THROUGH the trials and tribulations of fatherhood, I’ve got used to making sacrifices.

I’ve stayed up through the night to pick them up from nightclubs. I’ve bled my bank account dry to get them through university. I’ve gone cold because they’ve forgotten to bring a jumper. And I’m certain I’d have more hair if I hadn’t worried about them so much.

I just never thought I’d have to give up my supper for a hedehog...

This hedgehog has been wandering round our garden for the past few weeks and the “children” have been worried about him.

Two Sundays ago, he scuttled past the dining room window while we were having Sunday lunch and our eldest – the Big Friendly Giant – decided he wasn’t well.

He found a number for the Hedgehog Preservation Society and called a local advisor. The guidance was that the animal might well be sick if it was wandering around during the day and that he should try to catch it, put it in a box, and drive it to the nearest hedgehog sanctuary.

“Has anyone got a jumper I can borrow?” shouted the BFG.

“What for?” I asked.

“To make the hedgehog as comfortable as possible,” he replied.

Like I said, I’ve sacrificed my jumpers to the kids (and my wife) when they’ve been caught out by a drop in temperatures, but I draw the line at hedgehog hand-me-downs.

As it turned out, the hedgehog had vanished into the undergrowth by the time his box was ready so we went back to Sunday lunch and hoped he’d be OK.

Fast forward a week and I was on an all-day car journey to collect our second son Jack. After seven hours at the wheel, I was really looking forward to getting home for a glass of wine and warming up the Sunday lunch left-overs.

My wife always cooks a nice, big chicken and there’s invariably plenty left over for sandwiches or a curry later in the week.

“I’m starving,” I announced when I finally made it home.

“There’s no chicken left,” said my wife, without lifting her eyes from the Sunday paper.

“What? Who’s eaten it all?” I demanded to know.

“The hedgehog,” she said.

It transpired that the hedgehog had wandered past the dining room window again and, this time, he’d been caught in the box. Another call had been made to the hedgehog people and they’d suggested giving him some food – chicken or dog food – to test his healthiness. If he ate it up, he was probably OK. If he was off his food, he needed to be brought in.

Someone could, of course, have nipped to the shop to buy a tin of Pedigree Chum. But, no, they gave the hedgehog my chicken – and he scoffed the bloomin’ lot.

There is clearly nothing wrong with this cunning hedgehog. He’s merely worked out that if he saunters past our dining room on a Sunday lunchtime, he’ll wangle himself a cosy bed and a slap-up meal.

It’s a con.

FOR nearly a quarter of a century, my family have put up with the details of their lives being laid bare in this column.

I, therefore, hope you’ll forgive me the indulgence of publishing the picture above. It shows my wife Heather, my mum Margaret, my eldest son Christopher (the BFG), and my daughter Hannah alongside me at Buckingham Palace when I received the MBE last week.

My other two sons, Jack and Max, couldn’t be squeezed in but they are, of course, every bit as important.

It was a proud day for us all and I can never thank each of them enough for their love, support and understanding...

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