For the past few weeks, we’ve been trying to get our little cherub to drink formula so her mum can have a bit more freedom. The first few weeks of trying were calamitous, as our doughy poppet seemed utterly repelled by the thought of latching on to anything that wasn’t anatomically connected to someone. She interpreted our first offerings of formula as, ‘Here is some poison for you to drink.’ Now, she gives us the annoyed, but indulging, response one typically gets from the words, ‘Is Pepsi OK?’ which we consider progress. My daughter’s attitude to me is generally similar. I adore her, but she thinks me merely pleasant, holding me in the strained ambivalence my wife has for the people who do holiday cover for Radio 2 presenters.
