Mince pies and mistletoe

Dear Dave,

It was the Christmas party at Scary Karen's parent and toddler group today. I turned up early with Marie to help decorate. There were some streamers in the hall already and a decent sized tree complete with baubles and lights and, if I were running things, that would have been enough. Karen, however, adheres to the 'more is better' philosophy of holiday decor which holds that you simply can't have too much gaudy tack stuck to the walls when the festive season comes round. In her case, it doesn't even have to be relevant tack. She emptied out the Millennium Centre's store cupboard and we hung up everything we could find. Pretty soon, amongst the tinsel and stockings, the Easter Bunny stood atop a pile of grinning pumpkins. It had flashing red eyes and was wearing a Santa hat.

I set up the spinning disco lights. Trevor, the bouncer, inflated huge numbers of balloons with a single breath each. Karen's friend Bess put on some suitable musical accompaniment. It appeared to be the CD that all the shops have had on loop since mid-November. I suddenly felt the urge to buy lots of junk in a mad panic and did my best to phase out the jaunty melodies. I didn't do too badly until Slade came on and Marie started running round the room shouting, "It's Christmas!" at everybody.

She knew it to be true because Noddy Holder had told her so.

"Well, sort of," I said, when she got to me. "It's a Christmas party. It isn't actually Christmas until next week."

She considered this for a moment and then ran round the room again shouting, "It sort of Christmas! But not really!" at everybody. Then she came back to me and said, "Can I have a mince pie? Pleeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaase..." She made her eyes wide and pouted mournfully. She gave the impression she hadn't been fed in a week. I knew, however, that only half an hour previously, she'd taken one small bite of toast for breakfast and then declared herself finished.

"No," I said.

"Oh," said Marie. Her lower lip quivered and tears welled up. "But I'm huuun-greeee..."

"You should have eaten your breakfast then."

She started to sob. "You made me sad, daddy," she wailed and buried her face in her hands.

"Tough." I went back to wiring up the lights. The other adults nearby looked at me like I'd just told Tinkerbell to her face that fairies don't exist. I ignored them (and Marie) and, before long, the room was bathed in multicoloured swirls. Marie lay face down on the floor for a bit and then gave up. "I have mince pie later?" she said hopefully.

"OK," I replied.

She grinned, wiped her eyes and ran off to dance. I barely had time to grab a cup of coffee before she ran back and gleefully exclaimed, "It later now! I have mince pie?"

"Nice try," I said, sitting down amongst a group of mums.

"Awwwwww..." She tipped her head to the side, tucked in her upper lip and tried to drown me in eyes that were deep, pleading wells of sorrow.

"Not just now."

"You made me sad again, daddy," she said and threw herself back to the ground. The mums gave the impression that I'd just given Bambi the bad news in a rather callous fashion.

I ignored the looks (and Marie). "You all ready for Christmas?" I asked.

This brought on various tales of shopping woe and festive mayhem that distracted everyone. Marie got up and went back to dancing. The conversation eventually turned to advent calendars.

"Yeah, we got the kids a chocolate-filled one each last year," I said. "They kept forgetting to open them and we ended up with a stock-pile of little edible Scooby-Doos that lasted well into January. They've got one between them this year and we're still three days behind. The only one who's organised is Lewis. He's on the bottom bunk and has taken to suspending an additional stuffed animal from the slats above him every day in the run-up to Christmas. It's less of an advent calendar, more of an advent toy lynching."

"Christmas sounds like fun in your house," said Jess.

"Shouldn't be too bad really. We're off to Sarah's sister's for the actual day. Her husband will make a few snide comments about my place being in the kitchen but, apart from that, it'll be fine. How about you?"

It transpired that they would all be experiencing a mixture of custody wrangles, bickering with relatives and Brain Training. The first two were quickly glossed over in favour of comparing which family members they were getting a Nintendo DS for Christmas. It ranged from kids to grannies. This moved on to some discussion of how much the 'discs' cost and how the bit with the rocket when you do well is ace. I just sat there, somewhat perplexed. By rights, I should have had a great deal to say on the topic but, after years of not having anyone to talk to about computer games at parent and toddler, I was dumbfounded to suddenly be surrounded by women promoting a game as both entertainment and mental exercise. It was as stupefying as my mum suddenly admitting she was thinking of becoming a Jedi and asking me where she could get hold of one of those 'lightswords'. I just sat and looked surprised, wishing I'd bought shares in Nintendo a few years ago.

Marie broke me out of my trance by shouting in my ear. "Is it later yet?"

