On 21st November 2003, my daughter Arya was born. This means I'll now be sharing my living space with two females. One grizzly and temperamental, the other a baby.    Should offer reasonable scope for the odd comment or two...    I mean, it's not as if parenthood is going to be that demanding, is it?

PROLOGUE - Well, it looks like she's going to go through with it. Despite my insistence on having a son and heir, Herself is determined to produce a girl and therefore double her advantage. It'll be two against one which means that the bathroom will be the first thing to get annexed. Right, Lady, if it's war you want then I'd better start logging the campaign now that the Mini Fish has arrived....

Campaign Entry No.1 - Herself insisted on my sharing the birthing experience with her, which was something of an annoyance as I was determined to follow in my father's footsteps on this one. I wanted to be like Sixties Dad and have a few ales in the local before wandering into the hospital to be told that the missus had gone into labour. I was looking forward to strolling up and down the corridor chainsmoking Woodbines until a nicely starched nurse handed me a bundle. Alas, it was not to be. Instead I got six hours of mauling a fat bird around a room containing various bits of frightening looking gymnasium equipment (Exercise ball? Climbing frame?). After all the noisy stuff was over, I got to cut the cord, which was very moving. I also got a view that no man should ever be subjected to. I'm not going to go into detail here, but let's just say that it's turkey pieces this Christmas. With ready-made stuffing balls. I won't be doing 'cavities' ever again.

Campaign Entry No.2 - The post-natal ward has four beds on it, each bed has a cot next to it.and each cot contains a bawling infant. Except mine. I have a good little girl. It's time to go home, and Arya gets subjected to being dressed up in a full winter outfit without even waking up. I have a good little girl. I carry the carry-cot all the way from St.Thomas' Hospital to Waterloo taxi-rank in the cold night air and Arya doesn't even murmur. I have a good little girl. We take a noisy, bumpy taxi ride all the way home to Streatham and Arya just looks around silently. I have a good little girl. We get home and unpack everything and get ready for bed and Arya just lies there and blinks. I have a good little girl. We turn off the light and Arya proceeds to scream, bawl, piddle and vomit milk all sodding night until seven in the morning. I have a hellspawn demon-child.

Campaign Entry No.3 - Being a caring New Age kinda guy (only without the Aran sweaters), I'm doing everything I can around the flat while I'm off on paternity leave, so at some point I'll be off down the launderette. Herself doesn't know it yet, but this will be the perfect opportunity to accidentally 'lose' her maternity trousers. The trousers in question are vertical pink and beige candy-striped things that were apparently bought at the very peak of her hormonal surge. Christ, they're awful. I was aware that women's brains shrank during pregnancy, but I didn't realise that their dress sense went tits-up, too. I've no doubt Mothercare were aiming for 'happy-go-lucky new mum', but they fell way short and hit 'psychiatric in-patient with clown fixation' instead. They've got to go. People used to look at us and you could see them thinking 'He had sex with a woman who wears trousers like that?'

Campaign Entry No.4 -  The psychological warfare is obviously progressing quicker than I'd anticipated. I thought I was coping with the disruption of my sleeping pattern admirably until this morning in the bathroom when I picked up the wrong aerosol and delivered a tennis-ball sized dollop of shaving foam to my left armpit. Time to up the caffeine intake. You can't be too careful!

Campaign Entry No.5 - The assault on Daddy's wallet has begun. Arya is less than a week old and I've just shelled out for a hi-tech playmat for her. I got suckered in by reading the write-up in the Mothercare magazine on it, which laid it on thick with phrases like 'assists Baby's manual dexterity' and 'improves Baby's awareness and reactions'. The article finished off with a flourish, stating that the playmat 'actively encourages Baby's mental processes and problem-solving' and it was at this point that I kissed goodbye to forty-five quid. Thing is though, this mat is fantastic. It has flashing lights and vibrating pads. It has all sorts of textures and things to touch and feel. There's bells and mirrors and it is positively festooned with cuddly animals hanging down to be grabbed and pulled. It even plays Motzart to soothe her when she's restless. Hell, if I was three foot shorter, I'd get in it myself! We never had anything as good as this when I was little. I had to make do with a tupperware beaker full of dried lentils for entertainment. So what did my little cherub think of her new toy; the cutting-edge of pre-nursery entertainment? She threw up on it and then promptly fell asleep.

Campaign Entry No.6 - I'm getting a lot of comments about Arya's name, which I was expecting. I've pretty much got used to instinctively adding 'A-R-Y-A' after I tell people, and I'm sure she will too when she's old enough. What I wasn't prepared for was the slightly perplexed looks on people's faces and comments along the lines of 'Don't you think that's a bit unusual?' Well, maybe it is, but given the fact that she's likely to be going to school with any number of assorted Britneys and Beyonces; at least I've given her a head start at being an individual.

Banal Baby Comment No.1 - Ok, let's get the obvious one out of the way first, shall we? The first person to come into contact with your baby is guaranteed to say something along the lines of 'She's got your eyes' or 'I can see her father in her'. Well, that'll be because she's the gene-spliced product of our two sets of chromosomes interacting, meaning that she has half of my genes and half of Herself's. Funnily enough, this could result in her exhibiting some of our respective features. Idiot.

Campaign Entry No.7 - There are many mysterious feminine pearls of wisdom that get handed down from mothers to daughters, and the very first one they pass on is how to do that thing with the lips. You know what I mean; the moment a man does anything to annoy them, no matter how trivial, a woman will set her face and narrow her lips until they disappear - the universal expression of female disapproval. Herself has been teaching Arya the finer points of this technique, and it's taken her a mere three weeks to grasp it. She's only got the accompanying 'Hmph' sound to master now and that's another one graduated from the College of Strop...

Campaign Entry No.8 - All of you without children have no doubt heard countless horror stories about the contents of babies' nappys. They're all true. All of them. If you're thinking of starting a family and have any great fondness for either chicken korma or peanut butter, I suggest you indulge yourself now. Somehow, the attraction of those particular foodstuffs wanes somewhat after you've examined the contents of a few used Pampers.

Campaign Entry No.9 - I've mentioned before about women's brains shrinking during pregnancy (true!), but I had no idea that this atrophy was permanent. This evening brought irrefutable proof when I noticed Herself merrily wrapping the activity centre that we'd bought Baby for Christmas. 'What are you doing?', I had no choice but to ask. 'I'm wrapping Arya's present', came the reply. 'And how is she going to open it, exactly?', I enquired. 'Oh, Mummy will open it for her!', she answered. 'So, let me get this straight', I said, 'You're wrapping up a present for Arya which you're then going to open for her in three days time, yes?' 'That's right!', she trilled, happily.  Barking...absolutely barking.

Campaign Entry No.10 - According to the medical books, all foetuses are female up until a certain point in pregnancy when the genetic coding takes over. You can't tell their sex at the twelve week scan, but you can at twenty weeks as it'll have been determined by then. I think there's more to it than that. I mean, all babies regardless of gender tend to follow the same pattern, don't they? They want everything right now, they throw a tantrum if you don't do what they want, they think nothing of crying for no apparent reason and they're capable of sulking and ignoring you if you've displeased them in any way. Going on this evidence, I've come to the conclusion that every child on the planet is inherently female up to the age of about twelve.

