Transferable skills

Dear Dave,

Useless Dad didn't waste time. "Do you have a suit?" he asked as soon as I opened the door.

"Er... Yes." I'd only just got the kids off to school and I was looking forward to settling down with a cup of coffee to check my email before getting on with chores. Having Steve turn up in a panic certainly hadn't been part of my plan for the morning.

"A smart suit?"

"It's not full of holes, if that's what you mean, and it's so old it's probably back in fashion."

"That will have to do," he said with a touch of desperation. "Do you want a job for the day? I can't find anyone else. You're not still tied up fixing computers at that private school are you?"

"No. The headmaster got a management consultancy firm like yours in over the summer to cut costs. They told him I'd got enough machines working already and I wasn't needed any more."

Steve nodded in quiet appreciation. "Sound business practice, of course." Then he remembered to be sympathetic. "But... er, unfortunate for you, I imagine."

"Not really. I could do with the break. Besides, with no regular maintenance and constant abuse by hundreds of teenage boys, their whole network will be coughing up diodes by February. They'll have to hire me back, on twice as many hours." I shrugged. "I suspect I won't be available unless they up my pay."

"Ah, I see..."

I doubted he did but I decided not to press the matter. "So what's this job then?"

"My colleague, Geoff, was called away to an unscheduled meeting with an important client and an early tee time. Unfortunately, we're due to be visiting a different client in half an hour. They're expecting two of us. I need someone to stand in."

"You want me to be a management consultant?"

"Yes."

I raised an eyebrow. "And the only qualification I need is a smart suit?"

"I'll do the smiling and talking. You take notes and look serious."

"I guess I can do that," I muttered, rubbing my forehead. I had a nasty feeling I was about to agree to something I was going to regret. "I presume you're going to pay me."

Steve blinked, as if this was a possibility he hadn't considered. "Well, I suppose we could..."

I sighed. "I'll go get changed."

* * *

The biggest part of the job seemed to be carrying things. I had a laptop, a briefcase, an armful of glossy brochures, a clipboard and, against my better judgement, Steve's overcoat. I struggled out of the lift on the top floor of the office building and stumbled after Steve as he strode off to shake hands with anyone he could find who looked important.

We were working for RSFI, a relatively small financial institution, in the centre of town. They're not that large but they've been around forever and their offices are an old-fashioned mess of wood-panelled corridors and thick carpet. The whole place was claustrophobic and overly warm. I felt uncomfortable in any number of different ways.

We were shown into a plush conference room complete with chandeliers and a polished mahogany table laid out with tea, coffee and posh chocolate biscuits. There were even doilies and silver teaspoons.

Steve had got ahead of me as I lumbered along trying not to drop anything and he was already chatting away to three middle-aged men in extremely smart suits. They looked very important indeed. Before I could put the stuff down, he signalled me over without pausing in his introductory spiel.

"...and then we'll take a look at the numbers and break it down into bottom-line savings. I'll be giving you an overview of some possibilities for increased productivity and suggesting areas for further investigation."

The men murmured in approval and then one of them said, "Everything's set up for the training and analysis session downstairs."

"Good," said Steve, nodding and smiling, despite clearly being confused by this remark. "Very good."

"It's due to start at ten," said the man, turning to me. "With the speed the lift has been going recently, I imagine you'll want to head down there straight away. Wouldn't want to be late. Time is money, after all." The man chortled as if this statement was somehow amusing and the two other men chortled along with him. He held out his hand. I tried my best to shake it but ended up giving him a brochure instead.

While I joined in the polite laughter, Steve pulled his appointment book from his jacket pocket and hurriedly scanned it. He jabbed a finger at a scribbled entry and his toadying grin became momentarily less fulsome. He went slightly grey. "Ah..." he murmured.

"Ah?" I queried.

"I... Er... Why didn't you mention that RSFI had booked some training this morning, Ed?"

There were so many truthful (yet inappropriate) answers to that question that I found myself momentarily at a loss for words. "Well..." I began.

"Let me take some of that stuff," said Steve hurriedly, grabbing his coat and the rest of the brochures, "so you can get down there and really BUILD A TEAM, then get them to BRAIN-STORM about improving EFFICIENCY." Just in case I hadn't quite picked up on the words he'd said twice as loud as the others, he beamed at me theatrically and attempted a wink.

I paused to consider my options and actually saw the sweat break out on his brow.

"How about I stay here and discuss organisation and preparedness with senior management over coffee while you lead the workshop?" I handed him the laptop.

It was Steve's turn to pause but then he chuckled and slapped me on the back. "Good one," he said. "You almost had me there." He chuckled some more and returned his attention to the three men, motioning at me in mock exasperation. They joined in the chuckling.

While I was still processing all the creepy merriment, Steve gave me back the laptop. "You'll be needing this. It's got the presentation on, after all." He took the briefcase, opened it and pulled out a document folder. "Don't forget the workshop notes."

* * *

The meeting room was unpleasant. Although there were windows, they were below street level, looking out onto three feet of patio and then a stone wall. Grey light and traffic noise filtered down from above, mixed with the steady patter of rain. Tables and chairs were scattered about in something approximating rows that faced a wall with a long stretch of whiteboard. I found a switch and sent ceiling panels flickering loudly into life, harshly illuminating the stark decor and threadbare carpet tiles.

About twenty people were sitting waiting for me. Over half were lounging around looking bored in a slightly unkempt fashion while joking with each other and idly attempting to get reception on their iPhones. The rest were desperately catching up on paperwork. The two groups were neatly (and somewhat pointedly) divided on opposite sides of the room. The first consisted entirely of men, the other was mostly women.

I introduced myself and then made a show of hooking up the laptop to the projector as I tried to work out what on Earth I was going to do for the rest of the morning. Needless to say, I wasn't hugely thrilled with the situation Steve had landed me in. Truth be told, however, I was more annoyed with myself than with him. I should have seen it coming.

Taking a deep breath, I attempted to calm my nerves. I didn't have a great deal to lose. I was never going to see these people again and it wasn't as if I could get sacked. Worst case scenario, I had a couple of hours of embarrassment ahead of me.

I booted up PowerPoint.

How bad could it be?

* * *

Very bad.

The slides were unintelligible. A few were written in words I didn't understand, the rest were incomplete notes. I skimmed through them as best I could, trying to sound confident as I spouted gobbledigook. It didn't work. The eyes of my audience rapidly glazed over. A few surreptitiously returned to their forms and iPhones.

At last something came up which looked familiar. The letters:

S
M
A
R
T

were written down the side of a page. Relief welled up inside me. I knew this! It was an acronym to help recall the essential criteria for setting objectives. All objectives should be... er... Something, Momething, Achievable and, er... Oh, drat...

I decided to throw it open to the floor. "Does anyone know the most important attributes of successful objectives?"

"They should be achievable," said a bald guy with a bushy beard, looking up from his phone.

"And they shouldn't change the moment you've achieved them," chipped in one of his colleagues, who was much younger and wearing a hideous green tie with a purple shirt.

The first guy snorted. "That counts as not being achievable."

"No, it doesn't."

"If you can't tick it off as an achieved objective even if you've achieved it, then surely it's unachievable by definition."

Green-tie-man became rather animated. "The objective has still been achieved even if the list of objectives has changed. You're confusing your local and global objectives."

"Well," said beardy bloke, rolling his eyes, "if you hadn't defined them with the same name..."

"I didn't do any such thing. I..."

I coughed loudly until they stopped arguing. "I take it you guys work in IT?"

They and their friends nodded. The younger one looked a bit sheepish.

"Great," I said. "How about you Google 'SMART objectives' on your phones?"

There was much shaking of beards. "Can't get a signal."

"OK. Objectives..." I was forced to improvise. "They shouldn't be STUPID. Moving on..."

* * *

The presentation was supposed to take an hour but I ran out of things to say in ten minutes. I attempted to buy some time to look over the workshop material by suggesting everyone go and get themselves a coffee.

Nobody moved.

"If you're paying for it," said green-tie-man, clearly emboldened by his previous contribution.

"What?"

He clarified. "We have to pay for it and it's awful."

"That's scandalous. I..." My voice trailed off as I realised that there was nothing in the workshop folder but a used envelope. I flipped it over in panic. On the back were scrawled three questions:

• What works?


• What doesn't work?


• How could things be done better?

I turned the envelope over again and then checked inside.

It was empty. I had three questions to last me until lunch-time and there was no coffee.

"Right," I said, doing my best to look professional and cheery. "You'll need to split up into small groups. Time for a discussion."

* * *

"This is getting a little heated. Perhaps it's time to step back a minute and..."

No one listened to me. Green-tie-man was toe-to-toe with one of the women from the other group (who I'd learnt were all involved with administration and human resources). "I put in my expenses claim six weeks ago," he snarled as his comrades whistled and jeered in support. "I still don't have the money!"

The admin lady was older, taller, better dressed and more fragrant. She looked over her glasses at him. "It's not my fault that unusual items have to be signed off by two heads of department."

"A light bulb is not an unusual item."

"It is when you buy it yourself," snapped the woman, cheered on by her colleagues. "Instead of requesting one from maintenance."

"My office doesn't have windows - I need a daylight bulb. I had one before."

She threw her arms up in the air. "I know that but I don't have authority to authorise repeat procurements." They were almost shouting at each other.

"You should have chased it up."

"It's not my job to badger your boss." She started pointing her finger around for emphasis.

He retaliated with another accusing digit. "It is your job to get expenses paid promptly."

The confrontation was heading towards a scuffle even before one of the other admin staff piped up with, "If your team ever got round to installing the new accounts software, it would do the chasing up automatically."

Beardy bloke leapt to his feet. "So that's what this is about!"

Suddenly it was a free-for-all. Everyone was pointing and shouting.

"We've installed it twice already."

"You didn't get it right."

"We did exactly what you said you wanted."

"We..."

"ENOUGH!" I glared at them in a manner that comes naturally after spending several months working in a school full of teenage boys who don't respect electronic equipment. "Sit down and be quiet."

I waited until they were all seated again and then spoke firmly but quietly. "We clearly have a real problem here and something has to be done." I paused to let this sink in, giving them all a chance to reflect on their behaviour. A few averted their gaze in shame as I looked them in the eye.

Then I pulled a face and wretched, pointing to the cup in my hand. "I went to the vending machine. This coffee is atrocious. Seriously, people, we have to do something about this. I want solutions and I want them now. OK... Go..."

