should be the norm for any self-respecting father.

But the reason for me telling you is simple: I have loved every single second of playing my part, of helping our little boy start out on his journey, of protecting him, of loving him, of being a dad.

So, like Homer, I won’t lie to you either. Fatherhood certainly isn’t easy, but it’s also a joy.

Jamie: The Movie II

Regular readers of this rubbish might remember the little video clip I put up a couple of months ago which captured Jamie just a few minutes after he was born.

The other day, I used the video function on our camera to film him amusing himself - albeit with a bit of prompting from Mummy and Daddy - as he lay on top of our bed.

He's not doing a lot but, if you've got a minute spare, feel free to click on and see him in action.

The two amigos

Here's a pic taken at Judy and Mike's last night which I thought you'd like to see: son of Daggers and Han meets son of Barry and Van.

We think it's the first time the two have been caught together on camera.

Away from the bright lights, Oliver biffed Jamie a couple of times but the boy White didn't flinch.

Daddy's very proud (and Jamie will obviously get him in later years).

To pee or not to pee

The 2008 Leeds Half Marathon has been run and I finished it in a personal best time of 1 hour 47 minutes and 29 seconds (according to my watch). Happy with that.

The race itself was fairly uneventful. Indeed, for me, the two most memorable moments came before the gun sounded.

First was seeing my old friend and fellow Coleraine man Paul Gaile in the warm-up area. Unlike me, Paul is actually a very good runner and completed this year's London Marathon in well under three hours - a superhuman feat in my book.

Second was in the toilet area where dozens of runners has scurried off to for a final "visit" in advance of the off. There were two queues, one for "Men" and one for "Unisex" which everyone sort of assumed meant women but who can say these days.

Anyway, I didn't really need to go but decided to have a wee try (get it?!) nonetheless. However, when I got there, the "Men" queue wasn't moving too quickly so I began to wonder whether I might not be better getting back to the start line.

But, without warning, a fellow competitor suddenly appeared along the line to announce the following: "This queue seems to be for both pees and poos. There is something of a demand for the poo cubicles at the moment, but if you just need a pee then go on through."

No-one moved for a couple of seconds before a few of us began to shuffle forward towards what we were assured were several vacant urinals (true, as it turned it). Meanwhile, those who remained in what can only be described as the "number two queue" stood where they were, staring at the ground. Most bizarre and very amusing. In fact, had I not had my pee at the promised vacant urinal a few seconds later, I might've had trouble keeping it in.

I'm off for a shower shortly before Vanessa, Jamie and I head over to Grandma Judy and Grandad Mike's for Sunday tea.

The bad news is that Dagenham Dave is going to be there. He was true to form on Friday night and made my head hurt. Bless him.

The good news is that, along with baby Oliver, Auntie Hannah will be there too - fresh from her drumming gig yesterday afternoon at a home for the bewildered.

I will try to behave when I'm asking her about it but, I'll tell you now, it isn't going to be easy.

Divided loyalities

Probably around twenty years ago now, I remember watching the McDonald boys - Andy and Steve - grow up on Coronation Street.

Corrie fans will not need to be reminded, but father Jim was from Belfast and mother Liz from somewhere local to Manchester.

However, both Andy and Steve spoke with thick Mancunian accents. This was not unexpected as they both grew up there, went to school there and all the rest.

But, to this day, I can clearly recall saying to myself, "if I ever live, get married and have kids in England, I'll make sure they speak like me."

As fate would have it, I am now resident in this wonderful component part of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, I have a mouthy English wife and an increasingly gobby little boy.

Having spoken to many people about this, I now accept that the chances of Jamie ending up with a Coleraine lilt to his voice are minimal, "as he'll copy kids at school and there aren't likely to be too many kids in his school from Coleraine, are there?" is a fair summary of what people have said. This is both logical and truthful, if a little disappointing.

However, all is not yet lost.

Because whilst I must perhaps admit defeat in my quest for Master While "till speak Norn Iron like," there is no reason whatever why he can't grow up first aware and later proud of his roots in "the wee country."

Vanessa and I are taking him on his first trip there this time next week.

But before then, the Northern Ireland football team has two World Cup qualification matches and I think it's only right he watches them - starting at 4.30 this afternoon when Nigel Worthington's men kick off their campaign in Slovakia.

And as luck would have it, the country of his birth begin their game away to against Andorra at 7pm, thereby ensuring the White boys can watch both matches.

