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Yes, Prime Minister, nappy time

May 26:Couldn't sleep a wink, thanks to the Baby. Every time shebawled, Teri turned over, put another pillow over her head and went back ...

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May 26:Couldn’t sleep a wink, thanks to the Baby. Every time shebawled, Teri turned over, put another pillow over her head and went back tosleep. Last night there I was, Prime Minister to Her Majesty’s Government,coochy-cooing to Cleo into the early hours of the morning.

The first thing I did after getting into office was to get Bernard to drawup a itinerary of the Baby’s meal timings. Teri and I are still atloggerheads over breastfeeding. She wants to put Cleo on the bottle, but sofar I’ve managed to convince her that Britain Needs the Breast, and there isno Third Way. She is the voice of Mother Middle England, I reminded her.

Bernard came in with the MORI-Times Poll. It says that popular support forUs, which was 46 per cent a day before Cleo arrived, rose by 3 per cent overthe past week. Jolly good show, I told myself. Just what the spin doctorordered. Poor Hague, can’t multiply even if he tried. It looks like theConservatives will have to labour long and hard if they have to beat NewLabour. Must get Humphrey, as secretary, Human Development, to conceive (aptword that!) a Breeder’s Manual for Britain.

I asked Bernard for the day’s engagements. A late breakfast meeting with theMother’s Union, followed by a luncheon thrown in Our honour by Mum’sAnonymous. At four, I am to address the pre-natal exercise class atHammersmiths, followed by an interview on my experiences with fatherhoodwith êiMother and Childêr, a journal for expectant mothers. Finally there’sthat dinner engagement with Mr and Mrs Harold Forks from Liverpool — theproud parents of 14 children, who will come with their brood. The media willbe there, so we should take the baby too, I suppose.

May 27-28:The weekends are the toughest part in this business. We areat Chequers and Teri goes back to being her grouchy old self. She keepssnapping at me.“I feel like a milch cow,” she screams. I keep my peace. Asa committed Family Man, I can’t afford to scream right back. Although doingthe nappies is enough to drive St Peter himself insane. Don’t know whoseidea it was to tell the media that we are committed to recycled nappies, forChrist’s sake!

May 29:Never felt so delighted to be back at old No 10! No more washingnappies for the time being at least. Even Bernard’s ovine visage held aspecial appeal. He reminded me that Sir Humphrey will be presenting hisBreeder’s Plan for Britain at 10 am.

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At 10, Sir Humphrey walked in, his usual arrogant self (sometimes I amseized with a strong desire to tie a piece of string across the door andtrip him up). He drew up a chair, cleared his throat in that self-importantmanner, and began.

Prime Minister, we should aim, he said, to become a philoprogenitive nation.(This does sound impressive, must say.) According to Humphrey’s Plan, alleligible mothers will be entitled to a year’s paid maternity leave andreceive Å“10 a week if they breastfeed their babies. New Fathers will getthree months paternity leave, if their doctors certify that their wives arebreastfeeding their babies. There will be tax breaks for couples consideringtheir fourth child (like Us!) and illustrated copies of the ancient Indiansex manual, the êiKama Sutraêr, for first-timers (nice touch that, recallsour glorious colonial past).

As he finished, Humphrey cleared his throat yet again. “There’s one morething, Prime Minister,” he began….“Go on, Humphrey,” I cut inimpatiently. “Well, Prime Minister,” he said gravely, “just another smalladdition. We believe than in order to demonstrate palpable personal interestin the Breeders’ Plan for Britain, you must take a certain step,” hecontinued. “Oh anything, Humphrey, go on,” I said. “Prime Minister, afterdue consideration we have decided that in the interests of this Plan, theonly honourable thing to do is for you to seriously consider having a fifthbaby,” he ended, with a nasty twinkle in his eye.

Bernard had to call the No 10 emergency medical serve to get me out of theoffice after that. I mean, how many nappies do you think Sir Humphrey wouldhave washed in his lifetime? I mean shouldn’t there be some limit to thisPeople’s Prime Minister business?

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