* * *

As a team building exercise, launching a daring raid on the executive canteen turned out be pretty effective. The admin staff used the system to distract, obfuscate and requisition. The techies hacked into the security cameras and did most of the actual creeping around. Within half an hour, we had some cafetieres, a couple of teapots, a supply of Earl Grey, assorted china crockery and a selection of chocolate biscuits. Thanks to wild over-enthusiasm, we also had a catering-sized box of condiment sachets, a laser printer, two armchairs, a roast chicken and three potted shrubs. More than that, sensing free food, a dozen extra people from Customer Relations had shown up to join us.

Everyone was mingling nicely.

"Are you sure we're going to get away with this?" asked green-tie-man with his mouth full. "What happens if management finds out?"

"It's OK," I said. "I'll let them know about it when I report back and I'll tell them I made you do it as part of the course. It's my problem, not yours."

The admin lady he'd been fighting with earlier sipped her tea and smiled. "Do you do this all the time?"

"Er..." I decided to come clean. "I'm just filling in for today."

"Oh..." The jovial mood in the room evaporated. Everyone looked worried. They'd all assumed my confidence came from getting away with similar things before and they hadn't yet grasped the bullet-proof nature of my position.

"Look at this as an opportunity," I reassured them. "If you have something you want the executives to hear, I don't mind saying it to them. Doesn't bother me if they don't like it. I'm gone by this afternoon anyway."

This calmed them all a little but then green-tie-man blew it. "What do you normally do?" he asked.

"I'm actually a housedad."

Admin lady's brow furrowed. "So you don't know anything about cooperation and productivity?"

"I wouldn't say that. What are the problems you have to deal with most often?"

"My manager doesn't listen. He ignores me and then does the opposite of what I say."

I nodded. "Does he talk gibberish and think he knows everything?"

"Yes."

"Funnily enough," I said, offering her another biscuit, "I might just have a few tips to help you get by..."

* * *

"How did it go?" asked Steve when I returned to the conference room. His startled look gave the impression he'd forgotten about me. He'd been deep in conversation with the same three men from earlier.

"Very well."

"Excellent would you like a cup of coffee and a..." He turned in his seat and reached for the plate of biscuits but it wasn't there. "Oh. That's strange."

"I'm fine. Here's my report." I slid my clipboard across the table to the man in the smartest suit.

The man chuckled. "Have you found us plenty of cost-cutting measures."

"I certainly have. I can save you thousands of pounds a year."

"Good. Good."

"Yes, all you need to do is replace the vending machines with better quality ones, make them free and hire two more people to work in Human Resources."

Steve choked on his drink. He flapped a bit in agitation but he was too busy dealing with the hot coffee coming out his nose to interrupt me.

"In return for the refreshments, the IT staff have agreed to spend less time dejectedly surfing the internet and more time making everyone else's lives easier. With extra people, admin staff will have the chance to find the most cost-effective solutions to problems. They'll also get to queries faster, reducing lost productivity throughout the company resulting from follow-up queries and general grumpiness. In addition, both teams are going to try harder to explain what they mean to each other, in an effort to minimise effort wasted due to misunderstandings."

The three men looked at each. They weren't chuckling anymore.

"Oh, and I need you to sign off on this." I slid another sheet of paper over. "It's a retrospective request form for a chicken..."

* * *

"You're speaking to me again then?" I said before covering the mouth-piece to shout upstairs. "Hey, children! I'm on the phone. Less thumping!" The thundering of rampaging elephants coming from Fraser's bedroom lessened to a minor degree.

Steve cut to the chase. "How's your golf?"

"Couldn't hit the broadside of a barn I was standing in. Why?"

"After consulting the workforce, the board at RSFI have decided to go with your recommendations," he said, pleased but baffled. "The Head of Personnel was wondering about talking through implementation with you over eighteen holes."

I contemplated this and wandered back into the kitchen to stir the kids' pasta. "Are you going to pay me?"

"To play golf?"

"To politely state the obvious while losing badly in the cold."

There was the distinct sound of reluctant swallowing at the other end of the line. "I suppose we could..."

"Great," I said. "Count me in." Then I covered the mouth-piece again and yelled, "Tea-time!"

Steve just managed to arrange the details and hang up before I was surrounded by my lovely herd of rampaging elephants. I served them their tea and listened to them all talk at once. Then Fraser switched on the telly and they ate their food quietly while watching Newsround. Our kitchen seemed even warmer and cosier than ever, and I gave each of them a hug.

They all complained but I didn't care.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

These biscuits taste kind of strange...

Dear Dave,

Useless Dad was through the door before I had a chance to stop him. "Just passing. Thought we'd call in and see how you were doing."

This was a lie. I knew full well he'd come to eat my biscuits and probably tap me for some free childcare. Unfortunately, I had a slice of toast sticking out of my mouth, the door handle in one hand and a small plastic fishing rod in the other. I was powerless. Holding his two-year-old like a battering ram, Steve shoved past me and came into the house. I just stood there in my pyjamas and stared at him.

"Is the kettle on?" he asked. "I got in eighteen holes this morning but it was perishing out there. Didn't have time for a coffee when I went home to collect... erm..." He peered down to check which of his children he was holding. "...Josquin."

I closed the door and began to chew rapidly - Josquin was already on the ground and beginning to climb up the stairs. Shaking my head, I made frantic grunting noises, gurgled crumbs and waved the brightly-coloured fishing rod at him.

Useless Dad took off his coat. "It's fine," he said, noticing my concern. "He's much more used to steps now. He doesn't fall on his head half as often."

I shook my own head and the rod even harder. "NNNnnnn. Nnn. Nn-nn!" I said urgently through a mouth full of toast.

"Is that toy stuck to your hand?" Steve asked.

"Nnn?" I replied, taken by surprise. He was right, though. I'd been fixing the handle, carefully holding the pieces together while the super-glue dried. In my distress, I'd made a disastrous alteration to my grip.

Steve reached over. "Would you like some help?"

"Nnnn?!" I was too slow again. He grabbed hold of me. "Nn-nn! Nn, nn, nn, nn..."

Unfortunately, he wasn't going to take 'nn' for an answer.

"NN!" I squealed as he removed the toy (and several layers of skin) from my hand.

"Nothing to be ashamed of," he said. "I'm always doing it myself."

Using extreme strength of will, I ignored him and concentrated on grabbing Josquin and herding him into the kitchen.

Steve followed us through. "I expect he was on his way to the lounge to find some toys."

I nodded and swallowed. "It's just..." I stopped for a second to catch my breath. "It's just that the lounge is kind of full of goblins at the moment."

"Uh-huh." Steve had already stopped listening and was sifting through the digestives in the biscuit tin, looking for one with chocolate on it. Then a thought struck him. He peered around the room suspiciously. "Where are your children?"

"At school."

It was his turn to nearly choke. "What? All of them?"

"Yeah," I said, examining my wound to check it wasn't bleeding. "The Primary 1 class moved on to full days last week."

Steve checked under the table. "So where's Marie?"

"At school." This didn't seem to make him any less perplexed, so I added, "With the rest of the Primary 1 class."

"Marie's in Primary 1 already?"

"Er... Yes." He clearly hadn't been paying attention for several years, so I thought I'd better refresh his memory. "Lewis is in Primary 3 and Fraser's in Primary 5."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"They're all at school?"

"Yes."

He raised his eyebrows, shrugged and then looked confused. "So what do you do all day?"

I resisted the urge to slap him but this was mainly due to the fact my hand was already sore rather than any reserves of inner calm. Thankfully, I was distracted at that point by Josquin discovering the controls of the oven. "Why don't we go find the toy cooker?" I said, prising him off the real thing.

"I thought there was a problem with the lounge," said Steve, making himself a coffee.

"There is. I've got stuff out. Give me a minute to clear some space."

Steve nodded but I was barely halfway up the stairs before I heard the others following behind me. "I come play!" squeaked Josquin.

I raced up the last few steps and hurried into the lounge. The carpet was covered with the sprawling floorplan of a dungeon, laid out from inter-locked sections of squared card. Little plastic heroes and monsters were poised ready for a scrap in one of the corridors. Scattered around them were piles of dice, cards and rulebooks. Everything was exactly where I'd left it a few minutes beforehand, safe in the knowledge that it would be hours until any children came home to interfere, deface or destroy. I hadn't counted on visitors.

Josquin entered the room, jiggled up and down in excitement and then stomped forwards like Godzilla on the set of The Lord of the Rings, saliva dribbling out the side of his mouth.

"Woh!" I put myself between him and the game. "Hold it right there. These are my toys. You can play over there." I steered him towards the tired-looking toy kitchen by the window and the associated pile of ageing artificial vegetables. He immediately burst into tears and threw himself at the floor in a huff.

Unable to believe my luck, I abandoned him completely and took the opportunity to gather up my Warhammer collection and put it safely away.

"Did the boys leave that out?" asked Steve, sitting down on the sofa with his coffee and the biscuit tin.

"Nope. I was taking advantage of having a couple of hours of free time and the house to myself, to recapture some of my lost youth."

"Playing a board game against yourself?"

"I was a very geeky youth. Pass me that orc, will you?"

Steve chuckled as he picked up the inch-high figure at his feet and handed it to me. "I'm sure it must be nice having time to lie around in your pyjamas."

"It is," I said, finally getting all the pieces back in the box. Then I cleared the coffee table, moving the selection of the kids' toys which I'd been fixing and putting them out of Josquin's reach, along with my laptop which was busily converting a story tape to MP3. I also glanced at the clock to check how long it was before I had to rescue the loaf from the breadmaker. That reminded me I'd been so busy with chores earlier that I'd forgotten to have breakfast. "Get to the golf course much these days?" I asked.

"Only a couple of times a week," he said sadly. "Unless you count entertaining clients."

"Shame..." I said with the least amount of sincerity I thought I could get away with. I sat down on the armchair, skirting round Josquin as I went. He still had his face buried in the carpet and was whining and sobbing in a generally unpleasant fashion. I've had my own children display this sort of behaviour on more than enough occasions, however, to dissuade me from passing judgement on Steve's parenting skills. Sometimes kids throw a wobbly for no good reason and there's nothing to be done but to leave them to it until they get bored and cheer up. "How's the management consultancy going?"

Steve's face lit up with scary, bureaucratic zeal at the mention of the subject. "Very well. Very well indeed. It's heartening how eager organisations are to analyse their fundamental values and procedures in the face of tough market conditions and re-invent themselves in a more efficient and cost-effective form. Often companies already know which difficult decisions need to be made; all I have to do is encourage and facilitate the change. It's extremely satisfying."