Unfortunately Wednesday is more problematic as England's game in Croatia is due to kick-off just 15 minutes before Northern Ireland's home match against the Czech Republic.

With Jamie as yet unable to operate a remote control, I reckon a "compromise solution" will be reached where we'll concentrate on Northern Ireland but flick over during breaks in play to see how David Beckham's latest hairstyle is coping in the wind.

But the years ahead could prove more challenging for me as I seek to remind my boy of his Ulster roots - and the need to turn over to Sky Sports 2.

Sitting Daggers

Jamie's bath over - before which our loving son peed all over my clean jeans - you would think the Whites' childly duties would be drawing to a close this fine day.

Hell no.

For, in a few minutes from now, we're heading off to babysit a 42-year-old (and his lovely little son Oliver, but he's easy).

For those of you who don't know him (and I envy you all), Dagenham Dave is my brother-in-law. He's also what can most politely be described as a divvy.

Actually from Guildford (but Dagenham goes better with Dave which is why Dagenham it is), Dave is married to Vanessa's long-suffering sister Hannah.

Today's his birthday and, because Hannah's heading out to drum for an hour later this evening (don't start me), we've been invited to keep Daggers entertained whilst she's away. We'll then be rewarded with tea.

This is a very kind gesture and I look forward to it immensely, principally because Dave might be starting to run out of words by then.

A "cheeky chappy" in the traditional style, old Daggers talks absolute, complete and utter b*lls at all times. Yes, it does tend to be extremely amusing but BOY can he talk.

And, being my brother-in-law, I'm stuck with him until one of us dies. What a thought.

Dagenham Dave is the telly on the right of the picture taken at a "black and white" party two years ago. Beside him is Hannah (dressed as a domino - obviously), her brother Jonathan (as the Phantom of the Opera) and me (as a priest).

But just look at Dave. What an idiot.

They say the camera never lies and it's true, for Daggers truly is wired up. If I had my way, he'd be wired to something very different. And sharp.

OK, time to go - bring on the fool..!

A timing issue

What do you think of my new watch? Yep, pretty dull isn’t it?

After my life-threatening leg problem was suddenly cured by miracle forces and therefore my last possible excuse for not running Sunday’s Leeds Half Marathon taken away, I needed a new watch.

The strap on my old one snapped a few weeks ago and, after going to see the man at the Kirkgate Centre in Bradford, was told that, unlike my serious leg disease, this problem was indeed terminal. This left me without a watch and you sort of need one to run things like half marathons so off to the shops I went at lunchtime today.

I do dither over these things but, having spent the guts of 40 minutes looking at the contents of one shop window, I marched inside to advise the shop assistant of my choice. She returned a couple of minutes later, holding my intended purchase, with a sheepish verging on embarrassed look on her face.

“I’m afraid this is a kiddie watch, sir,” she whispered. “Perhaps you might want to have a look at our gentlemen’s range.” I coughed a bit, smiled crookedly and rushed out the door in the direction of Argos.

15 minutes later I was £19.99 down but a watch up – and made it back to work before the end of my dinner hour. Even if the watch is a bit dull.

Back to Boots

It's incredible what you can buy for babies these days.

Vanessa sent me back to Boots at lunchtime today for two things - a packet of swim pants and a bottle of Infacol. Unfortunately I came out without the Infacol (which, if you don't know and I obviously didn't until ten weeks ago, helps with "baby wind").

However, the swim pants are great. Again, something I didn't previously know you could buy (until yesterday), you simply put these on your Jamie and then you can take him to the swimming pool. Fantastic!

"Boots disposable swim pants pull on easily and help to contain poo while swimming or playing in water," boasts the packet. "The absorbent core protects from small accidents before getting into the water, but does not swell up like a normal nappy once in the water." So now you (and I) know.

The plan is to take him swimming when we go to Northern Ireland in a couple of weeks' time, so more of that then. But, needless to say, I'm rather amused at the prospect.

The reason I forgot the Infacol was because I got distracted by the many other exciting items you can see above - after I bought them.

At the top centre is a pair of baby nail clippers. We already have a pair of baby scissors but we're not having a lot of success with them in terms of cutting his nails so why not try the clippers? No reason at all, thought I, so they went in the basket.

Below these are a pack of Milton Surface Wipes. These might seem a bit dull but get this: you can use them to wipe your Jamie's dummy when it falls on the floor. Brilliant - so I was having them too.