Banal Baby Comment No.2 - The other one I've noticed - usually from women of a certain age - goes something like 'You ought to start thinking about a little brother or sister for Arya to play with.' Really? Well, you ought to start thinking about nursing homes, you interfering old crone.

Campaign Entry No.11 - Arya has started to twig when it's time for her bath. The moment she sees the baby-bath appear, she sets up a banshee-like wail that doesn't subside until ten minutes later when she's safely tucked up in a warm towel being dried off. The irony of this will be pointed out to her years from now when she's fourteen and we can't get her out of the fucking bathroom.

Campaign Entry No.12 - After a mere eight weeks on the planet, my little girl has found her voice and is now merrily burbling away at anyone or anything that comes within her line of sight. At four a.m. this morning, she started what turned out to be a three hour one-way conversation with a stuffed piglet. An early example of the fact that a woman will talk to absolutely anyone they happen to find themselves next to regardless of whether they know them or not. It should be pointed out that the piglet fell over after a mere half-hour of this verbal barrage. Unfortunately, Daddies don't have this option...

Campaign Entry No.13 - Whilst putting Arya in her cot the other night, I noticed that her shadow profile is almost an exact dead-ringer for the late, great movie director Alfred Hitchcock. Much merriment is now to be had by calling out a hearty 'Good Evening' everytime we stroll past the cot...

Campaign Entry No.14 - Arya's latest trick is to hook her fingers around her dummy and then flick it out of her mouth at high velocity. This then allows her to stuff her entire left hand so far down her throat that she retches and makes herself cry. Surprisingly, she is showing no signs of getting tired of this game and often performs it two or three times a minute. For the whole evening. Weird. Must be down to her mother's poor genetic material or something.

Campaign Entry No.15 - We had to take Arya for her first batch of immunisations today. Not the most pleasant experience I've ever had, particularly as I had to hold the poor little mite while the doctor gave her a jab in each leg and a vile tasting Polio thing. Herself was in tears afterwards and I wasn't far off myself - especially when I found out I had to take the Polio thing, too. When we got home, Herself came to the conclusion that Arya was more upset by the fact that she didn't know what was coming than by the pain of the jabs. To lighten the mood, I suggested sticking pins in her little legs once a week in order to get her used to the experience in time for the next round of immunisations. Boy, you know when you've said the wrong thing...

Campaign Entry No.16 - You can add 'M&Ms' to the list of foodstuffs you'll suddenly find yourself losing interest in once a baby has entered your life. The plain ones, especially. Once you make the connection that the cheap and nasty chocolate they're made from smells exactly like baby vomit, that's them off the menu forever. Americans take note - 'Hershey' chocolate has always smelled a bit iffy, but once you connect it with recycled breast-milk those pounds will simply fall off!

Campaign Entry No.17 - Gazing down at Arya asleep in my lap today, I was suddenly grateful for the bank account that Herself and I have set up for her. The future is an uncertain place, but hopefully when the time comes, my daughter will have the money to put herself through university and maybe buy her first car. More likely, though, she'll rush out and spend it all on a nose-job when she's eighteen to correct the unfortunate genetic bequest that her Daddy has given her. You never know, she might take after her mother, but then again, Herself is a bit of a conk-face too. Still, it didn't seem to hold Barbra Streisand back too much, did it?

Campaign Entry No.18 - Three months old and time for a new photo. For all those of you who are interested in such things, Arya is now weighing in at twelve pounds exactly and is fifty-nine centimetres in length (that's just about two feet in real money) She has now found her hands and will now happily grab one with the other and attempt to pull her fingers off, which results in much bewilderment and finally tears. The cure for this is to put her on her playmat and substitute her own fingers for the legs of the small cuddly giraffe that hangs from the arch. He's going to be limbless within the month. Another new breakthrough is realising that she's hungry at the exact moment she opens her eyes and honking loudly and continuously until she's fed, proving conclusively that she is indeed Daddy's little girl.

Campaign Entry No.19 - Arya has now convinced herself that she has mastered the art of 'talking'. By watching our lips and noticing that when we move them noise comes out, she has decided that this is all she has to do to indulge in a conversation and will now stare intently into our eyes and utter an endless stream of 'oohs' and 'waahs' for a good hour before tiring herself out. This would undoubtedly be the cutest thing ever if only she didn't feel that four in the morning is precisely the time to tell us all about it. Typical female - always got something to say...

Campaign Entry No.20 - Hot on the heels of the previous entry, Arya is now exploring the possibilities of 'talking' with her incoming breath, too. The resultant sound at the crack of dawn is very much like waking up next to Sybil Fawlty in full flow. I'm dreading the fact of her perfecting this technique and passing the knack onto her mother. The thought of two females hitting me with a non-stop aural barrage makes me almost grateful for the tinnitus that all those years of motorcycling has left me with...

Campaign Entry No.21 - Well, sixteen weeks and time to investigate the joys of weaning. Arya has now started having a few mouthfuls of Baby Rice and carrot as part of her lunchtime and evening feeds. The Baby Rice has to be mixed with breast milk, which involves using a weird hand-held pump contraption that I'd rather not discuss. Those of you who've never attempted to feed a baby before can achieve a rough approximation of the experience by squirting a couple of inches of toothpaste out and then attempting to push every last bit of it back into the tube using a teaspoon. For added realism, get someone to grab the spoon every five seconds or so and throw it on the floor while simultaneously moving the toothpaste tube from side to side. Oh what fun.

Campaign Entry No.22 - Whenever a baby does something new and shows signs of furthering their development, the proud parents will interpret it as something that will benefit them in later life. 'Oh, look! He's splashing the bath-water! I bet he grows up to be a swimmer!' or 'She's playing that toy piano! She'll be a pop-star!'- and such like. Arya's latest trick is to thrust both legs vertically up in the air before slamming them down with great force into the mattress of her cot. You have no idea how loud this is at three o'clock in the morning. We're betting that she grows up to be a sumo wrestler...

Campaign Entry No.23 - Patience. Not a baby's strongest point and even less so when the baby in question is female and has inherited half its DNA from Herself. Arya crying when she's hungry is one thing; Arya crying in between spoonfuls while she's being fed is quite another. If any parents out there have any suggestions of how to get pureed mush down a baby's gullet swiftly, can they please let me know? At the moment, I'm toying with the idea of using a piping bag and squirting it in. It's either going to be that or a trough...

Campaign Entry No.24 - Fatherhood tends to violently shatter certain previously held beliefs that men have before their partners finally present them with that screaming little bundle of love after nine months. Breastfeeding, for example. I know it's probably a little late to comment on this, but the fact is I am still shocked by the way that the sights and sounds of a real baby being breast-fed bear absolutely no resemblance to the way it's portrayed on television. Telly babies lie on Mummy's chest all quiet and still and make no noise whatsoever. The reality, with its accompanying thrashing, grunting and gurgling is a bit like watching someone trying to throttle a badger in a blanket. Magical.

