Baby when the lights go out

I used to quite like a nice power cut. I think they appealed to my cynical, luddite side, offering as they do a taster of the bleak aftermath of some cataclysmic event.

One day the modern world will be undone, I would reassure myself, stripped bare of its electricity and its convenience-determined arrogance. And on that day, the cream will rise. Triumph will belong to the ones who never saw the point of an iPad; the ones who have neglected to clarify their career goals; the ones who - without a single glance at Wikipedia - remember facts about science and grammar. Well science will be useful, anyway.

The ones who had their priorities right all along will be vindicated when the power runs out. So I would reassure myself.

But, after last night's "network incident" in our part of the world, I am forced to admit that parenthood may have caused my priorities to change somewhat.

A sweltering couple of days, hot on the heels of a stressful week at work, had left me, not to mention my heavily pregnant wife, drained and eager to get our overtired daughter to sleep so that we could just sit and have a bit of telly time before bed. At around 8 o'clock I finally turned on the relaxing evening lamp in the corner of our living room, and was about to do the same to the television when the light disappeared and everything stopped.

The adjustment to our entertainment plans that this necessitated was soon overcome. As Ones Who Have Our Priorities Right, we were able to rediscover the art of conversation with relative ease. I even dared to feel a relaxing sense of novelty. But this was not to last, because the only way we had been able to make our daughter's bedroom habitable was by rescuing our electric fan from the roof, aiming it at her cot and turning it up to eleven.

It was only reasonable, then, that our daughter should awaken and make known her dissatisfaction at the fan's abrupt cessation. Eventually we succumbed and brought her downstairs to inhabit our dark, quiet world. The novelty of this world had already begun to wear off when, some time later, we surrendered ourselves to bedtime.

Our daughter's room still a furnace, our only option was to take her to our slightly cooler boudoir with us in the hope that we could keep her sufficiently calm until fan capabilities were resumed. But the thing about our daughter is, she knows when she's on bonus time, and she enjoys it. Thus a prolonged period of diving around joyously but quite violently on our bed followed. And that was just her. Well, mostly. Eventually this bout of activity began to subside, as mine and my wife's fatigue became contagious. With great relief I believed that we may all yet salvage some sleep from the night.

Which is when the hitherto unnoticed Loud Kazoo Bird kicked off outside, soon to be accompanied by his friend the Car Alarm Bird. Together they traumatised us with a sustained, surreal and frankly terrifying cacophony. At this stage I concluded that I had at last been driven beyond sanity, and have no further recollection of the night. Logic dictates that I refuse to countenance the possibility that I fell asleep. Next thing I knew though, there were unnecessary lights on and it was time to go to work. As I crept silently out of the front door I noticed the reassuring hum of an electric fan emanating from my daughter's bedroom.

My wife has since discovered that the ridiculous symphony which had tormented us the previous night was created by mere starlings. I urge you to look the phenomenon up on an internet which I have now stopped dismissing as an overrated and unnecessary luxury of an arrogant modern age.

Hot air

I've been lucky enough to have had some memorable experiences in my life.

I have gazed over Manhattan from the top of the Empire State Building. This was breathtaking. Although it was a bit foggy.

I have seen Arsenal play Barcelona at Wembley stadium. The cheating, diving Catalans won, but it was still a dream come true.

I have awoken beside my wife-to-be on a beautiful, sunny morning, surrounded by the stunning panorama of a Norwegian fjord. I was overwhelmed by the serene beauty around me.

I once rescued a drunken, disabled man who had fallen into a dark, deserted ditch from his mobility vehicle, breaking it in the process. I pushed him home on it, over a very steep bridge. Mobility vehicles are really heavy. He expressed gratitude as only the truly inebriated can, and I found it all very rewarding.

I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the... no, that was someone else actually. But the others were all me.

And yet it was only last week that I had what was, hyperbole notwithstanding, the single most satisfying experience of my life. As I settled down to a bit of Tweenies on the old telly box, I optimistically picked up my daughter and placed her on the sofa beside me, before awaiting the inevitable frustrated scream of protest at my impudent attempt to dictate her movements and influence her affections.

But, instead, something remarkable happened. My daughter snuggled up beside me and relaxed comfortably under my arm to enjoy Max's highly entertaining report from a hot air balloon festival. And she stayed quite happily like this for the duration, very much in the style of a tiny little grown up who loves her daddy and is not afraid to show it.

Now this is why I got into this parenting lark.

Then, as the credits rolled, she gave a frustrated scream of protest at my impudent attempt to dictate her movements and influence her affections.