On their right is, obviously enough, a "Baby On Board" sign. Yes, I know these is a bit nerdy but there's a hidden agenda on this one. I'm about to start driving lessons again soon and this, coupled with my 'L' plates, might just encourage nasty drivers not to parp me as much as they might ordinarily do. Well worth £1.99 of anyone's money, I'd say, and certainly ours. Plus, it has "Child On Board" written on the other side so it's got longevity.

In the top left hand corner is the second best item I bought, a Floating Bath Thermometer in the shape of a whale. As it would be, clearly.

The actual thermometer bit - the black rectangular shape you can see in the pic - has three little squares, one containing a minus sign, one a tick and one a plus sign. What you do is put the whale into your Jamie's bathwater, ensuring the thermometer bit is covered. If the minus sign glows after 20 seconds, the water is too cold for him, and if the plus sign glows, it's too hot. But if it's the tick appears, you're ready to begin the splashing.

We've actually just tried it out and it works well but there also appears to be a downside. As ever, I'll explain. Vanessa got the water sorted until the tick appeared and then I plunked our little man into the water. Job's a good 'un.

What we didn't bargain for was Jamie's sudden desire to impersonate an actual whale. Just a few seconds after getting in, a fountain of water suddenly shot high into the air - in the style of Moby Dick himself - landing on Vanessa's top. Then, after a short pause, we had a repeat performance, this time all over her trousers. This has never happened before so it's obvious his inspiration came from the whale. Maybe next time we'll put him in a pair of his new swim pants.

One more thing, the eagle-eyed amongst may have spotted a Boots bag in the bottom right- hand corner of the photograph. You might also have noticed that, whilst I referred to the whale as my second favourite item bought today, I haven't yet mentioned my favourite.

Well, the Boots bag contains my absolute favourite purchase but I'm not going to show or tell you what it is until next Friday (12th), the day before we go to Northern Ireland. It's something you or I would normally expect to take on holiday, but perhaps you wouldn't expect a baby to do so.

Jamie and you are, I hope, in for a fun surprise.

He's so coot

Jamie is now losing his hair at an ever quickening rate.

Indeed, in recent mornings, Vanessa has made a point of checking out the sheet in his Moses basket to see how many hairs he's managed to shed over the previous night. And the sad answer is normally the same: quite a few.

The way things are going, our son will soon be - as the saying goes - as bald as a coot.

Which got me thinking. Do you know what a coot looks like? I realised I had absolutely no idea. So, if you're like me, then this is your lucky day.

Above left is a picture of a baby coot. Above right is a picture of a baby Jamie.

In a week or two we might not be able to tell them apart.

It got me

I came home tonight and, after changing Jamie's nappy, put him back on to his changing mat to see if he would smile for me.

He did so without delay - and then vomited all over his best dungarees. Excellent.

Meanwhile, I fear I may be in the process of dying a horrible and prolonged death.

We were out in the garden on Saturday evening "enjoying" yet another "summer barbecue."

Vanessa looked like a Mexican bandit in her woolly poncho and Jamie was wrapped up in so many layers, he could've easily been mistaken for a giant baby onion.

However, given it was my idea to fire up the charcoal "because it's a lovely summer night, honest, it's really quite warm," I insisted on wearing shorts.

Unfortunately, not only did these make me cold, but they also provided easy access for any nasty, mysterious monsters living secretly in our garden to bite me. So one did.

And it was a clever nasty, mysterious monster this one, because it managed to carry out its evil act and then retreat to its secret hideaway with both its life and cover intact.

The result of its vicious assault was a hole in my left calf from which first blood and later oozy stuff poured out. And the oozy stuff is, unfortunately, still oozing. My calf is also itchy, sore and swollen.

Hopefully it will have settled down by tomorrow but I'm fearful the end is nigh. Maybe.

I'm married to a chav

Another day, another shocking discovery: Vanessa has become a chav.

This is a most disheartening situation, not to mention unforeseen.

I mean, she comes from a good family, her personal hygiene is of an acceptable standard, she doesn't have a hair bauble to her name never mind big hooped earrings, she doesn't own a baseball cap and I've only ever seen her drink in the street from a pub glass and never from a brown paper bag.

But thinking about it, barely a day now goes past without her taking Jamie out for at least one push in the pram and maybe the lifestyles of other local pram pushers have rubbed off on her.

Whatever the truth, she went shopping the other day - yes, with her pram or "accessory" as I should now more properly call it - and came back with a chav handbag (pictured above).