Campaign Entry No.25 - Surely one of the best perks of being a parent is having the ability to take amusing photographs of your children dressed in silly outfits or doing ridiculous things. Arya was halfway through a change of vest when this opportunity presented itself. One snap later and 'Sister Boo of the Holy Nappy' was born. Another one to keep safe for the next sixteen years or so in Daddy's 'Embarrass Daughter In Front Of Her New Boyfriend' file...

Campaign Entry No.26 - Six months old, and the Boo Baby is one step away from crawling. She can flip herself onto her tummy, but runs out of energy after that and just sort of collapses face down and goes 'waah' until you turn her over, whereupon she proceeds to do it again. The legs are almost there and will flick in and out without being able to get any grip. Eventually, she'll figure out what knees are for and then she'll be off, but at the moment it's like watching a frog on ice. This is undeniably cute and lovely, except when she tries to perfect the technique in the wee small hours and ends up with one of her feet stuck through the bars of the cot and a face full of cuddly piglet. Still; only sleep, innit?

Campaign Entry No.27 - So here we are at seven months, and for those of you interested in such matters, the Boo now weighes nineteen pounds two ounces and is two foot three and a half inches long. (I would say tall, but she's still way off standing up!) The latest noteworthy event has been the fact that Arya was christened last weekend. It was a joint christening at a beautiful church; St. Peter's and St. Paul's in Wolverhampton. (Yes, Catholic. I went through it, so I don't see why my daughter should escape - here, love, have some guilt!) Anyway, as I said, a joint christening. There were two lovely little girls in the church this Sunday (Father's Day...nice touch, eh?) One of the little moppets spent the service quietly lying in her father's arms silently looking around at everything, while the other wriggled like an eel for half an hour while making noises like a velociraptor from 'Jurassic Park'. Guess which one was mine?

Campaign Entry No.28 - One of those treasured moments that a proud father always remembers. This evening, Arya turned her little face toward me, smiled and uttered the words 'Dada! Dada!' I was momentarily filled with a joy and warmth that was impossible to describe and then she turned to the stuffed ITV Digital 'Monkey' that sits by the telly and said 'Dada! Dada!' to him as well. I reckon her mother put her up to this...

Campaign Entry No.29 - Hopefully, there is a special circle of Hell reserved for the makers of baby clothing. What they think they're playing at with all those poppers is beyond me. Trying to get Arya into her sleepsuit when she's kicking and wriggling is bad enough, but doing the studs up afterwards is nigh on impossible. For the childless among you, the exercise is not unlike attempting to stuff a twenty-two pound octopus into a string bag without any of its tentacles escaping. George from Asda? It's red-hot rectal pokers in the Hereafter for you, sunshine.

Campaign Entry No.30 - Look at this mugshot. Go on, just look at it. It's like butter wouldn't melt, isn't it? Well, let me tell you now, folks, what you're looking at is a potential felon. Yes, it's my sad duty to report that the ten-month-old Boo baby is a kleptomaniac. Herself was pushing her round HMV in Croydon and was almost out the doors when she noticed that a certain grubby little paw had mysteriously acquired a CD from a rack somewhere and was attempting to depart without paying. Even worse, it was a copy of 'Club Anthems 2004', for Christ's sake! It's no daughter of mine, that's for sure...not when the 'Star Wars Trilogy' DVD's were stacked six deep right by the exit!

Campaign Entry No.31 -  As Arya gets older, it's a treat to see the different aspects of her personality emerging. You can really get a glimpse of the kind of traits that she's likely to have in later life, so given the fact that she's a) female and b) Herself's offspring, it's no surprise to learn that sheer bloody awkwardness is one of them. Examples? Ok, how about Daddy shelling out a small fortune for all sorts of colourful plastic toys that squeak, rattle and ring only to find out that the ultimate in entertainment is apparently to be had by whacking an old colander with a wooden spoon. Why bother to put that hand-made wooden jigsaw together when you can pull Daddy's CDs off the shelf and distribute them all over the floor? And honestly, Daddy, how could you possibly think that  I'd want to play with Piglet when there's wires to be yanked out of your PS2? Good job I went bald young, innit?

Campaign Entry No.32 - Well, it's eleven months now since our little bundle of Boo arrived to enrich our lives and turn us from such frivolous pursuits as eating out, going to the cinema or having fun, and it is my proud duty to report that Arya's first tooth is through. It's been on it's way for a while, but I only saw it with my own eyes today when I wondered why a clicking noise was coming from the spoon. Came as quite a relief, I can tell you. My mate's little lad had two front teeth at six months, and I have to admit I've been getting a little anxious as the weeks went on. I was starting to worry that she'd be slurping soup for the rest of her life until today's revelation, but no, there it was. All shiny and white and ready to sink into Daddy's finger when he went to take a look at it. Ow. Little rodent...

Campaign Entry No.33 - Arya has started waking up at one o'clock in the morning and wanting to play, which is fine until she decides that we should join in too, and promptly starts crying until Herself goes in to tuck her in again. So far, so annoying, but last night was something else. The sobbing cries were replaced by a gulping, screamy tantrum that culminated in holding the cot bars and jumping up and down whilst performing a selection of scenes from 'The Exorcist'. Eventually, after three hours of this we discovered the magic solution, which was to turn the baby-monitor off, go back to our room and shut the door. Twenty minutes later and there's total silence. We worryingly turn the monitor back on and are greeted with happy little gurgles as she spends the next ten minutes telling her cuddly Piglet all about how she got Mummy and Daddy out of bed three times each before finally falling asleep. Oh, the amusing gullibility of first-time parents.

Campaign Entry No.34 - As I walked through the door tonight, I was greeted with the disturbing sight of my baby daughter standing upright directly in front of the television and licking the screen, which was, at that precise moment, showing a full-face close-up of Richard Madeley. Amazing, isn't it? One hundred million sperm and this one was the quickest...

Campaign Entry No.35 - The Boo baby is now a whole one year old. Yes, it's been a whole year since I spent that happy and tiring evening timing contractions from the clock-face of Big Ben and listening to Herself doing warthog impressions. Such fond memories! Lying on a concrete hospital floor with a rolled-up jacket for a pillow (this was the 'partner's rest room'.) Still, not even sleeping through England's winning World Cup Rugby match the next day can lessen the magic that our little girl has brought us. We've just had a lovely party for Arya and people brought lots of lovely presents for her to ignore, and everybody got a piece of her mutant Piglet cake. Scary, wasn't it? I swear it's eyes followed you round the room...

Campaign Entry No.36 - Arya's verbal dexterity is coming on in leaps and bounds. She is such a bright and precocious baby and is obviously far too clever to start off with such cliche'd utterances as 'Mama' and 'Dada'. No, her repertoire at the moment consists of her burbling, infantile versions of meaningful words like 'Emmerdale' and 'Tree', not to mention the current favourite 'All Gone!'  I blame all that tuna and mackerel that Herself loaded up on during pregnancy. Omega 3 oil is apparently good for the brain, Cobblers! How many Great White sharks have been nominated for the Nobel prize, eh?