"Uh-huh," I murmured and tried not to imagine the havoc he was single-handedly causing to the economy.

"Yes, it's merely a case of putting in place a transparent decision making structure and establishing a clear system of responsibilities and incentives. Let me show you."

Steve rattled the biscuit tin and whistled. Josquin stopped crying instantly, got up and scurried over. Steve held a custard cream in front of the boy's wide eyes and said, "Are you going to be good?"

Josquin nodded, grabbed the biscuit and then proceeded to eat it in such a fashion that more of it got smeared over the furniture than went down his throat. Nonetheless, the strop was over and he set about occupying himself by quietly and methodically emptying my DVD racks.

"Works every time," said Steve smugly.

I frowned. "What about when he has a tantrum because he's not allowed another biscuit?"

"Oh, yes, even then."

The urge to pass judgement became harder to resist.

"I think I'll go make myself a coffee," I said.

Steve looked at his own in mild embarrassment. "Oh, sorry, I assumed you had some already. You should have mentioned it."

"Don't worry about it." Truth be told, I was glad of an excuse to get out of the room and find somewhere to privately bang my head against a wall. I took my time. When I returned, Josquin had moved on to clearing the bookshelf and the air was tinged by a whiff of swamp.

I sat down and sipped my drink. Then, in as off-hand a manner as I could manage, I asked, "Is Josquin out of nappies yet?"

"I wouldn't know. Deborah's been handling that."

"Might be worth finding out."

"I suppose so. I'll look into it." Rather than getting up, however, he reached for the biscuits.

"I meant now."

"What? Oh... Right, yes, I see what you mean."

Steve rattled the big, round tin to attract Josquin's attention and then called him over. A quick check down the back of his son's trousers revealed substantially less absorbent material there than either of them was entirely used to.

"Do you need the toilet?" Steve asked, suddenly nervous.

"Yes."

"Then let's go downstairs and..."

Josquin screwed up his fists and face in preparation for another tantrum. "I need toilet NOW!"

"But..."

"Pee! Pee!"

A brief interlude of chaos ensued.

* * *

"Well, there we are," said Useless Dad a few minutes later as he settled back on the sofa. "No harm done."

I wasn't completely convinced but at least we'd managed to save the carpet. "Pity you brought Ophelia's dance kit rather than the changing bag," I said, opening a window.

Josquin wandered over in a pink leotard and gossamer skirt. "Want biscuit!"

"That's maybe not such a good idea," said Steve, pulling a face.

"You think?" I moved a toy garage into the middle of the room. Josquin began yanking levers and pressing buttons, temporarily pacified. "Where's Deborah? I thought she was looking after the children these days."

"I have the day the off and so I offered to take Josquin for a few hours. It will give Deborah a chance to go to the gym, and such like, while Ophelia's at school."

My eyes narrowed. I suspected this wasn't the whole story. "Is it her birthday or something?"

"No, no."

"Then why...?"

Steve leaned forward conspiratorially. "She's becoming broody. Now she's going to parent-and-toddler again, she keeps cuddling babies. She's constantly talking about them - about their adorable giggles and cute little hands." He shivered. "I thought time to herself might do her some good - stop her getting ideas, if you understand what I mean."

I did, but knowing Deborah, I suspected it was a ruse. As like as not, she was simply trying to scare him into easing her childcare burden so she could invest more hours and energy in her interior design business. "You could hire a new nanny," I suggested, in an effort to help her out. "It went OK with What's-his-name until he disappeared off to start teacher training, didn't it?"

"Yes but the expense! Do you realise how much nannies cost?"

"It would be cheaper than another child, particularly if you're wanting them all to go to private school. How much is it a year at that place you send Ophelia to?"

Useless Dad blanched.

"Exactly," I said.

Steve considered his options a little. "Now I think about it, perhaps Deborah could do with some regular assistance." He stood up. "I might drop by the agency and see if they have anyone available for interview. I've a few people I need to see in town anyway. Would you mind watching Josquin for an hour or two?"

I rolled my eyes. "OK," I said, more for Deborah's sake than his. "Just make sure you're back by half two. Oh, and you can buy me a new biscuit tin while you're there."

"Seems reasonable."

We all headed downstairs and I set Josquin to doing some drawing in the kitchen. It wasn't as comfy as the lounge but there was the benefit of laminate floor and plastic covers on the seats.

"I shouldn't be long," said Steve, putting on his coat and heading out of the door.

Strangely, I didn't entirely believe him...

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Time to hang up the changing bag?

Dear Dave,

I was outclassed.

There wasn't any point competing. I would have had to have resorted to outlandish promises and blatant bribery. Even then, I think my kids would still rather have spent the afternoon with him.

Settling down on a bench, I merely watched with astonishment and envy, and tried to remember what it was like to be young, motivated and full of energy. Except I've never had that much energy. The guy wasn't entertaining just my kids - he was managing to include the two children he was supposed to be looking after as well. As they all played Chase around a waxwork of a Neanderthal, I closed my eyes, attempted to rest and hoped no attendants would pass by and shout at us for making too much noise in the museum. I definitely didn't have the energy for that.

"Woh! Time-out!" laughed Jake breathlessly as five children bundled through a maze of display cases and grabbed his legs. "You got me! You got me! Well done! Has anyone seen these spear heads yet!?"

Jake grabbed Josquin and lifted him up effortlessly to peer into the case beside them. The other children crowded round. The top of the display was waist-high for an adult and Marie and Ophelia had to stand on tip-toes to see in. Jake pointed to the most interesting items on show, explained how they were made and then acted out hunting a mammoth.

Then, by popular demand, he did it again...

I realised my eyes had re-opened of their own accord. As much as I wanted to blank the scene, I couldn't help paying attention - the guy was full of bounce and he spoke with more enthusiasm than a children's TV presenter. "Let's do the piggy-back race some more!" he exclaimed.

Oh, for goodness sake, let's not... The thought was loud in my head but all that escaped my mouth was a dull groan. I wasn't sure I'd recovered enough from the previous occasion to stand up, let alone sprint to the sabre-toothed tiger and back while carrying a nearly-seven-year-old.

Not that the nearly-seven-year-old in question wanted me to carry him. Lewis grabbed Jake's hand and jumped up and down. "I want to go on you!"

This prompted the other kids into even greater excitement. "No! I do! I do!" they all shouted.

"One at a time!" said Jake, hoisting Lewis onto his back. Seeing I hadn't moved to take up position as a rival mount, he got the rest to race him on foot. It was chaos. Nevertheless, he kept smiling. Only carrying Fraser caused him to slow down. Fraser's so big now, though, I wouldn't have so much as attempted lifting him myself.

There was much running about and then they all veered off to look at some model pyramids and a carving of a jackal. I got to my feet slowly and hobbled after them, my bottom having seized up from sitting on the hard bench. I was grumpy and decrepit.

Meanwhile, Jake was providing more exercise, education and fun for my kids than I'd managed all week.

I really hoped he'd wake up in the morning with muscle ache and a stomach bug. It would only have been fair...

* * *

The children are all out of school by half twelve on a Friday and I'd planned to spend the afternoon playing Snakes and Ladders with Marie, while fruitlessly encouraging the boys to turn off the Wii and go and run around outside. Often in these circumstances, I can sneak away to the toilet after a bit and then mysteriously not return for an hour or so, leaving them to entertain themselves while I surf the internet or have a lie down.

Last week, however, Jake phoned at lunch-time.

I didn't have a clue who he was. I thought he was trying to get me to change gas supplier. Fortunately, just before I hung up, he mentioned about Ophelia being desperate to see Marie and I identified him as Useless Dad's new nanny. He remembered me because I helped interview candidates when Steve and Deborah were first hunting for someone to look after their kids.

Thanks to Christmas, various illnesses and several months of close proximity to my three offspring, my memory was somewhat more hazy. A different nanny had already come and gone. I vaguely recalled Jake had seemed competent and enthusiastic, and that was about it.

He suggested that we have a joint trip to the museum.

Immediately.

Unprepared with excuses, I agreed.

* * *

I'd been all for him at the interview. He has good qualifications, glowing references and a winning smile. He also has a way with children, and kids love him. What's not to like?

Of course, Steve had had his doubts about a male nanny. He'd been worried Deborah might take too much of a shine to Jake (even though he couldn't quite see why she might be reluctant to have a young, attractive female nanny around). That hadn't been my concern, however. It was up to them to work out who they'd get on with; I simply tried to select the candidate I thought would cope best with the children.

It never occurred to me that I'd be the one in competition with him:

From the moment we met up on the front steps of the museum, Jake was a shining beacon of childcare. He showed proper respect to me by asking my opinion on what we should do and checking what rules my kids had to obey, but he was the one with the vigour and initiative. I tagged along behind, herding the stragglers, as he sought out forgotten corridors and mysterious exhibits and led us on an adventure through time and space. The kids followed him and hung on his every word. I pushed Josquin's buggy and kept reminding the others not to get lost. If Jake was Dr Who, I was the useless robot dog.

My feelings of inadequacy grew as the trip progressed until I felt compelled to join in the first session of piggy-backs in order to prove my fatherhood.

It wasn't a good idea. By the time we were in the Egyptian section, picking our way through the obelisks and mummified cats, my compacted spine was still complaining and I was desperate for sugar and caffeine.

Mercifully, the trip was almost over.

Jake set the children to rushing round the room to see how many mythical creatures with mismatched heads and bodies they could find, and then sauntered over to me. "Have to take Ophelia and Josquin home soon," he said. "Meeting some friends at the pub and I need to eat first. We're heading to a party and then probably hitting the clubs. Last time, we ended up back at one of my mate's, playing that Rock Band game."

I blinked, the very thought of so much activity making me exhausted.

"Got anything good planned yourself?"

"Kind of," I said. "A can of beer, some crisps, a couple of episodes of CSI from the TiVo and maybe a little Tomb Raider."

"Quiet night then?"

I snorted. "That's me letting my hair down. Tomorrow I'll stick to one episode and skip the crisps. If I really push the boat out, I might do some work as well."

"Thought you looked after your kids. Didn't know you did other work."

I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised he understood childcare to be a proper job. I was impressed with his careful choice of words, all the same. He didn't think I 'just' looked after my kids. I hated him a little less. "I do some IT support at a school but I wasn't meaning that. I'm writing a book about how to survive as a housedad before the children completely Swiss cheese my brain and I forget everything."