I only discovered this yesterday and obviously decided to find out why.

"I got it from a charity shop, innit," she sought to explain. "It's phat."

"I beg your pardon, young lady," I replied. "It's a chav handbag and I'm fearful that you may have stumbled on to a very slippery slope. What are you intending to come home with next? A shell suit? Vanessa, pull back. I beseech you."

"Don't zaggerate man," responded Mrs White. "And don't be such a div neever. The bag's wicked. Now chill it down and show some respect for the lady, aaiiii."

I really am very disappointed in her and even a little hurt.

Write stuff

I've been very healthy all week and not touched alcohol. Until last night.

I just can't help myself on a Friday evening. Happy in the knowledge that the weekend has arrived, a glass of wine and Chris Evans' All Request Show on Radio 2 is now my idea of heaven. Boy, I'm getting old.

And, of course, when old age is mixed with alcohol, the end result is a sore head the following morning. So, can you guess what I woke up with today? OK, right, Vanessa is not an incorrect answer. But sore head was what I was really looking for.

My headache plus the time spent waiting for the Nurofen to work set my plans back a bit but I'm still delighted to report that 30 August 2008 has turned out to be an historic day for me. For today, my friends, I started writing my sitcom.

Those who know me will probably have heard me talk about this several times over the last 11 years - and then do nothing.

Over this period, the subject has changed several times and my writing partner once after the person I originally asked emigrated to Australia - some people go to the greatest lengths to avoid me, you know.

Ben (pictured above with his little girl Maisie) is my "new" partner although I first asked him about three years ago. We finally had some actual meetings last summer and then things drifted, my excuses including training for the marathon and, more recently, fatherhood.

However, our get togethers did lead to the agreement of a plot, a list of scenes and a cast of characters.

The next stage was for the two of us to go off separately and write a pilot episode before bringing the two drafts together. That, as I say, was last year.

But today, to my own astonishment, I managed to write three whole scenes. And whilst they're not very good, at least I'm underway.

The story is centred around a fictional council in the North of England but I'll say no more than that at this stage in case someone nicks our idea and becomes rich and famous instead of us. However, I will keep you informed on how we're progressing (or not, as the case may be).

Jamie the Giant

Got a bit of a shock today.

Although just two months old, our son is already showing signs that he'll be tall.

This is not a surprise in itself given I'm 6' 2" and a bit myself (the bit is very important to me).

But, having done some Internet research, it now appears Jamie's not just going to be tall; he is actually going to be the tallest man in history. I'd better explain.

After putting him on our bed in his jimmy-jammies last night, he decided to stretch himself out as above.

"Look at him, he's enormous," I yelped excitedly to Vanessa. "I've got to measure him," before shooting off to find the tape measure.

67 cms was what he came out as - or almost 2' 3" in old money which, you know, is pretty darn big (for two months).

Then I had an idea. I remember someone telling me at some point in the past that you could work out how tall your baby/child was going to be as an adult by using some sort of mathematical formula somewhere.

So, during an idle moment at work this afternoon, I had a quick look on Google to see what I could find. And sure enough, something turned up - "The Baby/Child Height Predictor."

"How tall will your baby be when he or she grows up?" it asked, clearly aware that I had no idea. "Will your child end up on the jockey-size side, tall as a NBA player or somewhere in between? Get an idea how the averages play out by entering some information here."

I quickly entered my height and Vanessa's height into a table followed by Jamie's height, weight and age before pressing the "calculate adult height" tab.

I waited excitedly for what seemed like a long time but was obviously only about two seconds.

And I swear this is what it said on the next page (I even printed it out to make sure I got it right).

"Based on the information you entered, your child's height will be approximately 15' 7" which is 4.75 metres. Remember - these numbers are based on averages, so don't come back in 20 years with a complaint."

This is indeed exciting news. For, having also checked this out, I can reveal that the tallest man in history was one Robert Pershing Wadlow from Alton, Illinois.

He was 8' 11" tall. Meanwhile, our Jamie is set to be almost twice that size.

I've always hoped that our son would be special but, you know, this just about tops everything.

A proud day for us all.

Nappy pains

I went to buy nappies at lunchtime and my head's still sore as a result.

The thing is, I've bought nappies before over the last few weeks and that's been easy.

"A packet of newborn nappies, please," was my stock line.

"Here you go, sir," was the common response. Dead easy.