"No."

She didn't even blink. "And now?" she said, smiling endearingly.

"Nope."

Pause. "And now?" She did the cutest little dance you've ever seen and, still smiling sweeter than a Sugar Puff dipped in saccharine, she asked, "Can I have a mince pie, nooooooooooooooooooooow...?"

"In ten minutes," I said. She threw herself down and cried into the floor again.

The mums looked at me like I'd just flushed the Andrex puppy down a toilet.

"Oh, look," I said, directing their attention elsewhere. "Santa!"

I don't normally imagine Santa with tattoos. Or bald, for that matter. Still, the red suit and fake, white beard gave the impression that Trevor was at least attempting to pretend to be Santa. He didn't look too happy about it, though. I can only assume that Scary Karen had used her feminine wiles to talk him into it. She'd slipped on a slinky, fur-trimmed, scarlet outfit complete with Santa hat. It was surprisingly fetching in a scary kind of way. It also seemed liable to burst at the seams at any moment in an even scarier kind of way. I had visions of an explosion and nothing being left but the hat.

I quickly focused myself on Trevor. He really wasn't looking too good. I imagine he'd be totally up for catching bullets with his teeth but he's quite nervous with kids. Still, all he had to do was sit on a chair, pull the gifts out of a sack, read the labels and call over the children to take them. How hard could it be?

It was unfortunate that the first three gifts he pulled out were for Mateusz, Enkhjin and Joao. Karen had to bend over to help him make out the names. Each time, I tensed myself in preparation for the velvet and ermine shrapnel, and then sighed in relief when the catastrophe never came.

After that, it was Marie's turn.

I picked her up off the floor and gave her a little shove. She trotted over to Trevor, who held out the parcel to her at arms length. He was oblivious to the creaking bodice-work beside him and seemed worried that it was Marie that might explode.

He may have had a point.

She looked at the parcel briefly, obviously torn over whether to take it. She glanced at the sack to see if there was anything more promising in there. She peered suspiciously at Trevor's fluffy beard. Then she made the eyes and pulled the face. "I reaaaa-leeeeeee want a mince piiiiiiie..."

"Er, I don't have mince pies," said Trevor. "Just this." He shook the parcel and grimaced slightly.

She threw herself at the floor and started to cry again.

I rushed over, grabbed her and the parcel, and then whisked her out of the way. "Santa doesn't have any mince pies!" she wailed.

"It's OK," I reassured her. "That's not really Santa and Santa's not really real anyway."

It's possible I may have said this a little too loudly.

Every adult in the room looked at me like I'd just stood on Tinkerbell while wearing fluffy slippers made from Bambi and the Andrex puppy. Luckily, every child in the room remained transfixed by the sack of presents.

"Would you like a mince pie?" I asked Marie hurriedly.

"Yes, please!" she said and we beat a retreat to the refreshment trolley. The whole thing was a close call... but I think we got away with it. The gift-giving resumed and everyone relaxed again. Soon, toddlers were dancing once more and I was being offered something warm and spicy in a mug. Jess had mulled some of her homemade wine specially.

I've never had green mulled wine before. I looked at it nervously.

"It's the spinach," Cress whispered.

I shrugged and tried some. It actually tasted kind of all right - not disagreeable as such but you wouldn't ask for it specially. I guess a lot of Christmas is like that. I had a second helping for no other reason than it was there. I guess a lot of Christmas is like that, too. It seemed to make Jess happy, though.

Marie opened her parcel. It was a set of pretend medical supplies containing a stethoscope, a rectal thermometer, a pair of scissors, a hammer and... a spoon. All the essentials of a home surgery kit, apparently. She was delighted and set about listening to my knees as she took their temperature.

The time slipped away and then, all of a sudden, it was half-past eleven. We had places to be but I was reluctant to get our coats. The Millennium Centre is going to be closed at the start of January so Karen's toddler group won't be on again until after Marie has started nursery. Today was our last one. It was odd looking around at the familiar faces and toys, knowing that, barring sanity-threatening accidents, I'd never be back. I lingered, finding it hard to leave, not knowing quite how to say good-bye.

Then I realised that Scary Karen had found some mistletoe.

I wished everyone a merry Christmas and headed out the door.

