The attack of Twat Dad

So, you know that rush of hormone-based goodwill that is meant to cushion the sharp edges of the world and send pregnant ladies floating around on a cloud of happy thoughts? Seems to have passed me by. So far, my pregnancy has simmered along in my usual default state of low level irritation and occasional blinding rage. But can you blame me, when there are people like Twat Dad bouncing around?

I had to have a meeting with an obstetrician this week. Not actually sure why – she asked me why she was seeing me and I was lost for words. Um, because I’m old? Anyway. As usual, the hospital was running late. Several hours late, for some people. The mums were dealing with it stoically and silently, flicking through magazines and muttering to each other. Then in gambols Twat Dad. He’s the most showily, noisily attentive father I have ever seen. It’s like the world is one giant fucking CBeebies audition. His heavily pregnant wife looks like she would rather rip her own ears off than listen to him for a moment longer – and I can imagine the entire waiting room of mellow pregnant ladies rising up and tearing him limb from limb, rather like the climactic moment in Suddenly Last Summer.

Long-suffering mum is tied up at the reception desk trying to straighten out a mistake with her appointment, meanwhile Twat Dad is working his toddler into a state of shrieking, pant-wetting excitement by hurling him around the waiting room. Next he decided to read the kid a story. At full volume. It’s the book of In The Night Garden, so for the next five minutes we’re treated to a shrieked commentary on the activities of the Ninky Nonk. Even the kid gets a little bored and tries to persuade Twat Dad to read something else. “Not Bob The Builder,” Says Twat Dad, “I think Bob The Builder is a bit of a loser, don’t you?” The kid looks nonplussed. He clearly loves Bob The Builder. I’m tempted to step in at this point and ascertain why, exactly, Bob The Builder is a ‘loser’. Is it because Bob makes his living from manual labour? Come the apocalypse you’ll be wishing little Milo had some practical skills rather than a career in middle management or teaching method acting workshops in West Hampstead or whatever the fuck it is YOU do.

Long-suffering mum has had enough. She whispers a few sharp words to Twat Dad. He huffs a little and says, in an annoying sing song voice loud enough for the entire waiting room to hear, “Out with anger, in with love.” I glance around the waiting room. Come on ladies, who’s with me? Let’s take this fucker out of the gene pool once and for all.