Lake Me (Diary of a Prince series)

All she wants to do at the moment is talk, talk, talk. The talk ends up as a fight. And I’m a lover not a fighter. So I don’t want to talk. I want to read and watch TV. I want to listen to the football or watch a three-and-a-half-hour Romanian movie set in one room about a man who doesn’t die. I do not wish to converse. I particularly do not wish conversing about her longing for another baby.

I do not want another baby. Maybe in about 20 years time, with a younger model. That's the great bit about being a man. I mean, look at my father, he's almost 60 and has just become a dad again for the fifth time by a woman Indigo's age. It didn't go down too well with Rosie when we pointed out the bouncing baby with the blonde hair was her aunty.

To keep Indigo quiet (and this has generally worked for two years, although is now becoming a little trickier as she reaches the end of her fertile years) I tell her “not just yet”.

She accused me of “stringing her along” the other day, which is simply not true. I tell her I barely scrape through each month in the black and that sometimes keeps her quiet. But now though, she’s remembered my Granny gave me a lump sum, a few thousand quid that I’m keeping for a rainy day. Now she tells me if I cared for her happiness I wouldn’t mind delving into that to help fund another child.

So now I've got a new one. I tell her I’m insecure about my fathering skills, that I shouted at Rosie once or twice when she was younger and wouldn’t stop crying. Indigo says “that’s perfectly normal and I will make sure I have a childminder on hand so you never have to be left holding the baby by yourself.” She has said the following:

* She will do all the extra housework as she will be at home with the baby.
* She will do all the night time shift work (she always did anyway).
* She will ensure more help and support from childcare providers (says she didn’t know people when Rosie was a baby)
* She will not expect a penny more than what I give her now.
* She has enough money saved to take a few months off work.

Not convinced. I know only too well I’ll end up having my TV viewing interrupted. One tries not to think about it as it is so terribly dreary. However, if I do chance to put my mind to it I realise:
* I love diving into Lake Nat all day
* I love reading my books
* I love reading my newspapers
* I love thinking about my career and how to progress it
* I love to be by myself
* I do not want screaming kids around me disturbing me while I read my hefty tome on ancient Greece
* I particularly do not wish to become involved in dirty nappy changes
* I love picking my nose
* I love farting
* Rosie is fine going through life without a sibling

If Indigo leaves me I’ll get my old school buddy’s mum who owns Mischon de Reya to fight my case in the courts so I get to keep Rosie. And then of course I’ll hire a nanny so I don’t have to do any childcare.

Most of the time I adeptly manage to keep this boring matter firmly under the rug. However, once a month – it’s all tied in with the moon – the issue comes out and spreads its negative dust all around the house. But I must stand firm and remember how babies have a habit of draining Lake Me. Its reserves are currently high but it’s taken four long years to get them back and I have no plans to change this now.

Diary of a Prince

0800 - Woke up. Stretched. Farted. Rolled over on side to click spine into place. Picked nose and flicked onto floor. Indigo asleep still. Got up. Went downstairs to kitchen. Got bowl out of cupboard. Poured in shreddies and skimmed milk. Sprinkled chocolate Nesquik over top. Went back upstairs and turned on the Today programme. Shaved. Put on suit. Gobbed in sink. Didn’t wash it down. Only do token tap turn when Indigo is in the bathroom or she will NAG. After dressing and ablutions go back to kitchen. Eat soggy cereal, just the way I like it.

Get jacket, wallet, ipod, my two mobiles and cigarettes for my new fag-a-day habit.

Give Rosie an enormous hug and masses of kisses and tell her I’ll miss her. Give Indigo a peck – she’s been a right pain since I said I wouldn’t have a vasectomy.

Yesterday I said to her “you’re just angry with me all the time and all because I won’t get my balls cut open.” She says “you really haven’t a clue have you?” I fail to understand the woman and what’s got into her. I live with a yoyo. She wants me to go to relationship counselling. Thank God I haven’t got a day off for weeks.

