In which our intrepid hero looks forward to siring a daughter.

I had to come into the office for a meeting last Saturday, which is something I’m not normally happy about doing. Particularly not if I’ve been out until 6am the previous night, drinking, playing pool and tailoring my jukebox selection to optimally vacate Maloney’s of young Chinese gangsta-wannabees with no taste in hip-hop (which, incidentally, happens to comprise the bulk of their clientèle).

So, after two hours’ sleep, I made my way back into work. Everything, however, was made worthwhile by one simple, heartwarming event.

A mother with three young daughters sat in the seat ahead of me on the train; she was probably single, since she didn’t appear to have the energy to be as irate as a married mother would be in the same situation. Whilst her mind drifted off into the ether, her eldest (around nine, I guess) was leafing through the classifieds and commenting on each ad.

The mother stared into space, totally oblivious to her nine-year-old daughter as the latter explained to her the intricacies of jelly wrestling.

Please reread that last paragraph a few times; its sheer coolness deserves the attention.

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