It was time to go.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

The disappeared

Dear Dave,

Marie starting nursery seems to have been a tantalisingly close prospect for a long time now. Back at the beginning of the year, I thought there'd be an in-take after the October Week holiday and, since Marie's birthday is late September, I was hoping she'd get in then. Just before the summer holidays, I found out she wouldn't be eligible for a place until after Christmas. More recently, I started to hear rumours of place shortages at the nursery attached to the boys' school. There were tales of kids having to wait months, even though they were already three; accounts of parents having to beg, plead and shout to get their children in; whispers of vast hordes of Polish four-year-olds invading the area and demanding pre-school education; suggestions that Marie might have to wait until August 2008...

I'd got used to thinking it was several months away - just about in sight but too distant to really plan for. Now, suddenly, I know she's got a morning place in January. I'll have a couple of hours or so each day without children. In five weeks. It's actually going to happen. I can hardly believe it. I'm BobBIng UP aNd DOwn aS I tYPe. There are all kinds of possibilities.

I can hardly wait but, now it's all more of a reality, I can't help feeling a little pang of fear. I will no longer have a small child in my care every minute of the day to justify my existence. On occasion, I will have to be a person in my own right. That's going to be strange.

Stranger still, there will be no more parent and toddler.

Admittedly, I've been feeling like I'm serving out my time there for a while. I go along and drink my hot drink, eat some biscuits and stare into space while Marie entertains herself. I chat a bit but, if no one I know is around, I'm not desperate to introduce myself to new people.

The idealised image of these groups suggests I should have a core band of friends to go to the cafe and talk potty issues and sleep deprivation with by now. It's not happened, though. I just haven't collected a little clique of coffee-drinking companions.

Some of this is probably down to being a man. Place thirty mums and a dad in a room and tell them to make some friends, and the dad is almost bound to be at a disadvantage. Throw in another dad, and the two of them will stick together but there's no saying that they'll have anything more in common than being trapped in a room full of sleep deprived women and children with potty issues. This is not necessarily a recipe for long term friendship.

Oh and, chances are, the second dad will just be giving his partner a break on his day off from work and the first dad will never see him again anyway.

Grrr.

Yep, some of the reasons for not having a coffee shop clique are down to being a man but, let's face it, some of them are down to me. I'm quite shy, I struggle to start conversations and I've never been much of a coffee shop person. On top of that, when Lewis was young, I had depression, which is never helpful when making friends. When Marie was small, there simply wasn't time in the schedule between changes, feeds and school runs for any caffeine-based socialising .

It's not like it's been a total washout, though. I have made a few friends who live close by - just not very many of them compared with the number of people I've chatted to. I've made far more acquaintances. Unfortunately, in most cases, at the point I was starting to get to know them better, they disappeared. One week they were at parent and toddler and the next they weren't... ever again.

At one of the groups I attend, the other parents have all changed three or four times. Even the helpers have changed twice.

Often they've gone without me noticing. It's quite normal for people to be off sick or on holiday for weeks at a time. It's only after a month that it becomes clear they're not coming back. And there's no way of contacting them. The organisers aren't allowed to hand out personal details (if they even have them) and, by then, two-thirds of the other parents are liable to struggle to remember who I'm talking about, let alone where they live. (My descriptions don't usually help much. 'You know, that tired looking mum with brown hair and a couple of kids. She used to wear a scarf quite a lot...')

Where have these people gone?

There's no way of knowing. Have they moved house or got a job? Have they fallen out with someone or found a better group elsewhere? Has the kid taken to napping in the middle of the morning? Has the parent taken to lounging around in coffee shops? Are they all OK? Has there been a disaster? Was it anything to do with zombies?

It would be nice to know. Sometimes the family shows up again at nursery or with another child or when the kid starts napping in the afternoon once more. Other times, they're just gone. Vanished. Disappeared.

I wonder where they all went...

New people ask me, "Have you been coming here for a while?"

It's quite interesting watching their reaction when I say, "Six and a half years."

There's nearly always a slight double-take and some nervous laughter. New helpers realise that I know a great deal more about how the group works than they do. New parents realise the length of journey they might have begun.

And now my own journey is about to change course. In a few weeks, I will be one of the disappeared.

I can't help feeling a little sad and, as I said before, a little scared. Where has the time gone? What mark have I left? Will people wonder where I've gone and then struggle to remember my name?

I have to assume so.

Still, I've given plenty of advice and sympathy in my time. Hopefully it's done some good. More than that, parent and toddler has got me out of the house, given me the chance to talk to people old enough not to idolise the Teletubbies and provided me with a steady supply of hot drinks and biscuits. I've been very glad of it... but it's time to move on. I have a different life ahead of me.

I'm kind of hoping that it involves coffee shops and not zombies...