Campaign Entry No.37 - Herself has found a novel new way to lull Arya off to sleep after her evening bottle. For ages we've had to put up with her wriggling off our laps and wanting to carry on playing at bedtime, which resulted in us having to chase her all round the flat on our hands and knees until she was sufficiently tired to be put in her cot (not recommended when you happen to be over thirty and have a parquet floor.) Now, however, Herself has taken to talking Arya through the events of her day whilst feeding her. The combination of nice warm milk and a steady monotone voice has the effect of knocking the Boo flat out for the next ten hours or so, although I'm fairly sure that Social Services would have something to say about boring a baby to sleep.

Campaign Entry No.38 - Arya took her first few steps unaided this evening. After a few weeks of walking around the furniture whilst holding onto the cushions, something caught her eye on the telly and prompted her to stand unsupported for a few seconds before taking five steps toward the screen. Unfortunately, it was Richard Madeley again. I'm starting to get a bit worried about this now...

Campaign Entry No.39 - Now that the Boo baby is semi-mobile, she has decided to master the art of begging. Whenever Daddy comes in from work on late shift and has his dinner on a tray, she waddles over and stands in front of me smacking her lips and making 'mmm' noises. Never mind that she's only eaten less than an hour ago (and left half of it) or that I'm having an insanely hot curry or something, she wants to help me dispose of it and will stand there looking all sorry for herself until she gets given a grain of rice or a pea or whatever, which she then attempts to chew with one of her two teeth before handing the small, soggy item back to me a minute later. Like I'm going to want it again!

Campaign Entry No.40 - Arya is now thirteen months old and has all but given up crawling, preferring instead to walk everywhere. Well, I say walk, it's more like the Spiderman impression that I do everytime I find myself in an advanced state of refreshment outside the pub at closing time. Lurching along and slapping the wall for balance. The only difference is that her mission is to locate her dummy, whereas mine is to find the nearest kebab shop. Of course, the fact that the Boo can now walk means that it can only be a matter of time before Herself introduces her to that most time-consuming of female mysteries - shopping for shoes. I'm looking forward to the summer, when I can send them out on a Saturday afternoon secure in the knowledge that I can veg out for the next three hours while they're raiding Gap. Bliss!

Campaign Entry No.41 - May I take this opportunity to publicly thank those wonderful family members and close friends who bought my daughter her fine selection of musical toys this Christmas; in particular the toy mobile phone,  the piano that plays Mozart, the bouncy ball with the lights and sounds and especially the talking 'Tigger's First Radio'. You bastards.

Campaign Entry No.42 - The Boo is at that age where she is spending all her time making sounds prior to the day when she embarks properly on the time-honoured female occupation of non-stop talking. At the moment though, she is happily burbling away to herself as she waddles from room to room looking for things to pull off the shelves. If either of us happen to be in her line of sight, she will lurch after us instead; all the while keeping up a running commentary of 'Ba-ba-ba' and 'Mm-mm-mm'. To someone like myself who grew up watching Tony Hart on the telly, it's more than a little unnerving as it sounds like I'm being relentlessly stalked by Morph.

Campagn Entry No.43 - Special thanks are due to Grandma this week for knitting Arya's rather splendid new green cardigan. I've often lamented the fact that 'Rising Damp' is no longer on our screens, so having one's very own miniature Rigsby lurchng around the flat is an absolute treat.

Campaign Entry No.44 - Here is Arya at sixteen months, all cheeks and eyes and tatty hair. She is now at the stage where she finds my shaved scalp intensely amusing and likes to run up behind me when I'm sitting on the stairs taking my shoes off and give my bald head a slap whilst shrieking with laughter. Yeah, it might be funny now, Missy, but Daddy and Mummy have carte blanche on deciding what you wear and what you look like for at least the next decade, so be warned. There's still plenty of time for dressing you up as a Christmas fairy or a little mermaid and then sticking the photos in the paper for your friends to see when you turn eighteen...

Campaign Entry No.45 - Arya is now uttering her first words. So far, apart from 'mama' and 'dada', we've had her versions of  'Tigger', 'biscuit', 'Eeyore', 'biscuit', 'eyes', 'biscuit', 'banana', and 'biscuit'. I couldn't swear to it, but there seems to be a bit of a pattern emerging here, don't you think?

Campaign Entry No.46 - I caught the Boo excitedly pointing to a photograph in my movie magazine this morning. 'Mama! Dada!', she said, pointing at the page, 'Mama! Dada!' Looking closely at the picture, I noticed she was indicating none other than Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt in a still from their forthcoming movie, 'Mr & Mrs. Smith'. Not quite, kid, but Daddy can dream. So can Mummy, apparently.

Campaign Entry No.47 - Herself is desperately searching for a nice winter coat for Arya and is adamant that it will be red. I'm not so keen on this idea as I've never been able to get the last few minutes of the film 'Don't Look Now' out of my head. Brrr...

Campaign Entry No.48 - Arya is twenty-one months old and voraciously devouring all those 'A is for Apple' kind of books that have been inflicted upon toddlers since time began. For a bit of added interest, we're doing the noises and actions too, as in: 'L is for Lion. What do lions do? Grrr!', and so on. Unfortunately, I became painfully aware of the awesome responsibility of parental teaching recently when I was completely caught out by a giraffe. It's all down to the colour scheme, you see. After the lion, we easily picked up the wild animal connection and got 'T is for Tiger, Tigers go 'Grrr'', and 'J is for Jaguar. Jaguars go 'Grrr!''  No problem. But the giraffe...man, that threw me. Arya pointed at the picture and seeing it's mottled markings exclaimed, not unreasonably given her tender age, 'Biraffe'. Those big blue eyes looked straight into mine as she tentatively followed with 'Biraffe go Grrr!' 'No', said her wise and sage-like father, 'Giraffes don't go 'Grrr', giraffes go...' Blank. Total brain-lock. What the hell do giraffes go? Have you ever heard one? I'm flailing at this point and, unfortunately, from some deep, dark, Pythonesque corner of my brain came a nice, high pitched 'Ping!' That was it. Straight into the Boo brain and filed away forever more. I know, just know, that I'm going to be summoned to primary school in a few years to explain to the teacher why Daddy told her that giraffes go 'Ping'. Worryingly, I've noticed another of her books has a picture of a sea-horse in. Help!

Campaign Entry No.49 - ...and following on from the above tales of Arya's educational development, I am mightily proud to state that Arya is now able to to point to, and differentiate between, pictures of both Batman and Spiderman in the Argos catalogue. She will then trot off to my DVD collection and grab the appropriate disc and shout out either 'Spiderman!' or 'Dinna dinna Batman!' with unerring accuracy. Never let it be said that I am being less than fastidious with my daughter's education. How many other twenty-one month olds can look at a picture of the Joker's girlfriend and shout out'Harley Quinn!' at the top of their lungs, eh? Cool!

Campaign Enrty No. 50 - This is getting scary now. Arya is twenty-two months old going on six and now appears to have developed some kind of Boo motion-sensor. Since she moved from her cot into a bed last month, we've gotten used to hearing the patter of tiny trotters as she scampers into our room when she hears Daddy get up. This week, however, I'm on a course away from the office and instead of getting up at 05:15, I can afford to have a bit of a lie-in so I set my alarm for 06:00. Unfortunately, nobody told my hellspawn daughter about the change of arrangements. At a quarter past five this morning, in she padded. She then proceeded to pull herself up onto the bed and wriggle her way in between us before announcing in that little Boo voice 'Time to get up now, Mummy!, Time for milk!'  Twenty-two months old for God's sake! It's going to be a lo-o-ng decade.

