4pm

I looked down at little Dennis Junior who was sleeping peacefully and quietly chunnering about how hard it was to accurately catalogue the output of all the channels aimed at children because (a) there were so many of them, (b) their programmes were so repetitive that it was difficult to distinguish between them, (c) he was regularly interrupted owing to his presently poor bowel control and (d) he couldn’t write yet. Could it really be a whole year since I stood in that hospital and was handed a rather mucky object and told I had become a parent?

"Oooh – is that a baby?" asked a passing woman.

"Yes" I replied.

"Oooh – I love babies. Can I look at the beautiful little thing?" she cooed.

"Yes" I repeated.

"Aren’t you the most lovely little creature?" she simpered as I handed little Dennis Junior over to her care.

"Yes you are – yes you are" she prattled as she got a firm grip. "Yes you… urgh. Um… oh… right… here you are" and she all but tossed him back to me.

"Is there a problem, madam?" I asked.

"I… need… a… drink…" she stammered.

I didn’t take offence when she insulted my child. Nor did I take offence when she downed four large whiskeys in an effort to, and I’m quoting, ‘get over the shock’. But I did consider it the height of bad manners when she returned half an hour later with a priest and enough salt to draw what she called a ‘protection circle’ around my son and I. People can be so rude, especially when they are maggot-ridden peasants like her.

"What’s that you’re holding?" asked Ian Devine upon his return from the facilities (he’d decided not to visit Mr Wetfinger as the rolling news channel suggested a heavy police presence in the area and he wasn’t entirely convinced that proof of innocence would be enough to keep him out of gaol). "Is it a pie? Have you snuck out to buy me an extra big pie in luxury cotton-wool mix wrapping? It is isn’t it? It’s a luxury pie for your very closest colleague."

"It is my son."

"Oh Dennis Brent – you are too kind. But when did you take holy orders?"

"I mean that the object I’m holding is my son – little Dennis Junior."

"Oh" he said, deflating in all but size.

"Nurse Simian dropped him off on the way to a tarot card reading and I’ve got to look after him."

"It looks rather easy" he said. "All it does is sleep and chunner. Did I just hear the word ‘Nickelodeon’?"

"You did."

"He’s very advanced for his age."

"He is."

"Is that Uncle Ian Devine?" came a voice from the bundle of swaddling clothes.

"Yes, Dennis Brent Junior, it is I - Uncle Ian Devine."

"I was extremely disappointed to read that you had been taken in by an obviously false "Peter Davison" hoax. And to drag my father’s name in to it was reprehensible."

"You read fascinating telehistorical forums?" gasped Ian Devine.

"Only when I have nothing better to do. I find most of them so terribly childish and then when I try to explain this to mother she laughs and says something about it being ‘terribly ironic’. I think she drinks heavily. It is literally the only explanation."

"Anyway, Dennis Brent agreed with me that the Peter Davison fact – not rumour, fact – was worth revealing to the proles. Although we did it in a subtle manner and I very much doubt that anyone beyond this small table picked up on the hints and clues."

"I stand by my assertion that it is a falsehood" said little Dennis Junior. "Though I admire the way you pull the strings of these proles and make them dance to your satirical drum."

"So you don’t think that Mr Davison will return to the series?" asked Ian Devine.

"I do not – the word in my crèche is that Davies will not desiderate any former Doctors Who appearing. He feels it would alienate and confuse the mentally subnormal who constitute his so called ‘target’ audience. Though you might wish to publish a rumour that Sylvester McCoy will be playing the younger brother of the Moxx of Balhoon in season twenty nine. It isn’t true but it made the other inmates at Mrs Tremble’s day-care facility roar. They appreciated the mocking of McCoy’s diminutive stature despite him being taller than any of us there."

"Are there any other rumours circulating around your circles?"

"Yes" said little Dennis Junior. "I have heard that it is already signed that… oh… I have soiled myself. Clean me."

"I hardly think…" I began, looking round for something with which to distract him. "Look, Dennis Junior, is that some rare Teletubbies production material?"

"Where?" he snapped.

"Over there" and I pointed in a direction which he could not possibly look.

"WAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH" he cried when he was unable to verify the existence of the rare production material.

"I’ll go and look" said Ian Devine.

"No no" I called but he ignored me. If he proved the material not to exist then the filled nappy would be back on the agenda. "Is that a pie van outside?" I shouted.

"Mmmmmm" he ejaculated and he wobbled out to find it.

"I want rare Teletubbies production material" cried little Dennis Junior. I popped a dummy into his mouth and smiled at my own cleverness. Little Dennis Junior spat the dummy into my face and gave me a withering look.

"I don’t believe there is any rare Teletubbies production material in this appalling public house. I don’t believe you have any rare Teletubbies production material anywhere about your archive. I don’t believe you know anything at all about the production of that series."

"I can give you t/x dates in any one of a hundred and twenty one international markets" I said but he ignored me.

"Furthermore, I don’t believe you know anything about what can happen when a small child soils himself."

"I’m not with you."

"My gentleman’s baby napkin is currently full of bodily functions."

"Right."

"And yet I feel myself able to produce further more of the same."

"With you."

"Have you ever been near a diaper when it reaches the 120% capacity mark?"

"I can’t say I have."

"It is rather like a cross between a volcanic eruption and Attack of the Cybermen."

"Good lord."

"So, are you going to change my nappy, father?"

"Yes" I sighed. I took my nose peg from my satchel and went to scrub up.