Since Nathaniel was born I’ve asked three people for advice. I like that system: find someone you trust, ask a question, receive an answer, and carry on with your day. The other, and seemingly predominant system, I don’t like as much: see man with child, offer advice and criticism, argue advice, argue some more. But hey, I’ve learned much from the latter lot, so I’ve decided to share all of this with fathers everywhere.

The diaper is your friend. You want to have one on your child at all times.  Think you can get away with a four-second trip from point A to point B without one? Think again. The diaper is also your enemy. You can buy the most expensive brand on the market, but it will still slip, burst, leak...

I still remember when Superwife burst into the room crying (of joy) and holding a pregnancy test. I was on the phone with an insurance agent, and I’m not entirely sure what changes I made to our package. It feels like moments ago, surely no earlier than last night, and yet I have a son...

When I was a child, my mother made me take piano lessons. I perceived that to be the gravest injustice ever perpetrated by a parent.

‘You’re clipping my creative wings! I’m wilting! Wilting I say!’ So said one of my writers, a recovering Goth of a Londoner in full hijab and facial piercings. I was burying her light, silencing her truth, disturbing her force and making a mess of whatever random angst these creative types thrive on. And all I did was edit her work.

Last weekend I killed a dragon – a couple in fact. It took me about 20 hours to hunt the first one down, and while he put up one heck of a fight, my superior swordmanship did finally prevail. And after the first one, it was cake.

If I were to wake up tomorrow morning and pursue a career in, say, the coffee industry, I’d look back on my life as a journalist with great satisfaction. And this is because I met Kirk Hammett.

Following what may be the best concert Abu Dhabi has seen, starstruck Karl Baz catches up with legendary Metallica lead guitarist Kirk Hammett for tea and a chat.

We are not happy people – we journalists I mean. The job looks like a lot of fun on the outside, but behind the scenes, we’re an angry, caffeine-addicted bunch who live in an alternate reality, and can hardly ever tell what day it is.

There’s a feeling I’ve had in the pit of my stomach that I couldn’t quite place. It was wearing me down, draining my energy, making it difficult to wake up in the morning and wreaking havoc on my otherwise super-sunny disposition.

When tigers roamed free, we kept our distance. We lived in mud huts, lit fires and sharpened sticks, and prayed that the tigers would just leave our miserable little villages alone.

The child at the fence would have ripped out a fence-pole and smacked me upside the head. And while he might not be able do that without some nifty space-time manipulation, my mum has no problem bending the laws of physics, along with my neck.

There are lines you don’t cross with a man, and these are set in stone. Don’t ogle his wife, watch your manners around his mum, and don’t ever, ever (ever) mess with his food.

It reminded me of university, and how older professors wrote the class name in huge block capitals on the blackboard in the beginning of the semester, then read it out loudly, as they shook their heads in quiet torment.

So, three fat women walk into a government office; did that sound like the front end of a bad joke? Let me try again. One tired, miserable writer walks into a government office after two weeks of incompetent officials and hot, hot Beirut sun.