I get him out of the cot at about half past seven and all is fine as I give him the first boppie of the day. Then it's off to the daycare, which is in the Lower East Side, and so far so good, he's grand. Pick him up about three and we go to the park, where we have a fantastic time terrorizing the pigeons.

Then back to the apartment for bathtime. No problem at all. Into the jim-jams. A cuddle before bed.

Into the cot and he pulls himself up by the bars. He looks up at me with his Bambiesque eyes, his lower lip a-tremble, and utters the one word I have been dreading since breakfast: "MAMA?"

TUESDAY: Awaken after a solid, oh, four minutes sleep and stagger into the kitchen to microwave his bottle. Then it's in to de-cot him and change the nappy and do a bit of general dandling, talking about Proust, and so on. Like many New York infants he possesses a noisemachine in his room. This electrical gizmo emits low-level sounds which are intended to drown out the indigenous Manhattan symphony of traffic, fire engines, Jerry Seinfeld bemoaning his lack of sex, people being mugged, etc. You can set it to a variety of allegedly soothing sounds, such as Forest Stream, Birdsong, or ?Heartbeat'. This latter, the synthensized thud of a human heart, sounds to me like the soundtrack of a particularly terrifying story by Edgar Allen Poe. Oddly, it's the one Junior seems to prefer. I hope he won't join the Progressive Democrats.

WEDNESDAY: My reading glasses are of the kind heavily advertised by opticians as being suitable for parents of small children.

Designed by geniuses, manufactured of some material Nasa tested on the moon, they are absolutely and utterly unbendable. The Swiper in the Daiper whips them off my face, does something deft and fast with his clever little hands and tosses them triumphantly on the table. They look like an ampersand, only not quite that neat. I can see he has a great future in showbusiness.

Later we go for a walk on the banks of the river. Beautiful spring day. He asks me to carry him. My treasured baseball cap reading 'I . New York' is snatched and chucked in the foam before I can say Tony Soprano, and is last seen disappearing rapidly towards New Jersey. Junior gapes up at me, chuckling like a monkey.

THURSDAY: He refuses to go in the buggy and I make the mistake of bringing it on our walk anyway, which means he insists on pushing it.

Sauntering around Greenwich Village, I am struck, as often previously, by the local use of the humble dog as date-bait. Everywhere you go in New York you see this strange phenomenon. Possession of a dog is seen as an invitation to stop and chat. It shows you care and are capable of commitment.

Happily, the same turns out to be true of toddlers. I am approached by smiling beauties who compliment me on my progeny, his handsomeness, cuteness and general style. Had only I known this when I was single, I would have borrowed a friend's toddler and marched him up and down the cities of the world.

Babysitter arrives at teatime. Junior bursts into tears. Chucks the dinner on the floor.

Smears the rest in his hair. Reefs off his nappy.

Screeching; purple-faced. Babysitter says, "Aw, isn't he just the total cutest?" He looks up at me like the cat that got the cream.

I go out to give a reading, which is nicely attended and goes well, but all the way through I am thinking about Junior. It's extremely allconsuming, looking after an infant all day, and the lack of adult company affects you. At the end, I thank the people who came along to hear me read, narrowly avoiding telling them that they've been the most nicens-wicens wickle audience anyone ever had and Daddykins wuvvs them all very much, just like TinkyWinky wuvvs Po.

FRIDAY: Day begins excitingly when he almost falls into a goldfish pond in the park, causing a fit of hysterical weeping. (And he's pretty upset himself. ) His response is to insist on taking off his shoes and he refuses to allow me put them back on for about an hour. I do what any responsible parent would do in the circs and carry him, immediately, to an ice-cream shop.

Six dollars worth of chocolate-chip go rapidly down the bib. He looks like a poster-boy for some campaign.

Wife and five-year-old arrive back from sunkissed jaunt, looking relaxed, happy and thoroughly rested. I have enjoyed the week immensely but am only fit for a lie down. Single parents everywhere, I take off my hat to you.

Well, I would. But it's at the bottom of the river.

Joe O'Connor's novel 'Star of the Sea' is published by Vintage at ¤7.99