Fatherhood Is Tough

But it's a whole lot easier if we admit it.

I’ve been going through old boxes of my newspaper cuttings as I prepare to move into a new office. The old articles from across the years tell a curious sort of biography. Although it is all self-penned, much of it was written at the behest of a publication or editor that had a certain agenda or angle they needed me to accommodate.

On the cover of a crumpled copy of the Telegraph’s Weekend supplement, dated July 2013, there is a large colour image of me baking cakes with my two children, who were then aged six and eighteen months respectively. We are all laughing, seemingly enraptured in the bosom of wholesome familial love. There are eggs and flour on the table, both Waitrose own brand.

The image is partly authentic: they were my kids, it was my home and, yes, I did occasionally bake stuff with them. But the inauthentic parts had been contrived to satisfy the Telegraph’s fantasy about idyllic, middle class family life. For a start I was wearing my best shirt which was freshly ironed. The kids were also in their best clothes. We were never, ever this smart or organised in any part of our lives, let alone a baking session. The Waitrose produce had been brought along by the photographer as props (we never shopped at Waitrose). And the flour on my face had been smudged there carefully for effect by a make up artist. As one of my best mates commented when I posted the picture on Facebook at the time: “Is that Charlie all over your face?” At around that time in my life, it was just as likely to have been.