"Swiss cheese?"

"Full of holes. It's a reference to, er... a TV show you're probably too young to remember. Never mind..." I trailed off into silence. I couldn't escape it - I was old and worn out. I felt in need of retirement.

Jake let out a long breath and visibly sagged. "Don't know how you do it."

"What?"

"Look after three children all day, every day. This time on a Friday, I'm desperate to hand them back. Couldn't cope with Pop-Up Pirate! all weekend too. And I'm getting paid."

"I'm getting paid in some notional sense, if you figure the household as a partnership. My wife brings in income by going out to work; I reduce expenditure by working in the home. The profits sit briefly in our joint account before being spent frivolously on food and kid's shoes."

"Not sure that would get me out of bed to make them breakfast on a Saturday morning."

"Maybe not," I agreed. "I love them, though, even if they do make me tired. That gets us through most things... Besides, Marie comes and whines in my ear until I pour her some Shreddies." Somehow the thought of knitted cardboard sounded good and this made me appreciate how hungry I was. "Fancy a snack?"

Jake shook his head. "Sorry, used up the snack budget for this week already. But you take your lot to the café if you want. Don't mind us."

I chuckled. "What do you have in your backpack?"

Bizarrely, we had very similar bags. Mine was scuffed and ripped with a broken zip and one of the side pockets falling off. His looked shiny and nearly pristine.

"Nappies, wipes, changes of clothes, cream, plastic bags, more wipes and a list of emergency contact numbers."

"Uh-huh. All my kids are old enough to be properly toilet trained, so mine's stuffed full of..."

I opened the bag with a flourish.

"Raincoats?" said Jake hesitantly.

"Oh, I'd forgotten about those," I said as a whole bunch of wet weather gear fell out, along with a cuddly rabbit, a DS, some crayons, a notebook and, inexplicably, a ladle. "All right, it's stuffed half full of..."

I pulled the last of the junk clear and all five children appeared from nowhere.

"Chocolate!" they screeched.

I was suddenly popular.

I gave cartons of juice to Jake for him to put straws in and then handed round the packet of Penguin bars myself. Unfortunately, that was barely achieved before Marie stepped backwards just as Lewis stepped forwards. She tripped over his foot, sprawled flat on the ground and sent her chocolate flying into the spidery darkness beneath a display case. She burst into tears.

"Daddy!" she wailed plaintively.

I pulled her up and she clung to my legs before climbing onto my lap.

"I need a HUG!" she cried.

I cuddled her, sighed and gave her my own chocolate biscuit. She stopped crying but insisted on staying on my lap while she ate. (I guess I'm good for something.)

Then Lewis showered himself in juice and wanted to know why I hadn't brought any spare clothes with us.

"Would you rather have chocolate or dry trousers?" I countered.

Pondering this kept him busy most of the way home. I may be old and tired but I'm not entirely out of tricks yet.

Still, Jake wants us all to get together again soon. I'm not sure I can cope...

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

PS Talking about nannies, as luck would have it, I got an email from a website called Nanny Share this week. They have a database of people wanting to split the hours and costs of a nanny in whatever fashion fits their schedule. You can enter a postcode and find out what arrangements people in that area are looking for. To contact them, or list your own requirements, you have to register, though. (It's currently £20 for a year.)

I'm not needing to try it out myself but it seems like a good idea. It's certainly worth mentioning to anyone you know who's looking for a fraction of a nanny...

Number 200

Dear Dave,

"Oooh!" said Scary Karen, squeezing past me on her way down the narrow stairs. "This reminds me of the time I got trapped in a lift with three bodybuilders and Sean Connery."

"Ungnh..." I grunted, caught between her ample form and the bed-settee which was wedged on the half-landing.

"Course, that took three weeks of planning."

"Ah, hngh..." I nodded, unsure whether this revelation or my actual predicament was the more likely to cause me nightmares. It was a close call. I tried to forget both and concentrated on not blacking out from lack of oxygen.

"We're going to have to back up," said Mike from behind the settee somewhere, "then tip it sideways so we can get round the banister."

"Right you are," said Trevor and started to shove up from below.

"Let me out of the way first!" shrieked Rob as the sofa pinned him to a wall.

"And me," I added. At least that's what I tried to say. It came out more like, "Ungheeee!" and trailed off into a whimper.

"Don't know your own strength, do you, my little honey-munchkin?" said Karen, finally compressing me enough to squash by and emerge next to Trevor with an audible pop. She grasped one of his bulging biceps appreciatively and tickled him under the beard.

"Not now, love," said Trevor. He was supporting most of the weight of the bed-settee. He was also, apparently, ticklish. My whole world started to wobble and shake.

"And why's that?" Karen said. "You're the one showing off your muscles." She started to snog him very loudly.

"Big sofa..." I gasped. "About... wheeze... to kill us all..."

"Couldn't you have found someone else to help?" muttered Rob under his breath, still trapped.

"You're the one who was too much of a cheapskate to hire removal people but then decided to move midweek so all your other mates had the handy excuse of being at work to avoid helping."

My words were mostly drowned out, however, by the sink-plunging noises coming from Karen and Trevor.

"Can't hear you," said Rob.

"Never mind," I said. "Almost done now."

It was true. Our various children had been farmed out to friends and relatives and we'd spent a couple of hours loading the contents of Rob's flat into a van. We'd then popped round quickly to my place merely to pick up my surplus bed-settee on the way to his new house. Since he was about to have plenty of extra space and I said he could have the sofa for free, he was more than willing to take it. Getting it downstairs to the front door from our lounge was proving trickier than I'd imagined, though.

"Where's Steve?" croaked Rob. "Has he sloped off again."

"He's not with me," grunted Mike's disembodied voice.

"Haven't seen him," I said.

Then, seemingly on cue, Useless Dad emerged from the direction of the kitchen, cheerily waving a mug around. "Cup of tea, any...?" he began and then noticed Karen and Trevor. He stopped and stared at them for a moment and then backed away hastily.

Luckily, it was enough to distract Karen from sucking Trevor's whiskers off. "Milk and four sugars for me! I'll lend a hand." She gave Trevor's backside a firm fondle and then followed Steve.

There was a muffled squeal of fright from the kitchen but I ignored it as the rest of us turned our full attention to the sofa. There was a great deal of huffing and shoving and turning and then somehow we were in the narrow hall and out the door with only minor strains and bruises. Trevor unlocked the rented van and we loaded up.

The bed-settee didn't fit.

Rob swore. "It's almost in. Maybe if we move some of the other stuff around..."

"Not worth it," said Mike. "We'd have to completely unload. We'd be as well taking what we've got to the house and then coming back."

"I suppose," said Rob, shrugging. "Let's get the sofa inside."

I shook my head. "There's no room on the ground floor. We'd need to get it up the stairs again."

No one liked the sound of that.

"We could just put some bin-liners over it or something and leave it in the driveway," said Rob.

I disagreed. "This is the centre of Edinburgh. If we leave it out here, someone will try to make off with it. I put a broken 28-inch telly out for the council to collect once. No way one person on their own could get far with it. Still disappeared within half an hour and that was in the middle of the night."

Steve and Karen brought the tea out as we discussed options. I took a sip of mine and nearly gagged. "I think I got yours, Karen."

Steve signed frantically behind her back, making it clear I was somehow in dangerous territory.

"I put four sugars in all of them," said Karen, "to boost your energy. Bit of sugar keeps you going." She winked at Trevor. "I gave you seven..."

"I..." I started to reply but Steve's flapping only increased. I noticed that his mug had an entire stick of shortbread poking out of it and realised he'd already had this argument and lost big time. "Er... How thoughtful..." I mumbled and sipped at the brew, feeling my teeth dissolve as I did so.

Eventually we decided that Rob and Karen would go in the van with Trevor, Mike would follow along behind in his car and I would remain to guard the sofa. I did suggest it might be a better use of resources if I helped with the heavy lifting and Mike or Karen stayed with the bed-settee. Mike had arranged to visit a church member who lived out in Rob's direction, though, and didn't have time for toing-and-froing. Karen, meanwhile, beat me in an arm wrestle.

I put on my coat, sat in the driveway and waved them off. Steve brought us both out a second mug of tea that was somewhat more drinkable, and kept me company. He couldn't stay long because he wanted to get to work in time to go for lunch.

I popped inside to find some biscuits. "How are things going in the consultancy business?" I asked when I returned with some chocolate digestives.

"Very well. Very well. There are plenty of firms desperate to cut costs right now."

"By hiring you at great expense to tell them to stop stocking free sanitary towels in the women's toilets?"

"Indeed," he said, entirely seriously.

I sighed and decided I really didn't want to know any more. "And what about your nanny situation?" I said, changing topic. "Fiona's bump looked the size of Switzerland this morning. Can't be long before she heads off on maternity leave. What are you going to do?"

"It's all under control. One of the other nannies we interviewed last year is only on a short-term contract and can take over when Fiona leaves in the middle of next month."

"Oh... That's good..." I tried to sound upbeat but Fiona had been chosen mainly by default on the basis that the others were unsuitable or positively certifiable.

"Yes, I called him myself. He was very enthusiastic."

I did a double-take. "The manny?" I was confused. The guy was a great choice but Steve had been utterly opposed to employing a man during the previous selection process. Nothing I, or his wife, Deborah, could say had been able to change his mind.

Steve mistook the reasons for my scepticism. "Come now, you of all people should know that men can look after children just as well as women. Ewan's extremely well qualified and the children really took to him. Of course, Deborah wasn't so sure but I managed to talk her round. He'll be a real asset to the household."

"Totally," I managed to mutter and then there was quiet as we drank our tea and I resisted the urge to slap him by texting Deborah to congratulate her on her exceptional powers of manipulation.

Time passed.

"Rather cold out here, isn't it?" said Steve after a while.

I nodded. "Uh-huh."

Then the first flakes of snow started to fall.

* * *

Trevor, Rob and Karen returned with the van, skidding up at the end of the drive with a screech of passengers.

I went out of the house with an umbrella to meet them. "That was quick."

"Karen gave Trevor a second cuppa at our place," replied Rob, staggering from the van. "Meant he unloaded the stuff pretty sharpish but I think it would be better if you drove until the sugar high wears off."

"Might be for the best," I said as we watched Trevor heft the settee into the van by himself then flex his muscles for our admiration.

We climbed in after the sofa and set about removing the protective bin-liners without dropping too much snow down behind the cushions. Rob chuckled. "I was expecting to find you and Steve still sitting in the driveway, frozen solid, with icicles dangling from your noses."