Campaign Entry No.51 - Never try and come between a (nearly) two year old and her TV programme. Arya was sat in her high-chair this morning nibbling her toast and watching Balamory. Normally, Daddy likes watching Balamory too, as Daddy has an unhealthy fixation on Miss Hoolie. (I'm not sure whether it's the Scottish accent or the way her hair curls up, but 'Grrr'.) Anyway, I digress. It was Josie Jump on the screen at the particular moment when I crouched down in front of my daughter, obstructing her view, and asked her if she was enjoying her breakfast. As I leaned in close, she looked me in the eyes, put her sticky hands on either side of my head and gently but firmly moved me out of the way of the telly with the words 'Go away. Don't want Daddy'. Heartbreaking. Poor Daddy almost filled up at this cruel and cutting remark. It'll be a different story in a few years when she knows what a wallet is and who in the house has got one, won't it?

Campaign Entry No.52 - All women love the sound of their own voices and my daughter is no exception. A few weeks ago, Arya discovered the acoustic principle known as 'the echo' and took great delight in walking around our tiled kitchen shouting 'Ah!' at the top of her lungs. Oh how we laughed. She then found out that shouting actual words within such an aural paradise was even more rewarding. Being the inquisitive little darling that she is, she can now instantly recognise any room that is likely to reflect her sweet voice back at her and will waste no time in demonstrating this effect to anyone listening. In the last week or so, she's moved on to whole sentences, and we've had several 'gems' belted out at full volume in one particular acoustically perfect environment, such as 'I want a rice-cake. Pleeease, Mummy!', 'Time to go now, see you next week' , and not forgetting the sublime 'It's dark in here, put the lights on'. A wonderful illustration of the precociousness of a not-quite-two-year-old which makes for a mildly amusing anecdote. It wasn't quite so funny at the time though, seeing as all these observations were all delivered at various silent moments during a particularly well-attended Catholic Mass. Daddy is going to burn in Hell, people...

Campaign Entry No.53 - Possession. Arya is now 'self-aware' and has spent the last week cataloguing her immediate inventory. 'This is my bear', 'This is my piglet', etc. The problem comes when she pre-empts things and tries to force the issue, as at half past five this morning when she scampered in to our bedroom and climbed into my pit: 'This is my bed, Daddy, go to work.'  Remind me how much boarding schools cost again...

Campaign Entry No.54 - Arya was sat in front of the telly this teatime when an interview with those hideous old strokers 'The Bee Gees' came on. At one point, a photograph of a long-haired Robin Gibb was shown on the screen. Arya stared at it for a moment before coming out with the classic 'What a funny looking man!'  Superb! I can't wait 'til she meets my mate Jesus...

Campaign Entry No. 55 - The Boo is two. Here she is in her party dress (size 4-5 from Mothercare, believe it or not. They must size their stuff based on the Gregg's-eating children of chainsmokers.) A lovely day was had with lots of visitors and nice things to eat, although Arya didn't really got the hang of present-opening. After a bit of coaxing, she unwrapped the first one (a box of Lego), but then she decided that was it. We tried taking it off her and giving her another thing to open but she just went into one until we gave her the Lego back, so the presents had to be opened gradually after that. I bet this attitude doesn't last...

Campaign Entry No.56 - I've pointed out to you all before the medical fact that women's brains shrink during pregnancy, but I didn't realise that fatherhood fries men's skulls too until today. There I was driving along the A40 enjoying the scenery when a field full of lots of different types of cows caught my eye. I really felt I had to point this lovely view out to my travelling companions. 'Ooh, look! Pretty Moo Moos!', I said. Unfortunately, I wasn't in our family car on the way to Grandma's and the other occupants weren't Herself and Arya. They were in fact a couple of professional scientific types like myself who promptly looked at me as if I'd been on the mushrooms. Embarrassing.

Campaign Entry No.57 - The 'Terrible Twos' have started. Arya had a major strop today when I wouldn't let her have her crayons until she'd tidied up all her other toys. She then proceeded to have a bit of a scream and upend her Lego all over the floor before hoofing the box into the sofa for good measure. That was it. I picked her up and marched her off to her room. 'If you want to behave like a baby you can sit in your cot for a bit!', I stormed. It wasn't until I got down to her room that I remembered that the cot is where all the cuddly toys live to stop them cluttering the rest of the room. Arya took one look at this little wooden prison with it's two dozen stuffed inmates, turned her face to me and smiled: 'Want to go in the cot, Daddy!'

Campaign Entry No.58 - Christmas time, and doll's houses are very big right now. Arya already had this one, but Santa brought another couple. We had Peppa Pig's Portable Pen, which drops inch-high plastic porkers virtually anywhere, and Fifi Flowertot's Watering Can, complete with flying bee. Awesome. Another winner is the humble jigsaw. Arya has a lovely set of two-piece animal ones that keep her occupied for, oh, seconds. Mummy happily sits there for ten minutes finishing them all though, so it's not as if the effort is wasted...

Campaign Entry No.59 - Two words guaranteed to send a shiver down the spine of parents everywhere – potty training. Now please excuse the scatological nature of this entry, but there are things that need to be said. Arya is now at that age where spending quality time in a soiled nappy is beginning to lose its charm, so we’ve bought her a potty to sit on when the need arises. The trouble is, she absolutely hates the whole ‘going to the toilet’ routine and would much rather stand around on tiptoe, gripping her buttocks together and quietly turning purple than take the easy option of a good dump. Much wailing and crying is to be had each evening here in Fish Towers as we frog-march our little moppet around the flat in order to deny her any clench time until she finally parts with her poo. In order to minimise the drama, Herself has devised a quaint little potty-emptying routine whereby we all have to trot along to the bathroom and wave bye-bye to Richard. No one tells you about this when you become a parent, do they? Although I must say Grandma is doing her best to inject helpful comments wherever possible. ‘Look at the size of that sausage’, indeed. Anyone got a room to let?

Campaign Entry No.60 - Arya's latest obsession is with the'CeeBeebies' website. Yes, at the ripe old age of two and a bit, my daughter has become an internet junkie with a predilection for dodgy Flash games on the BBC children's site. Every day as soon as I get home from work, I get greeted with 'Daddy! Play Tikkabilla' or 'Daddy! Want to do the Kangaroo!' (relax, it's a dance.) I then have to sit in front of a flat screen 19'' monitor with a little girl on my lap helping a pink dragon on a flying carpet to find some bananas (yes, I know, it doesn't make sense to me either but she seems to like it.) Have you any idea how soul-destroying it is seeing my insanely expensive, twin-Nvidea-graphics-card-with Dolby-THX-surround-sound computer system that took me most of last year to pay for being put to such use? This thing can run Half Life 2 and F.E.A.R. at their highest settings without breaking sweat and my daughter is using it to watch a streaming video of some Australian halfwit singing and jumping around like a tit. The sooner she's old enough to amuse herself with a skipping-rope or some dollies, the better.

