Ah well, Boris. Here comes another: another ankle biter, another drainer of resources, another patience tester, another creature whose complaints and protestations and pleas for your attention can’t be flicked away like some pesky leader of the opposition. How wonderful to hear your announcement of a healthy baby girl, born on your watch at a London hospital this morning.

I’d say congratulations but that might sound like I’d want to pat your shoulder, nib you in the ribs, hug you and say what an utterly brilliant and joyful thing this was. But you’re 57; if you’re not tired I want what you’re on, and the last thing you need is another needy, whingeing individual in your neck of the woods. Yes, it’s wonderful, and so close to Christmas you could be mistaken in the rush of everything that you, as World King, have sort of spawned a Baby Jesus for our time, but let’s face it, the next few weeks and months are going to be testing.

It’s hard enough for a young dad. But for us older dads (at 52, five years your junior) and with two newish sprogs in the ether – three-year-old Walter and one-year-old Barney – I know it can be trying, to say the least. But you’re the PM, you have a few things on your plate and a media, social media and political establishment that seems to take the view that it would be corrupt for you to have any help. So, in spite of your achievements, that means no full-time cook, no nanny (one for each child), no housekeeper and not even a butler. You’re expected to run the country as well as remembering to sterilise the bottles and fit a car seat.

A normal dad’s day starts at 7pm when the kids are put to bed and the door is shut, regardless of the protestations and demands for one more story, more milk, biscuits, bananas, reassurances that Father Christmas will be on his way soon with a remote-controlled helicopter. Then it’s down to the fridge, charging past anyone or any dog that might be in the way and knocking them flying, straight to the bottle of wine that’s waiting patiently. And one with a screw cap. There isn’t time for corkscrew and cork rigmarole, we need the emergency access of a stelvin closure.

Then you can sip, breathe in and wonder that the miracle of life might be miraculous, but why must it be so taxing?

Thank God for sleep. For night-time sleep and afternoon sleep and Gina Ford for her timetables. Ignore the protestations of the anti-Gina tribes, there’s only one way forward with babies and that’s routine, routine, more routine (oh yes, and staff).

And does the muscle memory kick in for you too? I mean this is baby number seven? Eight? Your Daddy role must be like a natural reflex by now. Except it gets harder as you get older. Your patience is tested, then breaks. And you must be careful to stay enthused for your young wife. Yes, you must coo, the little thing could well have just smiled, what a genius, so soon, so young. But you also know that there are smiles and there are smiles, the latter the sort that are emitted when a big nappy is in the offing. 

But go with the flow, keep coo-ing, yes, the little genius lifted his head: so bold, so strong. The little nipper just pointed: so wise, so alert – just grew a tooth: the clever little thing.