Dan Morris: The baby, the bulldog and me

In this busy, complex and often cut-throat world, knowing how to say 'no' is an important skill.

It can be hard to do. Most people are inherently nice, helpful individuals whose instinct is to give others a hand, even at their own expense. Yet in all spheres of modern life, pressure can be as such that if you say 'yes' to everything you will surely drown.

I've become better at this in recent months, yet there is still one precious creature on the planet who, with only a blink of her beautiful blues, always leaves me powerless.

And so begins the tale of how Daniel Graham Morris the Second ended up outside the pub on a shining Sunday afternoon, not with a rewarding jar of frosty lager, but with a 5ft x 3ft stuffed bulldog.

Little Miss Morris is now approaching her second birthday (where the time has gone, I have no idea), yet is already very much a big ol' bag of pre-teen sass.

As I write, she has chosen her outfit for the day - a combination of pink baseball cap, purple hoodie and gleaming silver Crocs (other absurd shoes are available) that has left her looking like the love child of Elton John, Eminem and Dame Edna Everage.

However, alongside her beautiful cheekiness and 'street' sense of fashion, she remains as cute as a button - constantly deploying an irresistible smile I am shamed/delighted to have passed on to her as a means to enact her will.

Last weekend, said grin was in full bloom, and I should have known from the off that this would mean trouble.

We started the day as we often do with an early morning stomp around the parish. I'm lucky enough to live in a very rural area which is pretty much catnip to a toddler - only a stone's throw from our abode are fields full of sheep, horses, cows and various ponds where ducks have made their home.

For my darling daughter, it is heaven on Earth, and I have lost track of the many wonderful hours we have spent simply enjoying the treasures of nature that exist on our doorstep.

Naturally however, said morning treks can be both hungry and thirsty work, so the second element of our ritual involves a well-earned visit to the local cafe to indulge in some species of breakfast bounty.

Following the filling of our bellies with oatcakes, sausages, scrambled eggs and the like comes the third part of our morning routine - a pilgrimage across the road to the local charity shop.

Now, people have mixed opinions on these - some heralding them as the curse of the high street, and the bane of businesses that claim they are unable to compete. However, as any young(ish) parent will tell you, charity shops are an incredible mine of cheap playthings that are perfect for a fickle little 'un who will likely lose interest after only a fortnight.

As such, myself and the princess like to pop in - the rule being that on each visit she is allowed to choose one (and only one) new toy.

This often works out quite well financially, with Poppet not normally being moved by the price tag, and happily falling in love with a £1.50 three-inch dinosaur figure, or something of a similar ilk.

Yet on this particular Sunday, size certainly seemed to matter.

Approaching the toy section in a manner akin to Indiana Jones as he pondered the correct Holy Grail, her gaze fell upon the prize of the whole emporium, and then there was nothing else in the world.

"Wowwww!" Exclaimed my little munchkin as the leviathan of a plush pooch came into view. "Daddy..." she then sweetly said, amping up the charm. People around me were giggling, knowing what the outcome of this jolly dance was surely to be. In true Puss-in-Boots-à la-Shrek style, Sproglet gazed up at me with the biggest cow eyes she could conjure, and then I was, of course, completely ensnared.

With a quick check of the price tag, and another glance back at the bulging sapphires my daughter has for eyeballs, I grabbed the gargantuan hound by the scruff of the neck, and to actual cheers from several other patrons, approached the check-out.

"Stupid question, but do you have a carrier bag for this?" I knew. Of course I knew.

With the fruit of my loins giggling happily in her pushchair, and the titanic stuffed mutt wedged between me and said travel system for all to see, we made our way back onto the high street. Gazes and grins from the cafe we had just frequented came thick and fast, yet this was only the beginning. As of course it would, our route home took us past at least three speakeasies I often frequent. And now perhaps never will be able to again.

The laughs were many and multiple, with happy doorway drinkers making a special effort to fetch extra spectators from inside each pub, as I paraded the princess and the pooch through the town I call home.

With anything I had resembling street cred resoundingly in tatters, I could only giggle to myself. It's an old saying, but 'the things we do for love', eh?

It can be important in life to be able to say 'no', but it's much more important to shelve your own pride for the star of your show.

I say this now... remind me of that line in 16 years when she's after a Porsche...