Campaign Entry No.61 - Here's Arya avidly engrossed in her latest favourite pastime of staring transfixed at the telly during breakfast (I know too much TV is a bad thing, but it's the only way we can get her to focus on her porridge for fifteen minutes.) Still, it provided ample opportunity for me to get a photo of her tatty head to show you all the state her hair gets in while she's asleep. It takes five minutes of squealing and brushing every morning to sort this tangle out. Sadly, all this is my fault. Daddy used to have hair like this. Hell, Daddy used to have hair...

Campaign Enrty No.62 - Arya and I were playing with Mummy's sewing box today and there was much fun and frivolity to be had with the tape measure. (Look out! Snakeys!) This provided ample opportunity to measure our little monster and I must admit it came as something of a shock to find that she is exactly thirty-six inches tall. Fantastic! We have a yard of Boo!

Campaign Entry No.63 - There's nothing more rewarding as a parent than those magical little moments when you bond totally and completely with your child. This evening, Arya spent her time climbing all over me as I played the new 'Tomb Raider' game, laughing and squealing such gems of encouragement as 'Hurry up!', 'Faster!' and my particular favourite, 'Get him, Lara!' Playing on the PC will never be the same again after this...

Here's Arya on holiday in St. Ives. We had lots of fun this year; we found out that ice-cream rules; that pasties are very nice thank-you and that somebody will do anything an Emu glove-puppet tells them to, which is an absolute God-send at bedtime. Arya also discovered that squirrels like dry breakfast cereal (Muddles) but that rabbits don't, no matter how hard you chase them. The other worrying development in the Boo world while we were away was the realisation that, deprived of her DVDs for a week, Arya will simply lapse into am-dram and vocalise all her favourite selections as and when the mood takes her. Great. Our very own two-and-a-half-year-old 'Rain Man'.

Campaign Entry No.64 - A landmark day. Today, at the age of two years, eight months and several days, Arya uttered those famous words for the first time. There I was, driving back to London on the M40 with the girls in the back when my daughter turned to Herself and, smiling sweetly, enquired 'Mummy, are we there yet?' Car journeys will never be the same again...

Campaign Entry No.65 - My daughter is in very real danger of becoming what, depending on one's point of view, can either be termed 'precocious' or 'a cheeky little sod'. It has long been a shopping ritual that Herself gives Arya lunch of bread, cheese and apple in Starbucks whilst treating herself a rejuvenating latte and blueberry muffin. In the past, Arya has been known ro wait until coming within sight of the coffee shop before uttering the words "Muffin man!", meaning that it's time to eat. Not anymore. The latest utterance the other day was "Mummy, I want to go to the cafe and have a Baby-Bel!" Terrific. Our very own Hermione Granger clone...

Campaign Entry No. 66 - Arya really doesn't like having her hair brushed, which is understandable as it's very thick, very curly and half way down he back. There are, quite literally, tears at bedtime when the mop gets untangled. Now I reckon that Herself has tried being the voice of reason by saying things along the lines of "Look, Mummy brushes her hair and she doesn't cry. Mummy's a big girl!" It's the only explanation I can come up with for the following conversation that Arya and I had this evening whilst on comb-duty: "Now don't cry darling, be a big girl!", I began. "Daddy doesn't cry", Arya said. "No, Daddy doesn't cry", I replied. "Daddy's a big girl!", Arya observed, happily.

Campaign Entry No.67 - You wouldn't believe how big Hallowe'en is in our house. Here's our little witchy Boo in her full get-up. She loves the whole 'being scary' thing and has taken her light-up pumpkin to bed with her every night for the last week (as well as the light-up flashing 'ghosty' on occasion, too.) I'm almost concerned. We've had 'The Nightmare Before Christmas' on an endless loop for days and white chocolate skulls are currently the treat of choice for good girls. It's weird; Arya shows absolutely no sign of childish fear whatsoever and never has. Being in the dark has never bothered her and wrapping herself in the bedclothes and running after Daddy screeching 'Wooo!' has long been a favourite game. I can only conclude that there's some sort of genetic occult thing happening. I mean, Samantha was Endora's daughter, right?

Campaign Entry No. 68 - Ok, I'm getting concerned now. We're well into November and Arya is still insisting on having 'The Nightmare Before Christmas' on most days, still carrying around her light-up ghosty (who no longer lights up) and seems to be totally in love with Jack Skellington. If she ends up with a taste in tall, thin Goth blokes with shaven heads then I'm going to find Tim Burton and give him a shoeing.

Campaign Entry No.69 - I forgot to tell you about our 'Lou & Andy' Bonfire Night, didn't I? For weeks, Arya was pestering me every time she saw fireworks on the telly. "Can I have some fireworks, Daddy?" was the refrain of choice though most of October, so when I came in with a huge box of Standard's finest on the 5th, she was bouncing round the room with delight. We all got togged up that eveing in our winter clothes and went out into the garden and Arya was still leaping around with excitement right up until the first rocket went up and exploded in a shower of pretty coloured sparks, at which point she began to cry. "I don't like fireworks, Daddy!" 'Yeah, I know!'

Campaign Entry No.70 - I've no idea what's going on in my little girl's head, but her Christmas wish-list makes for an interesting read. Herself asked her what she'd like from Santa. "A whoopee-cushion", she replied. After further thought, she followed that with "...and a push-chair for my teddy." Perhaps she should've left it at that, but oh no, not my missus. "Anything else?"' she asked. Arya thought for a second and then said "Yes, Mummy. some Daiylea Dunkers and a lettuce". It's going to be an interesting Christmas.

Campaign Entry No.71 - Christmas has been and gone and apart from running the very real risk of drowning in shredded gift-wrap, Arya had a lovely time. The only present that didn't raise a smile was the new hair-brush, and we're forced to resort to making a game of it when untangling the knots on the Boo's tatty head. "What colour is Mummy's hair?" "Brown!" "What colour is Arya's hair?" "Brown!" Then I thought I'd try and be clever. "What colour is Daddy's hair?" She looked at me for a couple of seconds before coming back with "Daddy hasn't got any hair, Daddy's got a head!" Fell for that one, didn't I?

Canpaign Entry No.72 - Well, it was out with the tape measure and scales again this evening and what did we find? We now have a three stone heavy metre of Boo! It's lovely watching my daughter grow before my eyes, but I wish she'd stop wishing her life (and mine) away like she did today, three weeks after Christmas, with the words 'Daddy, is it nearly Hallowe'en yet?' Brrr...

Campaign Entry No.73 - Arya is definitely my daughter. She spent two hours chilling out on the floor this afternoon reading a book. Ok, so it was a Greater London 'A-Z', but reading is reading. Arya seems to have developed a thing for maps and atlases and will spend ages looking at them, even a humble tube map. She knows that blue means water and green means park and can even show you exactly where our road is, so she should never have a problem finding her way home when she's older. Which is more than I can after a few sherbets...

Campaign Entry No. 74 - Here's the Boo, aged three and (almost) a half. Perfect time for a little girl's first bike, so it was 'Toys 'R' Us' this weekend. Way wrong move. As soon as we entered the place, all thoughts of bikes had left Arya's head and she bounced like a pinball from one bit of overpriced plastic tat to the next before finally deciding that what she really wanted was a three quid 'Aquapet'. When Daddy showed her the sixty quid bike he'd just paid for, and pointed out that that was quite enough for one day, she proceeded to indulge in that particular high-pitched 'Help! I'm being abducted!' shrieking that parents everywhere love so much. Ungrateful little madam. Coal for Christmas...

