Big Brother is watching... and I'm an only child

Contrary to parental belief, I've never considered myself to be that much of a drama queen, so please take the following plea seriously.

CALL THE POLICE! GET ME A LAWYER! MY HUMAN RIGHTS ARE BEING VIOLATED AT EVERY TURN!

It has recently come to my attention that my bedroom – my teddy-laden haven away from the hustle and bustle of babydom – has been bugged. That's right freedom fans B-U-G-G-E-D.

And all this time I've been accusing Monkey of selling me out... (I'd like to take this opportunity to publicly apologise to you my banana-munching friend).

In my defence though, I thought he was only explanation for the fact that mummy and daddy, seem to know EVERYTHING that I get up to.

If my dummy comes out, they're there putting it back in; if I've turned over in my cot, in they come to roll me back; and god forbid I might like to break wind in the privacy of my own bedroom. You'd be hard pushed to say “trumpy-pump” in the time it takes them to arrive and check my nappy for poopydoop. They know when I'm asleep. They know when I'm awake.

And it's not just in my bedroom... whenever mummy leaves the room, someone is always charged with “keeping an eye” on me. I mean honestly, is there any need for such surveillance?

However, I should have known it wasn't my cuddly partner in nursery rhyme. He didn't even crack when I dangled him mercilessly over the abyss that is our car's backseat footwell. All he would say that it was all down to the mysterious “monitor” but would I listen?

But fuelled by paronoia and a burning desire to practice my pronunciation in public I decided to float the notion that I was being watched 24/7 with Katie Brown.

She's always my first port of call when it comes to matters of clarification (she's three-and-a-half weeks older than me as regular readers will be aware) and not afraid to lay the truth on a plastic platter, no matter how painful it may be.

She was the one who told me about the nightmare that is separation anxiety, the one who articulated the excrutiating pain of toothypegs making their first appearance and the one who convinced me that anything that wasn't breastmilk was not, in fact, the work of Satan himself. Safe to say I'd trust this girl with Monkey, and there's not many who would get that accolade I can tell you.

I have to say, she could have been a little less patronising in her response though... I thought we were supposed to be at least three or four before we could emulate the eye-roll that mum seems to have off to a tee, but she managed it like she's been doing it for days.

Apparently this kind of thing is all pretty standard and we just have to accept that we're under watch and key for the foreseeable.

And until I can crawl with any kind of direction control finding a place where the the monitor can't find me is going to be a challenge and a half.

In the meantime, the tape of me snoring like, well like a baby, should keep them fooled for a while... I crack myself up.

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