0830 - Leave for work. Continue listening to Today on phone radio on way to the station. Get on train. Stand to Cannon Street. Don’t mind. Read all the newspapers on my internet phone.

0930 - Arrive at work. Work all day for peanuts.

2000 - Leave to come home. Phone Indigo to see what’s for dinner. She says she’s out of ideas. She “works” at home, or so she says, but I still do the dinner on my days off AND tidy up after it. Indigo never does ironing, puts clothes away, hoovers or tidies up (unless we have guests over). We pay a cleaner to do it but she only comes once a week and doesn’t do the ironing. My ten-year-old niece from Spain saw me ironing my shirts on her last visit and gasped. She’d never seen a man ironing before. Tried to press point to Indigo but she bangs on about equality. How tedious. If only we lived in Spain where us men get treated with the reverence we deserve.

2100 – get home. Say hello to Indigo. She says, “how was your day?” and goes downstairs to prepare my dinner. I reply, “really boring”, fart, then go for a poo.

2120 – Indigo hands me a tray with my dinner on it. I do not like quite a few of her “dishes” including her mushroom risotto and carrot & tomato soup. She’s into ready meals at the moment. Says she’s too busy. Tonight it’s left over stir fry I made yesterday.

2130 – fart and watch the top of the recorded news - BBC, ITV, Channel 4 - Then watch the Daily Show and maybe will watch an episode of either West Wing, Peep Show, Spaced, Entourage, Derren Brown, Curb Your Enthusiasm or a documentary.

2200 – Indigo tells me her boring stories from the day. I nod and pretend to listen. Sometimes I say, “Just give me the headlines” and she gets pissed off

2200 – fart and eat chocolate spread on ryvita and an orange

2230 – pick nose and watch TV while Indigo gets ready for bed

2300 – run a salt bath (I have chafing between my thighs)

2315 – get suit ready for the next day, fart

2330 – lock door to bathroom

2340 – have a wank

0000 – go upstairs to bed - thank god Indigo has fallen asleep again under her book and won't be wanting any sex. Remove book and turn off her light. Read some of Stalingrad. Fall asleep.

Fed up in London

Saturday night was nuts. It couldn’t have been worse weather to have an all night party in the garden complete with loud speakers. The sky was elephant grey and threw down hard, cold rain in unrelenting sheets. The music started at seven.

The Prince noticed it first while we were watching TV. It wasn't too bad then. By 8.30 his eyelids were drooping and I was asleep on the sofa. Because of this, we both decided to go to bed – to sleep. I was in bed by 9.30pm - something I'd been meaning to do for a long time.

“I’m sure that noise will stop in an hour or so,” I said.

An hour or so later and more cars just kept on arriving. People from all over south London were just flocking to our neighbourhood.

“Ok, I’m going to sleep in Rosie’s room,” I said. It was by now around 10.30.

I packed my sleep gubbins – eyemask, earplugs, mobile phone, book, duvet for floor, duvet for cover, soft feather pillow. I set up camp right next to Rosie’s potty full of wee. After reading for a bit, I fell asleep. But almost immediately Nat came in. I thought he’d had enough and was coming to join me.

He told me there was a fire and so there was. Orange flames lashed out of the upstairs window of a house about four doors away from the party. Some Korean students live there. One of them came running out with an orange towel wrapped round her. Scores of men scarpered out of the party house, jumped into cars and sped off really fast. I took their number plates from behind my twitchy curtain.

By now the fire appeared to have engulfed the roof. Black smoke bellowed out and then the windows exploded. The music stopped. The fire brigade arrived.

As soon as it was clear no one was hurt, the bastards turned their loud speakers back on. I haven't a clue what happened to the poor Korean student in the towel.

