Why dad really feels put out

Apparently, while many new fathers fall instantly and rapturously in love with their babies and the whole fatherhood experience, others don’t.

Far from it. More men are admitting that instead of feeling proud, excited love when the baby’s born, they actually feel demoralised and depressed and out of it.

Well they would, wouldn’t they?

Until then, they have probably been the sun in their partner’s sky, the most important person in her universe. And now they’ve been demoted to second place by a squirming, yelling squawking bundle of fragile flesh, who while weighing only about 7lbs, seems to need a whole warehouse full of equipment and 24-hour attention.

No wonder they’re feeling put out.

In this great drama with visitors, presents, cards and flowers, the father is way down the ratings.

This is also when you realise that equality between the sexes can only go so far – and as she’s lying there having given birth and the house fills with cooing, clucking women, then he has got to be man the hunter, provider and protector. Big and brave and bold. Which means growing up, which can be a shock to the system too.

All these things no doubt add up to the confusion and misery in the life of the new father.

Most of all, of course, is in those very early days, his chances of nookie are zilch.

Forget the psychobabble – no nookie, that’s the real reason he’s so fed up.

Voting never looked so fun

BEING of an essentially frivolous nature, I was fascinated by the European elections.

Not the results – we all knew which way the wind was blowing – but by what people wore to vote.

Did you notice? In other countries many people turned up in national dress. And great fun it looked too. It wasn’t fancy dress, it was what they wear for high days and holidays and special occasions.

Even in countries where they wear the same clothes as we do, some remnants of their tradition remain in everyday wear – think of those very Austrian jackets or even the cowboy’s Stetson and bootlace tie.

Yet another area where the English are hopeless. For you don’t have a national dress, do you?

Scotland has the kilt and tartan, Ireland has the green. And I spent many a St David’s Day of my Welsh childhood dutifully dressed up in black hat, shawl, checked skirt and apron.

But England? The best you can muster is John Bull or Britannia – which are really cartoons rather than national dress. And it always caused a difficulty for Miss World contestants. No saris, sarongs or exuberantly embroidered blouses.

Maybe that’s why you’re not very good at celebrating St George’s Day – you haven’t a thing to wear.

Anyway, there’s a challenge for you by next April 23. If you had to choose a national costume, what would it be?

Holiday insurance

BROTHER-in-law on a coach tour in Poland tripped over a cobblestone – while stone cold sober – smashed his arm and dislocated his shoulder.

He had treatment in a Krakow hospital and was then flown home, with a taxi provided from Leeds Bradford to Billingham, thanks to his insurers.

You can get decent annual holiday insurance for around £30. You would be incredibly stupid not to bother.

Just a reminder, that’s all.

Sorry, sisters, you’ve blown it

HOW irritating was Hazel Blears’ smug little grin when she resigned the day before the election and her cheeky little “rocking the boat”

badge? Oooh, brave. Quite the little rebel, wasn’t she? It reminded me of a giggling 14- year-old making faces behind the teacher’s back. And about as mature.

Meanwhile, former Minister for Europe Caroline Flint, pictured, has posed for fashion shots in her scarlet dress and then accused the prime minister of using female MPs as window dressing. Well, sunshine, you can’t have it both ways.

I always wanted more women in Parliament, still think that we should and that ultimately it would make it a better place. But why did those who were there get out in such a giggling, gleeful, girly way? Suddenly, it makes Harriet Harman seem like a serious and sensible politician.

But as for Sir Alan Sugar as “enterprise tsar” – that’s not serious planning, that’s desperate gimmickry and a pathetic bid at populism.

But at the moment what we desperately need – of any sex or persuasion – is some nice sensible grown-ups, decent and solid and quite probably boring, but less concerned with showing off and more concerned with getting the country on the right lines again.

Now wouldn’t that be a refreshing change?

Backchat

Dear Sharon,
MY mother’s great passion for saving stuff included all the usual – brown paper, string, giftwrap etc, but her personal passion was for saving tights and stockings. She had a huge bag of these and woe betide us if we dared throw any away.

First of all they would be repaired.

She would actually mend ladders in tights. When that didn’t work, she would use them for stuffing soft toys, cushions and draught excluders, tying up plants in the garden and for straining jams and jellies.

She even had some stuffed into an old hot water bottle to make a kneeling pad for gardening.

There was always a pair in the glove compartment of the car as she had once read that they would make a good emergency fan belt. I think she was quite disappointed that they never had a broken fan belt so that she was denied her moment of triumph.

My mother has been dead for some years now, but I still feel guilty when I discard an old pair of tights.
Kate Dolan, Darlington.

Uses for nan’s knickers

MEANWHILE, Dave Roberts, chief reporter of this parish, had a South Yorkshire grandmother who, never one to let anything go to waste, took recycling to new levels.

“Old and unwanted knickers, the old lady large cotton types, weren’t thrown away but washed and then kept underneath the sink where they were called into action as floor cloths, dishcloths, dusters and anything else which could be thought of.

“As kids we found it highly amusing doing the washing up with a pair of Nan’s knickers!”