"Sorry to disappoint you. He 'remembered' an urgent memo he had to write the moment things turned wintry and I'm not entirely daft. I wasn't going to freeze to death protecting what is now, officially, your sofa. I went inside, turned on the heating and glanced out the window occasionally."

"Fair enough."

"Oy," called Karen. "Is that thing tied down?"

Rob shrugged. "Sort of."

"Me and Trevor can ride in the back and keep an eye on it if you want."

I'd have been nervous about driving the van under normal circumstances, and the Arctic conditions only made matters worse. The thought of Karen and Trevor alone in the back with excess energy and a bed-settee didn't exactly improve my state of mind.

"That's OK," said Rob, thankfully coming to the same conclusion. "Appreciate all the help but we can take it from here. You guys can head home."

Karen looked slightly disappointed but then I added, "Aren't your kids going to be at your mum's for another couple of hours? You could get some stuff done round the flat or..."

Before I could finish, Karen screamed as Trevor hefted her up in a fireman's lift and jogged off down the road amidst a mix of shrieks and giggles.

"Er, yes, or I suppose you could do that..." I trailed off.

Rob and I looked at each other. "Time to go?" he said hurriedly.

"Definitely," I replied.

* * *

The journey to the outskirts of town was slow and the return trip to the van hire place was even slower, traffic crawling along in the light flurries of snow that count as a blizzard round here. Rob came back with me, just to make sure if I skidded off the road and lay dying in a ditch, that I wouldn't be lonely. We didn't talk much. I concentrated on the way ahead, he fiddled incessantly with the radio.

It was a relief to finally arrive.

"Might as well see you home," said Rob, once we'd handed in the keys.

"I'm 35, it's snowing and you've got unpacking to be doing. You don't need to walk me the couple of streets to my door."

"Humour me," he said, slinging a hold-all over his shoulder and setting off into the wind and a stinging barrage of sleet.

"What's in the bag?" I called after him.

"It's a surprise."

He didn't give me any further hints and, hunched over, we struggled onwards, icy rain attempting to rip our faces off. We did nothing but grunt and grumble for several minutes before tumbling in through my front door. I dripped over the carpet and put the kettle on. "It's not some old tat you found at the bottom of a cupboard that you're trying to palm off on me is it?"

"Nope."

"What is it then?"

Rob looked a little embarrassed. "Living across town is going to make meeting up harder - what with both of us having kids now, and all. I was thinking we should try and organise some regular online gaming to keep in touch. We can still shoot each other and chat and drink beer but we won't have to be in the same room."

I shook my head. "Nice idea but you have a PS3 and I have an Xbox - we're on opposite sides of the gaming divide."

"Er, you know how I never got round to buying you a gift for being my best man?"

"It had crossed my mind," I said but I was suddenly too excited to sound appropriately annoyed.

He handed me the bag. "They had a real bargain in the window of the secondhand place when I went past the other day. Happy belated wedding-help thank you!"

I unzipped the bag with shaking fingers, hardly daring to hope what might be inside. It was...

I stared at the contents in disbelief.

"It's a PlayStation 3," said Rob helpfully.

"Er, yeah," I said, "but why's it orange?"

"The casing's battered. Some genius tried to touch it up with an airbrush and give it a face-lift in the process. Still works, though. Well, it would, if it had a controller and cables."

"This gets better."

Rob had obviously expected this reaction and practised on his sales pitch. "I thought if anyone was likely to have the right wires lying around, it would be you."

I took a closer looker. "Maybe... The AV cable from my PS2 might work and the power cord from a desktop."

"And you'd be wanting to buy one of the newer controllers that has rumble anyway."

"True." I checked my watch. "I've just enough time to get to GAME and back before I have to collect Marie and then go along to school for the boys..." I put the console safely on the kitchen table, flung on a second scarf and ushered Rob towards the snowstorm, the thought of hot drinks forgotten.

"Come on, admit it, you're pleased," said Rob as we headed out the door.

"Oh, all right. If it works, I'm delighted. Thanks very much. It'll be a pleasure filling you full of lead, even if it's from a distance."

"Excellent," he shouted over the wind. "How about Wednesday nights?"

"Sounds good. Now, you really need to get home and help Kate with the unpacking."

"I suppose."

We parted company at the gate, shaking hands in an almost formal goodbye. It was weird. He's only moved out near the zoo but, all at once, it felt like a huge distance. Getting together will be much more of an effort from now on. As we trudged off along the pavement in opposite directions, I was briefly sad.

Then I remembered that he'll still be working quite close - once Marie starts school full-time in September, I'll be free to meet him for lunch whenever. I took some comfort from this...

Also, I had a PS3!

Despite a small sense of loss and the imminent threat of my ears falling off from the cold, it was hard not to grin...

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Choosing a nanny

Dear Dave,

We'd reached the last nanny of the day.

I sat with Steve and Deborah at one side of their kitchen table and Potential Nanny Number 6 sat at the opposite side, giving a standard list of answers to our standard list of questions. It was beginning to feel like we were going through the motions and I'd lost track of which applicant was which. Had Potential Nanny 3 been the one with the draconian views on discipline or had that been PN4? I checked my notes. It had been PN2. PN3 had believed that discipline was an out-moded concept of a defunct patriarchal worldview. This made her the candidate most likely to be eaten by small children, and put her quite low on my list of choices. Still higher than PN2, admittedly, but not by much.

I sighed. It wasn't going well. Why on earth had I agreed to help Useless Dad and his wife select someone to look after their kids while they were at work?

As if in answer, Deborah deftly cut another slice of cake and slid it over to me without taking her eyes off PN6. I wolfed it down thankfully, the extra calories restoring my energy and renewing my resolve. We were almost at the end of the interview. I took the longest blink I thought I could get away with, breathed deeply and tried to stay awake. There was only Steve's bonus round left to go.

"If you were a squirrel with a paperclip," asked Steve, "what would you do?"

This wasn't on the online list we'd found of standard questions to ask potential nannies. Deborah and I had allowed it, however, on the basis that any successful candidate was going to have to deal with Steve on occasion. They needed to be able to cope.

"Trade it with a magpie for an acorn?" PN6 said hesitantly.

"Only one acorn?" queried Steve. "You don't sound very certain."

PN6 recovered quickly. "I'd have to check the current exchange rates."

"Hmmm..." said Steve, nodding, and looked over his notes. "Your CV is very strong. Decent academic record, a wide range of experience and glowing references. It couldn't be better." He paused. "Which really does beg the question of why on earth you want to look after other people's children all day for this kind of money?"

This was off script but it was an interesting point. Deborah and I let the question stand.

PN6 thought for a moment. "Kids are fun."

The three of us in the room who were parents all looked unconvinced.

PN6 hurried to add some qualification. "Mostly. Looking after them can be dull and repetitive sometimes, I guess, but, you know, I get to go home at night and turn up with fresh enthusiasm for Snap in the morning. I'm not going to be a nanny forever or anything - I'm thinking of applying to be a primary teacher next year - but I'm enjoying it for now. It's great making an impact on kids' lives and watching them mature."

There was a brief interlude as Steve, Deborah and I scribbled this down and ticked a whole load of boxes on the sheets in front of us. Sure, it was a hodge-podge of approved responses from the same website we'd used to get the questions but at least it showed some application. Besides, being able to answer awkward inquiries on-the-fly is an important childcare skill in itself.

"Thank you very much," said Deborah. "That's the end of the interview unless you have anything further you want to ask us."

PN6 had a few queries about hours and duties but they were wrapped up quickly.

"Thanks again," said Deborah. "We'll be in touch."

She managed to hold her smile until the front door was closed and then she came and collapsed, exhausted, in her seat. It was my turn to offer some cake. She took it gratefully. She knew as well as I did that we had a long discussion ahead of us.

On paper, it really wasn't hard. We should have been able to make a selection in a couple minutes. From personality to childcare philosophy, PN6 was the obvious choice.

There was only one small problem...

Steve was never going to hire him.

* * *

"What about PN2?" said Deborah, slightly desperately. We'd been talking round in circles for half an hour and not even approached a decision. The cake was gone. We were all jittery from too much coffee.

"You mean 'Scary Poppins'?" I said. "She'd have your kids cleaning chimneys or working down a mine. If you hire her, I'm never coming round to visit again. She was unpleasant and creepy. I wouldn't be surprised if her house is made of gingerbread."

"Well, who are we going to hire then?" snapped Deborah, exasperation getting the better of her.

"I liked PN1," said Steve wistfully.

"Yes. Rather too much," said Deborah. Potential Nanny Number 1 was young, vivacious, cute and, er... bouncy. I couldn't help noticing that Deborah had violently scribbled out all her notes on PN1 and replaced them with a single word in red biro: STRUMPET. This was somewhat unfair but I didn't fancy my chances of talking Deborah round. PN1 wasn't getting hired.

"How about PN4?" I said.

"Too old," said Steve.

"She wasn't that old," I countered.

"She got out of breath climbing the stairs to the flat," said Deborah. "I don't think she's up to the physical demands of two small children."

"Maybe," I sighed.

"I still say PN3 would be ideal," said Steve.

"In some alternative universe where children always do what they're told and don't have teeth," I said, rolling my eyes. "She was on another planet and had no experience. Your kids would have her tied up, lightly basted and in the oven on Gas Mark 5 by the end of the first morning."

They didn't deny it. Time passed. We all sat silently pondering the options and stared at the empty plate where the cake had been.

"PN5?" I suggested eventually.

"The pregnant one?" asked Steve, rifling through his notes.

"Yeah."

"But she was pregnant!"

"So?"

Steve was dismissive. "If we hire her, we'll have to do this all over again in four months time."

"Chances are that we'll have to do this again in a few months anyway," I said, trying to contain my anger. Having had to live through the consequences of decisions made by various clueless male managers (including Steve himself) when Sarah was pregnant, I'm quite touchy on the subject. "Any of the others could hand in their two weeks notice and be off at any time. A pregnant woman is extremely unlikely to quit unless she really has to. Besides, you can't not hire her simply because she's pregnant - that's illegal."

"She had a squint. Can we not hire her because of that?"

"No," I said and counted to ten under my breath.

Disappointingly, Deborah took Steve's side. "I didn't feel she really fitted in with our family."

"She so did. And your kids loved her. You're finding excuses to discriminate."

"They loved PN6 as well," said Deborah calmly, even though I was losing it.

