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.