Well, hello baby. . .

Emissions:   Many thanks to all who have congratulated Mrs Emissions and I on the recent arrival of Reduced Emissions.

In answer some of your questions:

1) Yes, I am utterly frazzled. What with the demands of the little Madam, the stress of renovating our new house, my daytime job and the stress of trying to entertain you lovely people on top of it all, I feel like an insomniac Trans-Siberian lorry driver with psychosis brought on by the excessive ingestion of cheap amphetamines. (So, no change there then) So, apologies if this rant is even more scattergun than usual, but I'm sure any parent reading will empathise. And to those who don't, what's your secret?

2) Yes, she probably will have her full driving licence before her Daddy. And no, it's not funny.

3) No, I haven't bought a 'Baby On Board' sticker. Contrary to popular belief, they do not make you invincible, and are about as useful to motorists as umbrellas are to haddock. (I have my suspicions certain unscrupulous people are sporting fake BOB stickers to use shopping centre Mother and Baby parking spaces. I recently spotted a Porsche Boxster - which has only two seats - doing just that.

4) No, I haven't bought myself a 23-foot-long people carrier because I now have a foot-long daughter. Incredible as it may seem to drivers of such vehicles, we're still tootling around in the ancient two-door Beemer, and managing just fine, thanks for asking. Said car has astounded me in the past with its Tardis-like ability to carry three surfboards within its cockpit. Accommodating a baby and all relevant accoutrements, including a buggy that requires a degree in mechanical engineering to fully operate, is child's play to it.

Madam appears quite contented to be strapped into a car seat alongside me. My unfortunate wife is relegated to the back, although I suspect she quite enjoys the other female motorists seething jealously at her and her dashing young chauffeur. Ahem.

I'm actually dictating this into a voice recorder whilst bringing Madam on another night-time drive into the darkness. She's grinning inanely at me as I speak. If I didn't know better, I'd swear she was enjoying my anguish.

She's probably just priming me for the horror of later years when she announces she's running off to join a biker gang.

Obviously, it's not a real grin, she's still too young for that. It's just the face she makes when she's - how can I put this politely - adding to the various fragrances permeating the atmosphere of the car. Her face reminds me, much as I am loath to admit it, of Benito Mussolini after a few bottles of grappa.

It's becoming quite a routine: come 4am, a voice goes off in Madam's brain telling her to begin terrorising her poor parents with the full force of her little lungs. Rather than slip into insanity, I just load her into either her mother's car or mine and take off. Sometimes I'm compis mentis enough to even watch where I'm going. I've found it's the best way of sending Madam off into the arms of Morpheus, without having to resort to real morphine.

Her conduct on these nocturnal drives has left me with a sore taste in my mouth. Not because of the aforementioned noxious odours, but because I've realised Madam has no class. The little ingrate makes no effort to hide her obvious preference for being driven in her mother's Suzuki Swift over her father's Bavarian Princess.

Put her in the former, she's cooing and gurgling merrily to herself. Put her in the latter, and she passes out within minutes. Which, now that I think about it, suits me just fine. In fact, she's just popped off.

Now if I only knew where the hell I was . . .