Steve stiffened. "You were exceptionally keen on him yourself. Making those eyes. I didn't trust him at all. What kind of man looks after children?"

I blinked. "Er, hello? Housedad sitting right here. Heck, you haven't started your new job yet - you're still technically a housedad."

"I didn't choose..."

"I did."

"But..."

Fortunately, Deborah intervened at that point before things got out of hand. "Time for a break while I go check on the children."

* * *

Ten minutes gave us all a chance to clear our heads.

"OK," I said, tossing my notes aside as we sat back down at the table. "You're looking for someone who isn't too old, too young, too inexperienced, too evil, too male, too cute or too pregnant. I'm going to go out on a limb here and suggest you're not looking for anyone too ethnically diverse, alternatively oriented or spiritually disparate, either."

Steve looked shifty and Deborah smiled knowingly. They kind of muttered in agreement.

"Right, well, you're stuffed," I said, shrugging. "You're simply going to have to go for someone competent who your kids like, which makes it PN5 or PN6. Personally, I'd go for PN6, but the decision is really up to you guys."

Deborah raised an eyebrow. "That was blunt."

"Well, you did ask for my help," I said. "All we've done so far is find reasons to exclude people. You need to start thinking of reasons why the remaining candidates are worth including in your family."

"OK, PN6, then," said Steve and started putting his pen away.

"Why?" asked Deborah sharply.

"Because you want to hire him," said Steve, obviously surprised the discussion wasn't over.

"And you don't?"

"I'd rather hire Five, to be perfectly honest, even if she is going to double in size and then leave us in the lurch."

Deborah frowned at him. "So why did you say Six?"

"Because... erm..." His mouth flapped as he tried to phrase some suitable excuse... but he was too slow.

"There's some sport coming on the television, isn't there?" said Deborah, her lips pursed. "You just want to get this over with."

Steve was confused. "You want to hire Six. What's the difficulty here?"

"I need to know why you want to."

"I don't want to."

"I know," said Deborah with patience born of dealing with small children. "But why might you want to?"

"Er..." said Steve, entirely out of his depth.

"That's what Ed wants us to talk about," said Deborah.

"Are you sure? Ed, what...? Oh..."

I'd already sneaked off. I left them to it and went through to watch the football on their big telly while pretending to keep an eye on their children. Around about half-time, they phoned PN5 to give her the job.

The selection process was over and Steve and Deborah had a couple of weeks breathing space before their new employee started and they had to make the decision work. Steve offered me a glass of wine to celebrate but I had to decline since it was time to go home and rescue Sarah from childcare duties. Deborah did line my pockets with cakes before I left, however - I wasn't going to say no to that.

I'm sure their newly-promoted Actual Nanny Number 1 will be fine and, if not, at least they made the choice together in their own mysterious fashion. Still, as I walked home in the chilly twilight, I was heartily thankful that I have the opportunity to look after my own children.

It's almost as good as having a coat stuffed full of warm blueberry muffins...

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Housedad cake torture

Dear Dave,

The cake was a lie.

As I sat on a wicker armchair in the large bay window of Useless Dad's flat, I could really have done with some sugary sustenance to calm my nerves but the cake I had been promised wasn't there. I shifted around in the seat, trying to find a patch which wasn't hard and knobbly. I couldn't lean back without sliding deep into the chair's embrace, my feet sticking out in front of me as I sank down into a dark realm of loose change and forgotten trinkets. The chair was very obviously designed to be festooned with cushions but they were missing. I sat uncomfortably on the edge and hid behind my drink.

Rather than coffee, I had been given fruit tea. It appeared not to contain caffeine, rendering it effectively pointless. I sipped at it because it was there but my heart wasn't really in it.

Across the table from me, Deborah drank her own tea. As always, she was confident and pretty but she seemed taller and more imposing than normal, thanks to the vast number of cushions piled high beneath her. She frowned at me with a mixture of annoyance, disappointment and despair as she ate her cake. Once she'd finished it, she dabbed at her lips with a napkin and then sat back, arching her fingers together in front of her, contemplating me. She raised one immaculately-shaped eyebrow and waited for me to explain myself.

I sipped some more tea, playing for time.

It was still half an hour before I needed to leave to collect Marie from nursery, though. The boys were at school, as was Deborah's eldest, Ophelia. Her toddler, Josquin, was at playgroup with his dad. There were no little people to distract or intervene, no children to protect me. I was alone.

"It wasn't me," I squeaked.

"What wasn't you?"

"Er..." Truth be told, I wasn't entirely sure what I was supposed to have done wrong but I had to guess it was something to do with her husband, Steve. More specifically it was almost certainly related to the fact he'd given up on being a housedad and got himself a job with non-family-friendly hours and inflexible working conditions without considering the implications for childcare. That he hadn't consulted Deborah at all probably wasn't helping her mood.

Nonetheless, it wasn't my fault. I hadn't talked him into it. I'd told him not to do it. Why was I in trouble? What had I done to deserve being denied cake?

Wordlessly, Deborah held up a sheet of paper.

Oh... That...

"Did you write this?" she asked.

"Yes," I squeaked again.

She began to read.

Dear Sir,

In answer to your query, I do not hesitate in recommending Steve as a management consultant in your organisation. Having read your brochure, I believe his skills and level of knowledge of the business environment are a perfect match for your firm. Steve has a knack for locating logistical minefields in any process and kicking them to the top of the agenda. In so doing, he highlights the critical nature of these issues, forcing those around him to take ownership of the problem. By stepping back, he allows others to find their own solutions, thus empowering them to move forwards, clearing a path to success. The results are nothing short of explosive, blowing away accepted wisdom and replacing it with brave new ideas for a brave new world.

Over the eighteen months I have known him, Steve has often demonstrated a remarkable level of ability in adapting to fresh situations and different roles. He can answer his phone while performing almost any other task, negotiate with multiple underlings at the same time and, in an emergency, make a decent cup of coffee. On the golf course, Steve is dedicated, punctual and willing to go the extra mile. He can also use Danish pastries very persuasively.

He would make an incalculable addition to any team.

Deborah stopped reading and looked at me once more, saying nothing but her eyebrow burning into my soul in search of answers. The silence was even more uncomfortable than my chair. I felt the need to explain myself. Somehow, I was compelled to speak.

"I didn't actually lie," I said. "I maybe portrayed his accomplishments in a flattering light but I didn't actually lie. What was I supposed to do? He insisted on checking it over, made sure I signed my real name and then faxed it for me. If I'd written the whole truth, he'd only have hunted down someone else. He'd have started with Sarah and then gone after Mike and Rob. Who knows what kind of glowing reference Rob would have given him for a laugh? At least with mine there was a chance the company would read between the lines and offer someone else the position. And this way, my wife and friends didn't get hassled by..."

Deborah held up a hand to cut off my desperate grovelling. "He bribed you with doughnuts, didn't he?" she said.

The game was up. "Yes," I whimpered. "They had icing and sprinkles."

Her eyebrow raised another notch, the movement wrenching further confessions out of my mouth. "He came round with them after he'd heard the children had given me a disturbed night. I was tired. I didn't know what I was doing. I needed sugar. I'm sorry..."

Deborah pondered this information for a time, slowly tapping highly-manicured nails on the table. Then her demeanour softened slightly. "I'm surprised he was so cunning. He must have put a great deal of planning into it." She drank her tea and sighed. "He really does want this job, doesn't he?"

I nodded. "I've done my best to train him but he's survived being a housedad rather than appreciated it. He's much closer to the kids and he'll always be more use looking after them than he was but deep down he wants to chair pointless meetings and send self-important memos. It's who he is."

Deborah thought about this some more and then seemed to accept it. "Yes, I suppose so," she said. "The question is: what are we to do now?"

We? What was she expecting me to do? "Erm..." I said, holding my cup nervously.

As if from nowhere, she produced a small bone-china plate and a pastry fork. On the plate was some...

"Cake?" she asked.

She slid the plate across to the middle of the table. I eyed it suspiciously. I hadn't done anything to deserve cake. Well, not yet...

"What do you want me to do?" I asked miserably.

"We have a problem," she said. "I don't have enough hours in the week to run my business AND look after my children. When Steve starts this job, he will also be short on time. He may have to choose between the children and golf."

"Good luck with that," I said, my eyes fixed on the cake.

"Exactly."

I was close to drooling but I still didn't see where this was going. "You could put Josquin into nursery and sign Ophelia up for after-school club."

"My workload varies from week to week and sometimes I have to travel. A flexible solution would be more appropriate. Perhaps a nanny is the way forward..."

"Yep, worth looking into," I said, my cheek twitching as I attempted to will the cake towards me with the power of my mind.

"I suspect, however, that my opinion of the qualities required in a suitable candidate will differ from Steve's opinion."

"Probably true," I said and reached towards the cake. She couldn't expect me to be their nanny, so I was off the hook. It appeared there was such a thing as free cake after all.

"We will need a third opinion," said Deborah sweetly.

My hand stopped halfway to the pastry fork. "You want me to help you find a nanny?"

"And arbitrate over the hiring process."

I hesitated. "That's not really where my skills lie."

"Agreed but Steve and I both trust you. What do you say?" She rested her fingers on the edge of the plate. It was unclear whether she intended to pull the cake back or slide it further towards me. I guessed that the direction of travel might depend on my answer.

"Erm," I said, swithering, but then I noticed the cake had nuts in. I was sold. "Yeah, OK."

Deborah smiled and pushed the plate towards me. "Good. I'll fetch a pen and paper and we can begin working on criteria. Would you like some coffee?"

I grunted enthusiastically, my mouth already full of cake.

While she was out of the room, I grabbed some cushions for myself and devoured the rest of my snack. I was relieved I'd got away so lightly. Sure, I had some work to do but it was interviewing nannies - how badly could it go?

Then I choked on a nut and made fruit tea come out my nose.

I hope that wasn't some kind of sign...

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Black holes and birthday parties

Dear Dave,

"You're late," I said, opening the door and letting Mostly Useless Dad, Steve, into the house.

"Sorry," he replied with a big grin on his face, not seeming sorry at all. "Alistair wanted to talk and I couldn't get away."

I didn't have time to ask who Alistair was or why Steve was wearing a suit. He'd told me he needed me to look after his children because he 'had some things to do'. I'd simply assumed a trip to the shops and a little light DIY. I certainly hadn't expected him to be gone so long.

"You only left one nappy," I said as four-year-old Ophelia ran into the hall to hug him and Josquin (who's almost two now) toddled along behind.