But Jamie's too big for newborn nappies now which led to today's brain ache.

He was weighed again yesterday and tipped the scales at 12lb 10oz. This meant I had to get nappies for little baby people of his increased size (i.e. not newborn). Again, shouldn't be difficult.

However, what I didn't bargain for was the huge choice available - at least in Boots where I was standing, Advantage Card in hand.

We'd had Boots own brand nappies before and they seemed fine. I'd go for them, thought me.

But then I noticed that some types of Pampers and Huggies were on special offer. I'd heard of Pampers and Huggies, even seen adverts for them on the telly. Perhaps they'd be better. But would the prices be as good?

This was where my confusion really began to reign. For example, Pampers Baby Dry and Active Fit were on special offer but not Pampers Easy On Pants (whatever they were). Meanwhile, Huggies Natural Fit were on special offer too but not Huggies Superdry or Preemies (no idea there either).

And as for Boots own brand, Boots Superdry were on special offer but not Boots Active Fit or Boots Easy On Pants.

So, narrowing the choice down only to those on special offer, £13 for for two packs of Boots Superdry seemed good but then I remembered someone saying they were just for night-time use, immediately ruling them out.

£13.50 for two packs of Pampers Active Fit therefore looked like a safe bet so it had to be between them and the Huggies Natural Fit which were also on special offer (there was a sign and everything) although I couldn't, for the life of me, find the actual price. Surely they would be about the same price as the Pampers Active Fit. But which brand was better? How was I to know?

I got a pack of each down from the shelves. The deciding factor soon became clear.

Did Jamie want Pooh and Tigger on the front (of his Huggies) or the cast of Sesame Street (on his Pampers)? Well, I'd be the one looking at the character(s) in question as I changed him. Plus, Jamie wasn't with me and wouldn't be able to talk if he was, so it had to be my call.

I'd never been a fan of Pooh and Tigger as a boy. A bit like Blue Peter, I always thought they were for posh kids.

So Sesame Street it was - or "two packs of Size 3 Pampers Active Fit please," to be precise.

I paid my £13.50, claimed my Advantage points, grabbed the nappies and shuffled out, my head now really beginning to throb.

Thanks goodness I haven't been sent to buy him clothes. Yet.

Sleeping essentials

I was just about to turn off the light last night after putting Jamie down to sleep when I thought, "I've got to get a picture of this!"

As you can see, the dummy is in there although not normally for more than a couple of minutes when his jaw falls open.

In recent days he's taken to cuddling a fluffy bunny which he grips under his left arm as if his life depends on it.

And, following a spate of self-inflicted overnight injuries caused by his sharp nails (despite Vanessa's repeated attempts to cut them), we now also send him to bed in a pair of scratch mitts (which actually look more like mini oven gloves).

All in all, a very cute scene and one which I obviously look forward to sharing with his love interests in the years to come.

Spot the difference

I did something really bad last night.

We'd given Jamie his bath and, after putting on his nappy (on him, not me) and a coating of baby oil, I was administering a final bit of male grooming.

He'd had a bit of a crusty forehead in the early days which has since been cured by a nightly application of baby moisturiser.

But, last night, my mind mustn't have been on the job.

I took a normal amount of moisturiser out of the container and sought to rub it into his head. However, instead of my fingers softly sliding across his skin, they came to something of a standstill.

I applied more moisturiser and, again, my fingers shuddered to a halt.

How could his head have got so dry?

So I slapped on a bit more. The same thing happened.

Jamie looked up at me non-plussed, three large white blobs upon his head.

Then the penny dropped.

It wasn't his moisturiser I was applying after all. It was his bum cream.

I did my best to wipe it off, using a combination of water, cotton wool balls, a towel and about half a dozen baby wipes. But I felt terrible.

And I don't mind admitting it, I also felt like an ar*e.

Keep smiling through

John and Vicky have just left and, with Vanessa due off to the cinema in a couple of hours, Jamie and I are preparing for an afternoon of sport and returning Olympians on the telly.

Before that I've got an eight-mile training run lined up. Following my little mistake of registering for the Leeds Half Marathon as a girlie, the organisers have now very kindly swapped my pink number for a black and white man one so I'll definitely be on the start line on Sunday week. And I so almost got out of it.

Then it's back to work tomorrow and, after a fortnight off, it's always hard but this time will be especially difficult.

It's been great to spend so much time with Jamie (and Vanessa, of course). I've seen a lot of changes in him over the last two weeks including his new ability to smile.

