Within a week, the prospective mother-in-law had relegated me to the status of lodger upstairs as she dominated both the baby and her sleep-deprived daughter with a zeal bordering on the lunatic. With little else to do, I headed to Oxford Street to lose myself in the post-Christmas sales crowd, where I promptly experienced something entirely new and unexpected: a panic attack. Unable to breathe, I felt on the brink of tears and a very genuine terror, convinced that I had made the most dreadful mistake. For the next few days, I feared that, like my own father, I would shirk my responsibilities and flee. But my girlfriend — a good woman, ultimately — endeavoured to make it clear that she needed me, and that this was just the beginning of something, not an end. Her argument was a convincing one. I stayed.