Campaign Entry No.75 - So there we are, my daughter and I, wandering round the shopping centre in Wolverhampton killing time while we wait for Mummy to have her new glasses made (those HUGE framed things that are all the rage these days and that women think make them look like Posh Spice, rather than Trevor Horn circa 1981.) Anyway, there we are happily wasting time when we come across one of those faux market stalls that shopping malls dot around the place to make you feel like you're not in a carbon copy of every other bleeding mall ever and this one's selling wigs. Blonde, brunette, long, short. Peg after peg of wigs. Arya looks up at me from the pushchair with huge blue eyes and a big smile and trills happily "Daddy, shall we buy you some hair?" Hmm...how much is boarding school again?

Campaign Entry No. 76 - Recently, Arya has been waking up at four in the morning, and Herself has been taking her back to her pit and then staying there until I get up. I was starting to get a bit concerned about this. Why was she waking up every night? Was it the cold? A noise? Where had this new routine come from? Know what it turned out to be? Maltesers. The first time she came and got Mummy, Mummy went into the kitchen and, while Bean-bag Bear was microwaving, they both had a Malteser as a treat to pass the time. Fatal. Now the midnight tuck-shop is well and truly open, isn't it? It'll be like bloody St. Trinian's in our kitchen before long...

Campaign Entry No. 77 - Holiday time again, and the Fish family made it's usual pilgrimage down to St. Ives. This year, we were in time for the Golowan festival and the Mazey Day weekend down in Penzance. Now to everyone else, this is the annual opportunity for the community to dress up, make floats and parade like they do in Notting Hill, only without the drugs and firearms. For Arya however, it was merely the signal to push as much ice-cream as she could into her face. Added to that, there were loads of market stalls selling nothing but beads, which meant that Mummy's weekend was fully-booked too. Poor Daddy had to retire to the Dolphin Arms on his own, drink St. Austell ale and smoke hand-rolled vanilla cigars. Terrible...

Campign Entry No. 78 - Before I became the father of a daughter, I used to scoff at all those parents who insisted on perennially dressing their little girls in pink. 'Show some originality', I'd think. 'Let the little poppet tell you what colour she'd like to wear, rather than making her conform to tired old stereotypes'. Of course this was before a few years of Arya in my life. Now older and wiser, I can honestly say, hand on heart, that little girls love this pink shit. Anything, doesn't matter what it is - clothing, toys, food - if there's a pink option then that's the one they'll go for every time. And the more violent the shade, the better they like it. You would not believe the hues of some of the things in my daughter's wardrobe. Even Dame Edna would think twice...

Campaign Entry No. 79 - Today was Arya's first day at pre-school. Mummy, Grandma and I all walked her down to the school in her new green and yellow uniform. (Norwich City colours? Who came up with that one?) There we were, a line of parents and grandparents all holding hands with their little moppets as we waited for the teacher to open the gates and escort them in. At one o'clock,  twenty little people politely filed into the class...apart from one, who ran full-pelt to the climbing frame and had to be forcibly prised off it. Can you guess who's offspring that was? Two hours later, and it's time to collect the little people once more. Twenty green and yellow munchkins trot out smiling and waving...apart from one in floods of tears; "I don't want to go home, I want to stay here!" Can you guess who's offspring that was? (Hint - it's the same answer as the first question.) Oh well, one day down, twelve years to go...

Campaign Entry No. 80 - I thought that having a daughter would provide a valuable insight into how the female mind works. I figured that by watching Arya grow up, I would be able to spot exactly where and when those funny little quirks that I so enjoy observing in Herself popped up, such as the 'let's now spend the next hour in front of the mirror' trait, or the 'I shall now attempt to choose which of these half-dozen virtually identical tops to wear today by systematically trying them on and discarding them before selecting the one I picked in the first place' trait. You see, I was foolishly labouring under the misapprehension that this sort of female mental gymnastics was something they developed over time, and that I would be able to spot it occurring and take appropriate action to minimise the fallout. Not so. Apparently, it's pre-programmed from conception and simply waits for the opportune moment to present itself, such as this evening when Arya came running up to me after a trip to the bathroom. "Daddy! Daddy! Come quick!", she gasped, "There's a spider in the bath called 'Soup'!" Surreal? Dali had nothing on these creatures, nothing.

Campaign Entry No. 81 - Arya caught sight of a pub whilst we were driving through Hammersmith this evening. "Ooh look! That's a beer shop!", she trilled. Beer shop! Love it! Further questioning followed: "Who goes in beer shops then, Arya?", I asked. "Daddy and Uncle Stevie", came the reply. "What about Mummy?", enquired Herself. "No Mummys are girls!", replied Arya. "Girls stay at home and drink tea and watch telly and then go and pick them up." I love my daughter. She'll go far with this outlook...

Campaign Entry No.82 - Given that dinosaurs are still quite big in the world of Boo, I though we could kill two birds with one stone this Christmas and get Daddy that Roboraptor he's always wanted. All was well until I shared this thought with Arya. She took one look at the picture in the Argos catalogue before deciding "I don't like him, Daddy, he's too bitey!" Damn.

Campaign Entry No. 83 - And here we are at Christmas 2007. Here is Arya giving it her very best Posh Spice impression. Arya is quite good at impressions, with Jimmy Savile being a particular favourite. She is more than capable of coming out with a pretty decent "Now then, now then!" or "As it happens" and even the occasional "Bless my soul!" Unfortunately, the crowning glory of a rousing "Eurgh! Eurgh! Eurgh!" is proving elusive so far, but I'm sure I'll have her trained for next summer. She's also proving a bit of a comic with her quotes too. The latest gems this weekend were "I'm going to miss this pizza when I've ate it" and the truly inspired "I love your coat Mummy, it's the same colour as wee." Priceless stuff from a future wordsmith, I'm sure you'll agree.

Campaign Entry No. 84 - This whole page was always going to be kind of 'time limited'. Like, there's obviously a finite amount of days between my daughter being born and her saying to me 'God, Dad, this is so-o-o embarrassing, knock it on the head'. This point might be a little bit nearer that I'd envisaged given today's comment of 'I'm a grown-up - you two sit there and do as you're told!' Scary stuff. She's only four-and-a-half now, but she'll no doubt have me and the Fishwife in a home before she's twenty-five...

Campaign Entry No. 85 - Arya went shopping with Aunty today and Aunty pointed out that there was only nineteen days left until our holiday in Cornwall. In order to give Arya some perspective, Aunty bought her some Dolly Mixture and counted out nineteen in a little pot. She told her that if she ate one every day, as soon as the last one had gone, it would mean that it was time for us all to go on holiday. Aunty had obviously had a bit of a brainstorm here, and was clearly unaware of whom she was dealing with. This is my daughter, and the fact that she proceeded to push eight of them into her podgy little face within half an hour was obviously a scenario that hadn't occurred to poor Aunty.