He gave them both a somewhat distracted pat on the head. "You have plenty," he said over their clamouring squeals of 'Daddy!'.

"No, we don't. Marie's four! She hasn't worn nappies for a year and a half."

"Really? She's four?"

I pointed to the big, pink poster above the kitchen door. It read, 'Happy 4th Birthday, Marie!'.

"Yes," I said. "No nappies. I had to sit Josquin in the bath for ten minutes while Sarah nipped along the road and borrowed a couple from neighbours."

"Borrowed!? They want them back?"

"Of course they don't want them back. I mean..." I noticed he was smirking. I suddenly realised that, for a change, he wasn't being completely clueless. "Hang on, that was a joke, wasn't it?" He was in an awfully good mood. "Where have you been? Your mobile was off. I... Never mind. We don't have time right now. Tell me on the way."

In return for looking after his kids all morning, he was giving me a lift to Marie's birthday party. Since there weren't enough seats in the car, Sarah had taken our children on the bus. I, meanwhile, was in charge of the stuff: sandwiches, paper plates, little bottles of juice for the kids, plastic cups and cartons of juice for the adults, cake, candles, matches, knife, chocolate buttons, wipes, CD player, CDs, parcel to be passed, cocktail sausages, crisps, more crisps, a vast assortment of tack to put in party bags, party bags, balloons, grapes, chopped carrot, more chocolate, prizes and two handheld games consoles (to keep the boys quiet).

Steve strapped Josquin and Ophelia in while I loaded my two large laundry tubs of party supplies into the boot. The car noticeably sagged as I did so. I ran back to the house to check I hadn't forgotten anything, then locked up and hurried to climb into the passenger seat. I slammed the door and we were away.

We were hugely behind schedule and I was hoping for a screech of tyres and the smell of burning rubber. Sensibly, however, Steve pulled cautiously away from the kerb and headed off slowly, looking for a place to turn round.

Some loud, piercing birdsong erupted from my pocket.

Steve swerved slightly. "What the...?"

"It's my phone, sorry," I apologised. "It has to be loud enough for me to hear over three children and traffic." I had a text message. It was from Scary Karen. She was worried about the Large Hadron Collider again.

"Anything important?"

"Karen thinks one of her children may have swallowed a miniature black hole," I said, scrolling through the message. "She wants to know whether she should call CERN."

"Er... Is that possible?"

"Not really but I already tried explaining the physics to her the other day when she thought she'd got one trapped in the oven. I think I may have gone a little too technical with my explanation of singularities, gravity wells and event horizons because she still wouldn't go near the kitchen. Her family had to live on Pot Noodles for three days until I told her that half an hour on Gas Mark 3 would make the thing safe."

"Uh-huh," said Steve, laughing nervously, unsure exactly how much to believe.

I suspected his knowledge of physics wasn't large. As a quick test, I asked him the standard question, "If you stood on the moon and let go of a pen, would it float where it was, float off or fall to the moon's surface?"

"What? Er... Float off?" he said, frowning and clearly unsure.

I gave him a second chance. "Then why didn't the Apollo astronauts fly away whenever they tried to walk anywhere?"

"Oh," he said, his confidence returning. "They were wearing heavy boots. Everyone knows that." He grinned at me like I was an idiot for asking him something so obvious.

"Hmmm... Yes..." I said, refraining from screaming at him because I knew he was a lost cause. "Your oven is larger than Karen's. You'll need to put it on for an hour if you ever have any concerns."

Steve nodded seriously. "That's good to know."

I texted Karen back, telling her there was nothing to worry about but that I'd check both her boys out at the party to make sure. Then I remembered what I'd really been meaning to ask Steve.

"So... Where were you on a Saturday morning that required a suit and no children?" This simply wasn't normal housedad behaviour.

"I bumped into an old school friend in town a month ago. Hadn't seen each other for ages and arranged to play golf. We got on rather well. Turns out he runs his own business consultancy firm and they're looking for someone new. He offered me an interview."

I was incredulous. "On a Saturday?"

"He's been busy with clients all week. You know how it is - sometimes the work has to be done and everything else takes a backseat."

"We're in the backseat, Daddy!" called Ophelia from behind us.

"That's not what I meant, dear," said Steve, even though, in some sense, it very much was.

"How did it go?" I asked.

"I don't have anything in writing yet but he's as good as given it to me. He wants me to go back on Wednesday and meet the rest of the team. Can you take Josquin over lunch?"

He was probably expecting some form of congratulation but all I could manage was, "Does Deborah know?" I found it hard to imagine she was thrilled. (Deborah's not a fan of putting the kids in childcare but, with her interior design business doing so well, she's not likely to want to go back to being a housemum, either.)

"Haven't had a chance to tell her," said Steve. "She's away at some conference or other. That's why I needed you to watch the children."

"She knew about the interview, though, right?"

Steve looked shifty.

I held my head in my hands. "You took a job that Deborah didn't even know you'd applied for?"

"Well, as I said, I don't have anything in writing yet but..."

"You're a dead man." I felt like a Jedi Master returning home to find my young padawan using the Force to propel cute puppies into space. I wanted to grab him by the shoulders and yell, "Have I taught you nothing?"

He was still driving, though, so I decided against it. I merely sighed deeply. It appears that despite his child-wrangling skills having improved greatly in the year since he was made redundant, he really hasn't come to terms with parenthood. He's still a middle-manager in slightly soiled housedad clothing. Put him back in a suit and nothing's changed.

"So, can you take Josquin on Wednesday?" asked Useless Dad.

"I suppose..." I muttered. "But don't think I'm going to take him fifty hours a week so you can pretend to the wife you're carting him to the zoo every day when you're really sloping off to further your career."

As we pulled up at the party venue, Steve looked faintly disappointed.

We were late. I unloaded the stuff and hurried into the building while Steve followed behind with his kids. Sarah gave me a look as we arrived but I merely shrugged and rolled my eyes and shook my head in the direction of Useless Dad and then set to work helping supervise children. We'd booked the use of a small soft-play for an hour. It was a maelstrom of plastic slides, brightly coloured balls and little girls wearing sparkly clothing.

Marie was unwrapping her presents and stacking them on a table by the door. Various parents at nursery had come up to her over the previous week and asked her what kind of things she liked. On every occasion, she had replied, "Pink things." As a result, the pile of gifts was a eclectic mix of fairy costumes, dolls, craft sets and clothing. It was, however, almost uniformly the colour of candy-floss. Marie was delighted. She squealed with pleasure every time she opened a parcel.

This was quite a contrast from Fraser's fourth birthday party. We had to stop him halfway through his presents because of the constant stream of complaining. "I don't like Power Rangers... What's this? I'm not going to play with that... Oh, it's only a jigsaw... Lewis can have these... This is OK but we've got two already... We can sell that..." Lewis was the same. They've had to open their parcels at home ever since...

Marie's friends were having fun in the soft-play. Several parents had stuck around to help out and chat, which was good - it's always useful to have a few extra pairs of hands available to deal with accidents and toilet runs.

The boys grabbed their computer games from me and disappeared up a corner to play. We didn't let them in the soft-play because they're so big now. They'd have squashed Marie's petite associates or, worse, tried to take charge of them. Fraser attempted that at Lewis' party a couple of years ago and the younger children didn't take kindly to being told what to do, ambushing him in the ball-swamp and then sitting on him. It didn't go well.

The hour passed quickly and with little incident. Scary Karen brought her kids over to me and I looked down their throats and gently prodded their tummies before giving them a clean bill of health. Karen didn't seem convinced, so I took a set of magnets that Marie had been given and waved the things around a bit, looked at my watch carefully and scribbled down some calculations. Then I checked her boys' balance by getting them to stand on one leg and hop. I reassured Karen again after that and she was a lot happier. She gave Marie her present.

It was a pink, sparkly garden gnome princess (complete with pink, sparkly beard).

Marie was genuinely ecstatic.

When our session was up in the soft-play, we got to go through to a side room for food and games. While Sarah oversaw Pass the Parcel, Karen and Steve helped me hurriedly fling plates and refreshments and party blowers onto the tables. Then we had half an hour of relative peace during which exhausted children ignored the sandwiches and concentrated on eating chocolate.

Just as the sugar started to kick in, parents began turning up to collect their offspring. We did the cake and finished off with a quick game of Musical Statues while I and my helpers shoveled debris into bin bags. Marie handed party bags around and we were out the door barely in time for the staff to clean up for the next booking. It was all a mad rush in the end. Somehow we blinked and found ourselves in the car park, thankfully waving goodbye to a horde of tired, crotchety, buzzed children.

We could breathe again.

"Ready to go?" asked Steve.

I bundled the stuff into his car but it was Sarah's turn to get a lift. Marie wanted to go with her and, fortunately, I'd brought a spare booster seat to cope with the situation. A great deal of strapping and buckling ensued. I gently broke the news to the boys that we were going to walk home in order to make sure they got some exercise. They weren't happy. I phased out their whinging, though - Steve was looking pensive.

"You're not going to tell Deborah, are you?" he said.

It took me a moment to remember what he was talking about. A couple of hours of children's party had taken its toll.

I shook my head. "I don't need to. You have a daughter who's nearly five. Deborah will know everything within ten minutes of arriving home. You'd be best getting your version in first."

Fear crossed Steve's face as he considered all the things that Ophelia could both understand and say and thus use to incriminate him. It was a lot of things. Strangely, the possibility of independent and reasoned thought by his kids didn't seem to have occurred to him before. "Oh."

"Children are people, too," I said. Then I got another text. It was Karen wanting to know what noises would precede the world being eaten by a black hole, so she'd hear it coming and have a bit of warning to put on clean underwear.

Trying not to ponder that too carefully (for oh so many reasons), I waved Steve and the others goodbye and set off down the road, dragging the boys behind me.

I was very much looking forward to getting home and having a lie down.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Three words

Dear Dave,

It's amazing how quickly things change when small children are around. They're constantly getting bigger, developing new skills and requiring different care and attention. Just when you think you've got it sussed, they learn a new trick that turns your world upside down. Whether it's rolling over, eating solid food or knackering the lock on the front door so you have to climb in and out a window (been there...), you adapt to their behaviour. Within days, strapping them down, carrying a spoon and hiding your keys are second nature. Shortly after that, it becomes difficult to remember what life was like beforehand. Besides, there's never time to reminisce - you're already having to deal with the next change.

