It's a Dad's Life: The Missus doesn't buy the paper on a Wednesday, which is quite an achievement for her considering she works in public relations. She says she dreads being mentioned here, that I'll embarrass her somewhat. I don't know what she's talking about.

What she's really terrified of is that I might offend somebody. That the insufferable, judgmental, rabid boor she wakes up beside might leak onto the pages here. She knows how hard I try not to become enraged at the price of the organic food she insists on buying. Or the necessity to go to three shops to buy what's freely available in one well-known British-owned supermarket.

Or the fretting because we've run out of rice milk and the younger can't be expected to drink the regular bovine draught.

Sometimes it seems like my family life constitutes a prolonged attempt not to seethe at the nonsensical nature of it all. We have of late become familiar with the ritual of packing a school lunch for the elder. Her daily nourishment is drawn from a menu that includes organic apple juice, organic wholemeal pitta bread, crumbed ham, red Leicester cheese, tuna mix, slices of peeled apple and pear, organic flapjacks and dried fruit bars to add a little frisson to her treats. All packed up in a Tupperware container with a Bratz beaker in a Barbie bag.

I shudder at the slaves we have become. My mother sent me off to school with a flask of Nescafe thickened with four dessertspoons of sugar and two rounds of marmalade sandwiches on white bread. Did Paddington Bear ever look undernourished to you?

We consume more unnecessary, non-global warming, Tibetan lambswool products than we could possibly hope to ever have a need for. Guess what, I like sliced pan and I couldn't give an organic fig how much salt, sugar or refined flour is contained therein. But apparently the makers of such bread must club baby seals because sliced, white bread is seen as worse than heroin in my house. My children eat organic spelt loaf which is just about palatable if toasted. Rush out and buy some, it's only €4 a pop and you can get up to eight slices out of each one. Your typical, organic bargain.

Our organic habit has nearly bankrupted us. Much as a drug-addict's parent will look out for tell-tale signs of relapse such as needles in the toothbrush jar, I watch closely for eco-baby and Natural Collection catalogues entering the house. If they are, I am sure to overhear a phone conversation around the same time about "gorgeous organic cotton sleepsuits" or "darling brushed-wool baby blankets".

I have examined these catalogues carefully; the clothes seem to have been designed for a mid-1970s Blue Peter special and it would be cheaper to stitch fresh €50 bills together.

Of course, our babies need the best. They must feast on the finest cuts of meat (organic tofu in reality) because only then will they be able to shine to their potential in the wonderful, egalitarian new world our spelt-bread-eating exploits are helping to shape. What cracks me up is hearing about the elder's new-best-friend in class who brings her in extra Cheese Strings. The new-best-friend's Mum had heard what our cosseted child was getting for lunch, took pity on her and decided to act. It must have seemed the only decent thing to do, after all, man cannot live on organic sprouted loaf alone.