Campaign Entry No. 86 - Arya is of the opinion that now that she can converse with us and make herself understood, it obviously means that she's a grown-up. There are times that she genuinely doesn't seem to grasp the fact that the household is not a democracy and that the opinions of the two big people are always, without fail, going to trump those of the little one. This has led to her taking great pains to point out an imaginary grown-up status that she doesn't have, which manifests itself in her new favourite buzz-phrase, where she starts off a sentence with "When I was a little girl a long time ago..." Daddy would have a lot more respect for this new, 'grown-up' daughter if she didn't immediatly resort to folding her arms, snorting derisively and stamping out of the room when she doesn't get her own way. Can't think which side of the gene-pool this comes from...

Campaign Entry No. 87 - Arya has a new toy. Actually, has a new baby, as it goes everywhere with her and when she talks to it, it 'answers' her by calling her 'Mama', albeit in a voice that sounds suspiciously like a higher-pitched version of Arya's own. Nothing wrong with this, you might say. Perfectly normal for little girls to invent personalities for their toys and pretend that they're their mummies. Except that the toy in question is...how can I put it...erm...oh sod it, it's one of these. Yes, my daughter has adopted a cuddly tuberculosis germ as her new offspring. Suitably surreal and no doubt perfectly apt being as this is my daughter we're talking about. However, she's gone one better. Know what she's named the little mite? "Stock Cube". I kid you not; Arya is currently devotedly in love with a cuddly tuberculosis germ called 'Stock Cube'. I'm actually quietly chuffed with this display of weird individuality. My dream of having a Wednesday Addams-type daughter rather than a Britney Spears one seems to be developing nicely.

Campaign Entry No. 88 - Arya has broken her arm. She fell off a wall at school. Some of us have managed to get to ten times her age without having so much as a tooth knocked out, but not my daughter. Oh no. It's the full plaster-cast job for her. Amazingly, it hasn't fazed her one bit. Within ten minutes of the cast going on, she was running round like a mad thing once more. We've since found out that she broke her arm whilst 'chasing boys' in the playground. I think Daddy is going to have to buy a shotgun for when she's a bit older...

Campaign Entry No. 89 - Now that Arya has started her first year in 'big' school, we have just taken delivery of our first spot of homework. As well as a list of letters and numbers to copy for writing practice, Arya also brought a book home, together with a 'learning' folder, which basically said that she and Daddy had to read the book together, talk about the story and decide whether we liked it or not. Daddy then has to write a few lines in the learning folder saying what how we got on and what we thought. Please don't get me wrong, I'm all for homework and plenty of it. However, whenever I ask Arya what she did at school that day, she always tells me it was a mixture of dressing up, stories, painting and playing. So let me get things straight here; my daughter is spending seven hours a day playing dress-up with in the company of two full-time teachers, and then, when she comes home, Daddy is teaching her to read and write. Now I've had a bit of a think about this and - call me a crazy, swivel-eyed radical if you will - but how about...and this is just off the top of my head, you understand...the teachers do the actual teaching  and Daddy can take care of the fun, playtime bit?

Campaign Entry No. 90 - Well, our lovely little Boo girl is five years old. Half a decade. Where the hell did that go? Anyway, Arya's birthday fell on one of Daddy's rest days, so off we went for a visit to the Bear Factory in Croydon, where Arya chose her very own teddy, a pink fluffy thing with white polka-dot hearts all over it's fur. Vile, but she seems to love it. When we got home, I decided to check out the interweb to see if there were any famous people with the same birthday as my daughter; you know, to try and predict what sort of personality traits might start to develop as she grows up. Know who my baby shares a birthday with? Goldie Hawn and Bjork. Bloody hell.

Campaign Entry No. 91 - Arya is the kind of child who will always have either the last word or the loudest one on any subject. She makes absolutely sure she's not left out of anything , especially when it comes to treats, and will always endeavour to have at least one, if not two, shares of whatever is going, even if she's not entirely sure what it is she's signing up for. Today was no exception. Mummy came home with a tube of plain chocolate Hob-Nobs, which we've not seen around these parts since Tony Blair was popular. "I've brought Hob-Nobs!", said Mummy, without even opening her bag."I want Hob-Nobs! I want Hob-Nobs! Mummy, ple-e-ease!", said Arya, jumping up and down with excitement, before stopping suddenly, looking up at her mother with big eyes and asking "What's Hob-Nobs?"

Campaign Entry No. 92 - Slightly bizarre behaviour from my daughter this afternoon. She ran to her bedroom as soon as she came in from school as usual in order to get changed, only instead of coming back in her jeans and top, she returned to the living room in her nightie with her toothbrush in her mouth. When asked why, she said "I'm getting ready for bed now so I don't have to later!" I couldn't really argue with that sort of logic at the time and now, half an hour after she's happily tucked up in bed, I still can't find a flaw in it. I'm getting old...

Campaign Entry No. 93 - Arya was apparently deeply engrossed in a conversation whilst at Grandma's last Saturday morning (I was on Nights). Mummy was lying in bed listening to Arya chattering away and wondering to whom, so she got up to investigate. Now most children discover an imaginary friend at some point in their lives, but my daughter's choice of new playmate is somewhat unusual. "Hello Mummy", said Arya when the bedroom door opened, "This is Roveman. He's my husband and he loves me.", she said earnestly, with a Wednesday Addams-like glint in her eye. 'Roveman', it turns out, is Grandma's upright vacuum cleaner. Mummy had to shake hands with it. She gently took hold of the hose and gave it a wiggle. "Pleased to meet you, Roveman", she said. "No, Mummy", replied Arya, "That's his head." Salvadore Dali? Pah! Amateur...

Campaign Entry No. 94 - Mummy had one of those heart-stopping parental moments the other day. Arya walked up to her and said in a matter-of-fact voice "Mummy, I know where babies come from". As the blood drained from her face, Mummy looked to where Arya had been lying on the floor reading, spotted the illustated encyclopedia that Daddy had bought for when she was much older and looked back towards Arya, waiting in dread for what would come out of her five year old mouth next. "They grow in your tummy and you pull them out of your bottom", said Arya, before calmly going back, turning the page and looking at something else.

Campaign Entry No. 95 - Arya is fairly adept at using the computer when she's allowed to. Part of our regular ongoing programme of development is to visit those online sites dedicated to improving children's reading abilities. Unfortunately, a lot of these places are American, which led to the exchange we had this evening. We were checking out a site which told a story all about a witch who couldn't get her Hallowe'en cake to rise. The 'color' orange was mentioned. In a Kansas drawl. Arya was somewhat confused. "Daddy", she said, "She's talking funny and she can't spell!" Quite, darling, but that's Americans for you...

Campaign Entry No. 96 - Today, I asked Arya what she wanted to be when she grew up. To be honest, I was expecting one of about a dozen different answers, ranging from 'a princess' to 'a teacher'. What I wasn't expecting was the one I actually got - as quick as a flash and with no pause or prevarication. Know what my six-year-old daughter wants to be more than anything in the world? 'A mummy'. Wa-a-y wrong answer, kid. Although, to be fair, it could simply be a bit of hero(ine) worship on her part, as Mummy does play a rather large part in her little life. Still, it's better to be safe than sorry, so from now, I shall be trawling the interweb looking for lesbian medicine...