One of the many things you can never be adequately prepared for as a father is just how much unfeasibly cute behaviour your sprog comes pre-programmed with. To describe the recent assault that Tom has mounted on my Victorian Fatherly Reserve as a “charm offensive” would be like describing the D-Day landings as “a bit of a scuffle”.

Jane’s been reading a Proper Science Book about it. Apparently researchers have found that babies “flirt” just like adults. Before you start imagining any unpleasantness, it’s not that kind of flirting, it just uses the same techniques. Tom will catch my eye, flash me a huge grin, and then shyly look away. If he had a fan to hide behind he’d no-doubt flap it coquettishly, but he doesn’t need it. I’m already lolloping over like Pavlov’s dog at a campanology demonstation to give him the extra attention he requires, and maybe get rewarded a few more big smiles.

Oh the smiles! Nothing prepares you for the smiles! Recently he’s decided that the simple broad grin isn’t sufficently cheery, so he’s moved on to a huge open-mouthed raptuous happy-face. In fact, he’s the only person I know who can truly do the :D smiley justice.

Something about that smile zaps straight into the pleasure centres of your brain. Your heart jumps into your throat, and you blurt out a laugh without even realising it. Positive feedback ensues, each participant feeding off the other’s unalloyed pleasure. Baby gets rewarded with five minutes of undivided attention and you get rewarded with a milky-sick-stained shirt… but a freshly laundered soul.