Sweet mercy, Eva’s six tomorrow. Years that is, not months. I know, crazy isn’t it?
I must therefore dedicate the rest of this evening to night-before father stuff, like present wrapping. Kirsty has sneaked away for the week, possibly for the sole purpose of avoiding this most dreaded of tasks, so I’m on my own. I have scissors. I have sellotape. I have pink paper with hearts all over it.
I have only limited patience for this sort of thing, and an endless propensity for stabbing myself when I’m in a hurry.
There will be blood…
All worth it for my girl. Up to, but not including, the loss of fingers.
Happy birthday sweetheart.