Who's the Daddy: She’s living la vida lockdown

If there were any justice in the world, on the day you raise your children to adulthood you should by law receive the following things...

Saturday, 14th November 2020, 12:30 pm
Who's the Daddy?

A congratulatory telegram from the Queen, a year’s subscription to Netflix and a two-minute trolley dash around your supermarket of choice - in our case, the sparkling new Aldi opposite the Water Witch.

And if by some miracle the parents have managed to stick it out together all this time through the muck and bullets then they get a trolley each - it’s only fair.

Daughter #1 is 21 next week. In the past this column has occasionally been guilty of wondering “Where the hell does all the time go?” but this week my bafflement is entirely justified.

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To put it into context, when Who’s The Daddy? started in October 2006, daughter #1 was a month shy of her seventh birthday.

The trouble is, the whole country’s in lockdown. Again. We’re in Lancaster and she’s at Liverpool University. As far as meet-ups and birthday dinners go, she might as well be orbiting the Earth on the International Space Station - if she was at least she could wave at us.

Daughter #2 faced a similar predicament with her landmark 18th birthday back in May during Lockdown 1. Stuck in the house with me, the boss and daughter #1 when all she really wanted to do was go out with her friends armed with her totally legit ID and roll in at dawn with the mother, father, brother and sister of all hangovers. Instead we had some cake and a Zoom quiz with aunties, uncles and cousins. Nice, but not quite the same though, is it?

Daughter #1’s presents were posted, cards sent and money pinged a while ago - the boss is nothing if not supremely organised. She’s even sorted a hamper filled with the finest (Aldi) wines available to humanity along with some nice cheese, chocolates and biscuits.

Mums, eh? Think of everything don’t they? If it was left to dads, chances are you’d be lucky to get a basic “Happy birthday” text and a few quid pinged into your account on payday, the 21st century equivalent of a 50p coin sellotaped to the inside of a hastily scribbled card.