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  • I had just fed my daughter her evening bottle of milk. She is only three months old and barely wakes to polish off six fluid ounces of formula. Part of me wishes she would stay awake longer, as a daily commute means this is my only moment with her each day. I know, I know, enough with the violins.

    There is a small moment, when I change her, that her eyes flicker open. And through her infant dreams of floating teddies and nursery rhymes she dimly recognises her Daddy. I smile at her, and she smiles back. It is all at once the most magical moment of the day, but I know I must finish her feed and tuck her up under the sheets again. For five or ten minutes she looks up from the sheets at me. Her bright blue eyes shine in the dimmed hallway light that filters through the door. Her hands open and fold, she mews and her tiny head seeks the warm groove in the mattress where it nestled before I rudely awake her with milk.

    I push the door shut, but don't let it close in the catch. The room dims to almost complete darkness and watching her sleepy head drift off I have a moment in the darkness that reminds me of the many cinema trips I've taken from early childhood. The dimming light reminds me of the moment when the trailers and ads for hot dogs have finished. The audience hush in a communion of anticipation. The satin curtains open several metres wider and we all escape into the imagined world of the film. This dream you are about to enter has been passed by the British Dream Board of Classification, as suitable for all. Perhaps that cinema moment replays a sense of safety and warmth we first felt as our parents dimmed the lights in our nurseries. We relive it, as babies, each time the feature film is about to play.

    As her bobbing fluffy head stills I like to think that many years from now, in some far flung cinema she will sense the dimming of the lights, and in some echoing chamber of memory replay the cocooning sense of warmth and safety provided by her old Dad.
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