Do you recall what it was like having only one child? I suspect the memories are hazy now that it's been six months or so since Daisy's arrival. (Sorry to hear she's not coping well with teeth, by the way.) As for not having any children at all, that must seem like a half-forgotten dream. Isn't it weird going to visit people and discovering that their cupboards don't require a special trick to open and their kitchen chairs don't have plastic covers? It's like a strange alternate universe where kids aren't in charge. Freaky.

A couple of years ago, when the guys came round to shoot each other in computer games, I always lost because I was permanently distracted. It's not easy keeping a bottle in a baby's mouth when you need both hands to hold a controller. I kept ending up using my chin in some fashion or other but none of the possibilities really did wonders for my aim. Having to frequently leave the room to get more milk or wipes or a fresh nappy didn't help either. I always returned to find Rob grinning and my virtual self replaced by a pair of smoking boots.

Last year, things were different. All the kids were tucked up in bed by the time Mike and Rob arrived. We normally got to shoot each other in peace. I still tended to get blown to bits on a regular basis but it was much more relaxing without having to juggle an infant.

Now, it's all gone and changed again. The other night, we had to wait our turn for the telly. Marie gets to listen to some music at bed-time but she shares a room with Lewis and he doesn't like the music. Somehow he's managed to negotiate to be allowed to sit in the lounge and watch a Sonic the Hedgehog cartoon while her tape is on. We couldn't get going on our game until Dr Robotnik had suffered his usual 'hilarious' comeuppance. Even then, we had to keep relatively quiet so he got to sleep and so that Fraser didn't emerge to complain that we were disturbing his obsessive reading of Harry Potter.

All the interactive fitness gizmos I'd been mucking about with the other day were still lying around, so I thought we'd have a go on those, drink a beer and then see if our scores improved. I was looking forward to watching Steve flail about in front of the EyeToy. (That's another change - Useless Dad is now a regular at our little gatherings. Shockingly, perhaps that name isn't even accurate any more. I think the time has come to acknowledge his hard work and perseverance in the field of childcare, while still recognising his reluctance, insensitivity and lack of initiative. He is hereby promoted to Mostly Useless Dad.)

Things didn't go entirely to plan. We ended up playing Burnout with the music turned off.

"This is harder than it looks," said Rob, as he smacked his gleaming sports car into the front of a bus at a hundred miles an hour. Metal crumpled, other vehicles swerved, an HGV jack-knifed and a wheel bounced off down the street.

"Told you so," I said, steering my own car round the mayhem and claiming the lead.

"What was that thing you did with your chin?"

The race through city streets packed with traffic was moving too fast for me risk taking my eyes off the screen and check how he was doing with feeding baby Luke. The light splatter on the side of my neck suggested that all was not going well, however. Steve, meanwhile, was busy discouraging Josquin from chewing on a dance mat. The poor kid had some teeth coming through and had barely slept for days. (He's eighteen months or so. You've got a long way to go yet. Sorry.)

"He's looking tired," Steve said, prodding Josquin in the hope he'd fall over and pass out from exhaustion. "I think it's working. Drive faster, you two!"

I was already driving at such speed that my eyes were watering from squinting at the blur of polygons in my half of the screen, but I did my best. Engines roared, headlights flashed and obstacles swished past.

Josquin watched the screen. The sights and sounds became mesmerising. His eyelids drooped, the plastic slipped from his mouth and slowly, so very slowly, he keeled over sideways and started snoring.

At the same moment, I took the final corner at supersonic speed, spun out of control and crossed the line going backwards. It wasn't pretty but it was a win, nonetheless. I did a little victory dance - quietly and without moving much. It was more an excited toe-waggle than anything else.

"Luke's nodded off, too," whispered Rob. "Turn the sound down."

"I thought the little horrors were never going to stop crying," said Steve, slumping onto the sofa. He reached for the universal remote before I could stop him and failed completely in his efforts to work it. He proceeded to switch the TV to a repeat of Only Fools and Horses, turn on the surround sound and pump up the volume to maximum.

"You plonker!" yelled me, Rob and Del Boy in unison. A deafening roar of noise shook the walls, the subwoofer sent a seismic ripple through the carpet, Josquin stirred and Luke's eyes opened in shock. I grabbed the remote and pressed my specially-programmed emergency button. The surround sound went off, the VCR spluttered to life, the TV changed channel and the Teletubbies started to splash around in a puddle. We all held our breath. Luke looked at Laa-Laa blearily, smiled and fell back to sleep. Josquin rolled over but didn't wake. We all let out a sigh of relief.

"What did I miss?" said Mike, returning from a trip to the toilet.

"Shhh!" We all made the noise so loudly that it nearly woke the children again.

"Fine," he whispered. "Does this mean we can shoot things now?"

I nodded. "If you get me a beer."

"Right you are," he said and was back before I'd finished setting up the PlayStation. I was the only one drinking. Steve and Rob required their wits about them in case the kids tried anything. Mike had had all he wanted already. Unlike me, he's somehow able to hold a controller and a Guinness at the same time without mishap or impairment. I'd had to hold off because, up until that point, putting a can down would just have been an invitation for Josquin to try and eat it.

We settled to blasting each other with shotguns. I took a big swig of my beer so I could handle what I knew was coming.

"So, Ed," said Mike, "have you worked out who you are since last time?"

"Not really," I replied. You'll recall that Mike is concerned about me and how I'm adjusting to my ever-increasing obsolescence now the kids are getting older. As my friend, he's taken it upon himself to make me think a little harder about where I'm headed. Since he's also the minister at our church, he's been trained to a professional level of persistence that's wearing down my defenses. This was his third or fourth attempt to get me to talk in a couple of months. Pretty soon, I'm actually going to have to do it. "I'm still a housedad..."

Even as I said it, it felt unlike it had ever done before. Things have changed. I looked over at Steve, who had the pasty, grey complexion of a dad who really knew the meaning of full-time. He had dozed off himself, doubled over and with his controller acting as a makeshift pillow on his knees. The analogue sticks were creating little dents in his forehead. Every so often, the controller gave a faint rumble in a hopeless attempt to wake him.

Seeing him, I realised that describing myself as a housedad means a very different thing from what it did a couple of years ago. Even being a dad has changed:

Rob was still cradling Luke, afraid to put him down and cause another bout of screaming. The constant shifting about to maintain grip, avoid over-heating and stay comfortable was affecting his aim. I, however, had the kids in bed until morning. I was missing out on a stack of cuddles but I had the freedom to have a drink (or maybe two!) and relax for whole hours at a time.

Theoretically, anyway. After years of rushing round all day and being on call all night, it's hard to relax. I keep thinking, 'Time to myself and some semblance of energy to go with it - I must get things done!' Marie's started nursery but I feel like I'm getting less rest than I did before. Maybe it's good that I've got enthusiasm for other projects or maybe it's avoidance of Mike's question. I don't know.

"What three words would you use to describe yourself as a dad?" said Mike, pressing me further.

Since the kind of dad you are is really just an extension of who you are, that was simply another way of getting me to describe myself. Unfortunately, there was only one answer I could think of straight off. "Efficient," I said. "There's food in the fridge, the kids are ready for school on time and the house gets cleaned on schedule."

"Sounds fun," said Rob.

"I try to be fun as well," I said hurriedly. 'Efficient' - was that the best I could do? "And, er, sympathetic. I like to think I'm sympathetic."

"Are you?" asked Mike.

"I'm more sympathetic than I am fun, to be honest. Sarah's the fun parent. She's the one who comes home and plays with them before bed and takes them on trips at the weekend. I'm the one who has to make sure they get dressed on time, do what they're told and eat their vegetables."

"So you get things done and it's dull but you listen when the kids complain?" said Rob.

"That's not what I said."

"What did you say?" asked Mike.

"Hey! Stop ganging up on me!" Mike was serious but Rob was merely trying to distract me while he crept up behind me with a bazooka. I let him have it with a very large gun.

Before I could say anything else, Fraser appeared at the door. He was almost crying. "I've had a bad dream," he said.

I frowned. "Your light's only been out for ten minutes. You can't have been asleep."

"OK," he sniffed, "bad thoughts then."

"That was very sympathetic," muttered Rob.

"All right, all right," I said. "Back into bed Fraser. I'll come through and talk to you."

Once we were in his room, I asked him what the problem was.

Through tears, he said, "I was thinking about when we die and go to Heaven and we're with God. It'll go on forever and it'll never stop and that will be bad."

"Er, why?"

"Because we won't die and it will just go on forever," he said. Considering he has an aversion to change that stretches as far as never wanting the laminate floor in the kitchen replaced, this fear of eternity was perplexing.

"Not exactly," I said. "God is outside time and space and without time there can't be forever. Yes, Heaven won't end but that's not the same as..." I trailed off. Fraser was looking at me blankly. I cursed my natural propensity to mix physics and theology. I decided to go for a different approach. "We don't know what Heaven's going to be like. It's going to be so different from here that it's hard to describe, but Jesus promised that it will be good. Do you think he keeps his promises?"

Fraser smiled and nodded.

"Right, then don't worry about it. Lie down, close your eyes and think about Pokémon." I gave him a hug and he nestled back under his duvet. I returned to the lounge.

"Everything OK?" asked Mike, as I took my seat.

"Yes..." I said. I'd dealt with the issue sympathetically and efficiently and I'd managed to raise a smile in the process. It was a pleasing outcome. Maybe my self-analysis had been accurate after all. It was certainly something to think about.

"Good," said Mike. "Rob shot you fifteen times while you were gone."

Rob grinned. "It was an accident - honest."

"That's fine," I said. "I'm guessing from the smell that you're going to have to leave the room soon to change a nappy. I'll take the opportunity to be careless with a sniper rifle."

"Hey!" said Rob. "No fair!"

"You started it..."

"I suppose." He began to get up but the movement caused Steve to tip forwards and land kneeling on the floor, his face buried in the carpet. He continued to snore. "What do you reckon? Should we wake him up?"

"Let him sleep while he can," said Mike.

Rob sniggered as an idea struck him. "How about we shave off one of his eyebrows?"

It was tempting but I shook my head. "A couple of years ago, that was me. Another few months and it could be you. Leave him be. Go change that nappy and bring me another beer on the way back."

"As long as you don't shoot me while I'm gone."

"In your dreams."

"All right," he said, "as long as you don't shoot me much while I'm gone."

"Deal."

And so it was. The rest of the evening passed quite pleasantly...

* * *

Good luck coping with whatever the kids throw at you this week. It will probably be unexpected. It may well be pointy. It will almost certainly be different from last week.

That's part of the fun.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.