But whilst it will undoubtedly be more than a little heart wrenching to walk out the door in the morning, it'll be exciting to think he'll be there waiting for me when I get back.

And, who knows, I might even get another smile.

A whole lotta sh*t

Did you see the Olympic closing ceremony today?

As with everything at these hugely exhilarating Games, the Chinese bits were excellent.

Having been on leave for the past two weeks and with the three of us not being able to go too far, I've seen almost all the coverage and loved it.

Like so many others, I've been delighted (and pleasantly surprised) at the performance of Team GB. Sports Minister Gerry Sutcliffe even won his bet after Great Britain finished one ahead of Australia in total medals won. Brilliant stuff.

I've also been very excited about London 2012 and actually signed up to be a volunteer shortly after the bid was successful three years ago.

But I was far from impressed with the London segment in today's closing ceremony. Three years in the planning, two and a half million pounds spent and what's the best they can come up with? A plastic bus, a street theatre group, a reality TV show winner, a sweaty rocker and a part-time footballer more at home on the catwalk than on the pitch. At least we were spared the sight of his talentless and joyless wife.

Aunty Vicky and Uncle John joined the Whites and our telly in the garden for an Olympic barbecue. And we made the best of it. But it was hard (mainly for the others because of my sullen mood).

I mean, did you see the concert which followed the closing ceremony? We were promised the best of British. And what did we get? Myleene Klass and Zoe Salmon's massively informative views on people who run and jump. And McFly plugging their new single.

For me the Olympic Ideal has always been about the pursuit of excellence. From a British point of view - and with the exception of Mayor Boris Johnson's brief cameo which I thought was hilarious - all we got today was a sea of mediocrity, and that's putting it kindly. I really hope the bar is raised over the next four years otherwise we're set for national humiliation.

In the meantime, perhaps tomorrow I'll cheer up - but I can't guarantee it.

UPDATE: I did lighten up a little later on (mainly because I'd had a few) and decided to sing to Jamie. Aunty Vicky took a pic and thought you might like to see it. Perhaps some things are more important than the Olympics.

Jamie goes up in the world

Our son rose to a new level today when we allowed him to sit up in his pushchair for the first time. And it was all because of drink.

Uncle John's staying over this weekend and, at lunchtime, the two of us took Jamie to the supermarket to get provisions for a since aborted barbecue.

Amongst other essential items, we needed beer and, being a barbecue, it obviously had to come in bottle form.

The problem was, we were slightly weighed down and needed to use the undertray on Jamie's pram if we were to get them home safely.

Until this stage, the little man had lain flat in his vehicle but today drastic action was called for and the only answer was to sit him upright.

It worked a treat. Not only could he now see all that was before him, but his adoring public could see him better too. And we got the beer home. An altogether perfect situation for everyone involved.

As a result and despite the barbecue postponement, our night still holds real potential...

The Baby Rover

A bit of fun last night tinged with a real sense of sorrow.

The legendary Dubliners frontman Ronnie Drew sadly died last Saturday after a long illness. I was brought up to the sound of his gravelly tones. And, as I got older, I've drunk to them on more occasions than I'm able to remember (for fairly obvious reasons).

Since the news broke, I've waited patiently for BBC Northern Ireland to air a tribute of some sort and, last night, it hit our screens.

It came in the form of an old Dubliners studio gig in Belfast and many of the favourites - including Seven Drunken Nights which I wrote about a few weeks ago - were in there.

One of my current fatherly duties is to give Jamie his last feed before putting him down for the night (well, about three hours for now but you get the idea).

He's recently got used to his little music box and normally, within about five minutes of it going on, he's under.

But last night, I timed everything to ensure I was feeding him whilst the Dubliners were on the telly. The plan was to wait until the show was over before attempting to get him off to sleep but he finished his supper quicker than I expected.

There was no way I was turning the telly off before Ronnie had sung his final note so I decided to see if Ronnie could get Jamie off for me instead.

As I placed him into his Moses basket, our hairy hero was thanking the audience and introducing the last number - The Irish Rover which, I'm sure you know, became famous when the Dubliners teamed up with The Pogues to release it as a single.

By the time Ronnie had reached the first chorus, Jamie's arms and legs were gyrating to the music and, by the second, his head was rolling from side to side. Indeed, it was probably my proudest moment yet!

The concert over, I turned the telly off and the music box on. Jamie didn't complain but also didn't go to sleep for another half an hour.

