45. Keep calm and carry on [Dough, Northern Quarter, Manchester]

I like to talk about Milo. I can’t help it; I have become one of those dreadfully dull parents, the ones who, in a former life, would make me want to sandpaper my eyeballs just to relieve the boredom.

Here’s Alyson and I in her restaurant. It’s just before Christmas. Outside, the rain pelts down. The pavement reflects, black and glossy, as car headlights dip and shine.

‘It’s Black Friday,’ she says. I look puzzled, so she elaborates: ‘The last Friday before Christmas – it’s always mental in town. It took me an hour just to park the car, with D in the back screaming his head off. I wouldn’t mind, but I’m going to have to take him home again in 15 minutes.’

Alyson and I trade tales of parental torture, me going on (and on) about the 12 months of night wakings we endured. I have told everyone I know about this, several times. I don’t care if they’ve heard it before. I want them to experience my pain.

Here’s Imogen and I, on the phone, me lying on my bed, talking in a low voice so I don’t wake Milo. I am surrounded by piles of washing and I pick up pants and tops as I talk, idly wondering what’s clean and what’s not.

‘He was banging on an old tin, screaming at the top of his voice and then jumping on the sofa,’ I say. ‘There was this woman was looking at me like children should be seen and definitely not heard.’

‘You don’t think he’s got, you know, a problem?’ I continue.

Imogen, herself the mother of a boisterous 4 year-old, patiently explains that all little boys are loud, noisy and a little bit violent. It’s normal, she says.

‘Really?’

Part of me is disappointed. Imogen changes tack, and we explore the possibility of setting up a café on Thomas Street, next to the Mr. Scruff-owned Cup. We’re going to call it Owt On Toast, and it’ll serve very British food, with a twist. The twist being that everything will be served on toast.

Here’s me on the phone again, this time to Claire. I am in my office, surrounded by piles of paper, and I flick through them as I talk, idly wondering what I can bin or not.

‘But he doesn’t bloody sleep,’ I say. ‘He was fine for a bit and now he’s gone back and I’m just so fed up.’

Claire tells me, with her usual Geordie candour, to have a word with myself. And then to see what happens if I leave Milo for five minutes. I take her advice. When Milo starts mumbling and grumbling that night, I wait. Three minutes in and he’s back asleep.

These are the things that occupy my mind. Is Milo normal? Is he better than normal – is he special? Am I walking the tightrope between indulgence and discipline, or have I fallen off: am I plummeting towards the ground, the words ‘bad parent’ looming closer and closer, about to smack me full in the face?

‘Have a glass of wine and chill out,’ says Alyson, back in her restaurant, after I complete my rant about sleep deprivation.

She pushes a glass towards me. She’s right, of course.

Ratings. Babychanging facilities: Yes. Cafe: It’s a restaurant! With a good kids’ menu. Buggy-friendly? Yes. Cost: Good value, drop-in pizzeria. Worth it? Yes, a child-friendly haven in the midst of the Northern Quarter. Friendly staff, though I would say that…