Went back to Rosie’s room. At 2am the floor was literally vibrating... and not in a good way. This time I went outside and marched up to the lone police van still waiting outside the fire house. He was very handsome in his uniform. Begged him to do something but he said he couldn’t - wasn't within his remit. Asked him to pretend he was the drugs squad. He apologised and said he couldn't.

Nat tried calling the council. They said they’d write a letter as their team had all gone home. Back to Rosie’s room. She slept through the whole thing (she has to save her energy for her 5.30am wake up). Spent Sunday feeling like I'd been walloped by an iron pole.

Anyway, back to other matters - I am totally sick of thinking about my problems with Nat. Want to put my mind through a carwash.

The vasectomy suggestion did not go down well. He has said "No" loud and clear.

"There's no way I'm ever getting my balls sliced open. Imagine if I asked you to get your tits cut off."

So he feels emasculated. Ah, diddums.

I have reached the point where I'm truly stuck as to what to do next. How to change his mind. It ain't gonna happen. I think I'll just have to accept this but it still hits me once a month and makes me so sad. My love for Rosie is just too intense. I feel I need to spread it out a bit or she'll get smothered.

Am totally and utterly sick of thinking about it though. Sick of talking about this. Sick of trying new strategies which never work. Sick of it all. Mulling over lots in head. Don't want to break up but DO want to do something really drastic so he starts appreciating me.

Am also sick of the "I" word. Feel this blog needs a new steer. Am thinking of trying to see life from his point of view - if I manage to get inside his head, maybe it'll help in accepting my lot.

This is about to become his diary for a bit. Let's see how it goes.

Bach or Beethoven?

Read quite a good article about women and age and how we're all obsessed by it. Only problem was the writer kept telling us what weird beauty treatments she has to stay looking young and even had a "derm". She was 46 so I've got a bit to go before that.

I'm still determined not to buy in to all the plastic crap though. I've always been a bit obsessed by age from the moment my 38-year-old mother started going out with a man of 32. That was years ago and he's now my stepfather of 54.

When I was 20 I went out with a heroin addict who was much older. I was so besotted with him I actually wanted to look as wrecked as he did. I was annoyed then that I wasn't older. Then at 25 I went to university as a mature student, everyone there constantly gasped in shock.

"Oh my god you are so old"

And that's been the catchphrase ever since, as most of my friends happen to be younger.

I know what triggered the age thought process. It was a realisation that I only ever listen to Radio 4 these days and am sitting here with Bach in the background as I work, having decided I don't like Beethoven.

If that's not a woman mentally attuning herself to turn FOUR-O in a year I don't know what is.

Pain in the neck

It's my birthday today. Hurrah. Except no one's celebrating because things are just too damn busy. Rosie likes it though. She opened my presents and told all her teachers and friends. So now everyone knows how old I am. Great.

I am experimenting with a new tactic re. the baby thing. I have suggested to the Prince that he has a vasectomy.

"I'm resigned to the fact you do not want more kids," I said. "So let's get our sex life back properly. It's the only option don't you agree?"

It's absolutely genius. He's starting to realise what it's like, this feeling of facing a future with no more chances of kids.

His reaction was "no way, what if we want to have another bubba in six months or something?" to which I replied if we are ever going to do it, it has to be now.

I do not want to turn 40 with a sticky out tummy and a ban on alcohol. I want that one to be a celebration - a coming out if you will - not a shrinking away from the world type scenario.

Of course, I'm not pushing it. Slowly, slowly, catchy baby.

News from last few weeks: (warning - very boring indeed)

- Got loads of work in

- Have been banned from the laptop by Europe's top osteopath. He says my upper spine needs the curve put back in it. It's causing a right pain in the neck literally and metaphorically at £50 a shot.

- Have got a lovely actress and teacher renting the flat

- Have been checking out Ramsgate's amazingly massive period properties for sale at a snip

- Have got Rosie into a lovely school by the Millennium Dome (she came with me on the parents' tour and kept kissing my hand she loved it so much)

That's it.