A bizarre but entertaining end to the day and all thanks to the late, great Ronnie Drew.

If you have speakers on your computer, click on to this link http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4owrcvVK3ZQ and enjoy the definitive live version of the Irish Rover from the TV special broadcast 21 years ago to celebrate The Dubliners' quarter century in music.

But a word of advice - don't put it on if you're planning to sleep any time soon.

Have the body snatchers struck again?

Have you ever come across a more relaxed baby?

What you see is the work of what Vanessa and I think is the best babysitter the planet has to offer.

Her name is Aunty Vicky and you, like Jamie, have met her before.

When Vanessa and I headed off for our first post-birth meal out shortly before 8pm last night, our loving son was kicking off big time. The boy we returned to was a very different individual. A wonderful job, I'm sure you'll agree.

But hold on... all might not be how it appears.

Look at Jamie's left hand in the picture opposite. What's going on?!

Does anyone have Doctor Who's number? I've never trusted that Aunty Vicky!

Feeling his pain

Jamie had his first set of jabs this morning and it's true what they say, it really does hurt the parents more than it hurts their child.

As a youngster, I obviously remember going for blood tests, getting teeth out, having my BCG shot. I dreaded them all. But I genuinely think I was more nervous about what lay ahead for Jamie a few hours ago than when the big needle awaited the little me.

As it turned out, the boy done well.

Sure, he cried sorely as each of the two needles (OW!) were inserted and the drugs administered. And he cried for a little while afterwards too. But then he stopped and we were proud of him.

Whilst Vanessa stayed behind for her own health check-up, I rushed Jamie home to begin the aftercare.

First up was a half-dose of Calpol which he's never had before but comes highly recommended by almost every parent we've met over the last eight weeks.

Then he had a bottle of Mummymilk which Vanessa produced earlier.

As he finished up, Vanessa arrived home and suggested we try him out in his cot which will soon be his new home having almost outgrown his Moses basket.

And, after a half-hour sleep in there (hopefully a positive sign), we hit him with his big treat - a brand new cot mobile which arrived yesterday.

I remember my own cot mobile with great affection and was very keen that Jamie had one as well.

I don't know if you're familiar with Zeddy and Parsnip (we weren't until these things became necessary) but they're a bunny and a donkey (or is it a horse?) who seem to love each other. I'm unsure as to the exact nature of their love, whether they're boys or girls, or even if they've had a civil ceremony - in fact, I don't even know which one is which - but we're hoping their happiness rubs off on our son.

His nursery already includes a Zeddy and Parsnip border and a lantern with the donkey/horsey one hanging from it. So his mobile features our heroes too.

And, although he only had about twenty minutes underneath before deciding he was hungry again, he seemed impressed.

I wonder what we can distract him with next time he comes back from seeing the nice nurse who's only doing her job? Are you sure babies aren't allowed ice cream?!

Like mother like son?

Vanessa was doing a bit of faffing around the house on Sunday afternoon and stumbled across an old baby-in-cot photo of herself I had never seen before.

Coincidentally, I'd earlier taken a couple of pics of the now increasingly smiley Jamie in his own scratcher.

There's two things that strike me about Vanessa's photo.

First, you can tell it's her straight away, which is bizarre.

Second, she looks a bit bonkers. This is less of a shock.

I thought it would be fun to put the two pics up alongside each other so you could decide who you would trust more with your train set.

I know what my answer would be.

A new mode of transport

In one of the surest signs yet that life has changed for ever, the Whites had a family trip to the supermarket today and Daddy was quite excited about it.

The reason for my enthusiasm was that it provided me with my first chance to use one of those shopping trolleys with a seat for baby.

Although clearly not as good as being pushed around in one of them yourself, this has always seemed like fun and it didn't disappoint.

My new vehicle forced me to adhere more closely than usual to the trolley highway code, something I've never been strong on.

And I also had to drop my habit of leaving my trolley somewhere random before heading off in search of an unnecessary item and then trying to remember where I'd parked my wheels; I can cope with people nicking bread from my trolley but I'd have to draw the line at them nicking my son.

But it was all good entertainment and made the whole supermarket experience much less grim than usual.

Thankfully, Master W seemed to enjoy himself too. He had plenty to look at and plenty of people looking at him, which I think he's already starting to enjoy.

Maybe next time I'll treat him to a spot of trolley rallying (although only if Mum's not there).