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Parent and toddler night out

Dear Dave,

Glad to hear you're well and you're finding your feet with the new routine. It's great news that Daisy is sleeping better.

Thanks for asking how things went the other evening. Apart from minor bruising to my face, I survived. It was a peculiar night, though. I suppose you want the full story. All right then. I'll start in the middle...

* * *

"This isn't what I signed up for," said Trevor, the silver tinsel of his Deely boppers reflecting off the dome of his bald head.

I could barely make out what he was saying over the blaring of Chesney Hawkes. "I know what you mean," I said, surveying the dance floor which was mostly full of slightly tipsy women who were old enough to remember a time before Margaret Thatcher became Prime Minister but were wearing outfits they'd bought when she was still in power. "I think I'm going blind..." Then I caught sight of Scary Karen gyrating as she screamed out the lyrics to One and Only and I added, "...but not fast enough." I had another big gulp of my beer.

* * *

To be honest, the parent and toddler night out had never held much promise for me but I hadn't expected it to go downhill so badly.

When I arrived at the local Chinese, there were plenty of mums already seated at a long table. They were still waiting on Karen and a few other, though. I squeezed up a darkened corner with Trevor, the group's stocky bouncer. We ordered drinks and I just hoped for the time to pass quickly.

Then Eleanor arrived.

The temperature around the table dropped so rapidly that it started to snow on the prawn crackers. The only time most of us had met Eleanor previously, she'd forced us to sing in harmony and to paint with our children. (As you'll remember, by 'with', I don't mean 'alongside', I mean 'using'.) I call her the GrandParent of Doom.

"Good evening, ladies. I'm afraid Julia can't make it this evening - her babysitter called off. Seeing as a seat has been booked for her, and I have attended one of your delightful nursery gatherings in the past, I thought I might join you."

There was much muttering around the table. If her daughter couldn't find a sitter, why hadn't the GPD gone to look after the kids rather than turning up at the restaurant to make us all miserable?

Also, why did she have two large bags with her?

"Quiet please," said the GPD, shushing us. "As these events are so rare, I brought some items to make the evening especially memorable." She reached into one of the bags and brought out a pair of the Deely boppers which she placed regally on her head and then she reached into the other bag and brought out t-shirts.

* * *

Did I mention the t-shirts before?

As we sat at the bar of the seedy club with the mature clientele, Trevor and I were wearing white t-shirts that the GPD had obviously prepared well in advance for our humiliation. If they'd had 'Young, free and single' written on them, I could probably have lived with the irony. 'Worn-out, tied-down & reproduced', however, was not so much to my liking.

I was desperate to get home and put the offending garment at the back of the wardrobe beside my other emergency t-shirts. These were all 'amusing' gifts from in-laws. One says 'My other toddler is well-behaved' and a second has 'Don't follow me... my children bite'. The third was actually useful for crossing roads when the kids were small and I wasn't getting much sleep. It's emblazoned with 'Honk if I've got my eyes closed.'

* * *

Eleanor went round the table handing out the t-shirts and came to our corner last. It was an extra dark corner by then because I'd snuffed out all the candles I could reach in the forlorn hope she wouldn't see us.

Well, it was worth a try.

She handed me my t-shirt stiffly. "I see that, after a hard day encouraging other men's wives to abandon their ideals, you've abandoned your own wife while you cavort with... Trevor!"

I blinked. I'd been ready to rebut the put down, to tell her to stop forcing her ideals on her daughter and to inform her that Sarah was quite pleased to have me out of the house for once. Trevor really isn't my type, though. I was momentarily thrown by the accusation.

She'd forgotten all about me. "I hadn't realised you'd be here, Trevor. How delightful to meet again. I'm sorry we didn't get much opportunity to chat last time. Now let me see..." She hunted around in her bag of t-shirts before handing him one the size of a small tent. "I brought a couple of extremely large ones in case Karen has a sister." Then she sat down beside him, put her chin on her clasped hands and batted her eyelids.

* * *

The club seemed to be having some kind of an eighties night. It made me think of school discos and, oddly, Wotsits. A worrying thought struck me. "What time is it?" I asked. My watch had had an unfortunate Play-Doh related accident the day before.

Trevor checked his. "Twenty-five past ten."

"We need to go. We need to go now."

He heard the panic in my voice and, for the second time that evening, I saw fear in his eyes. "Why?"

I searched frantically in my pocket for my cloakroom stub. "We have to be out of here before half-past ten. We can't be here when..."

But it was too late. Wham! had faded and The Weather Girls were already beginning to crank up.

Trevor was oblivious. "What happens at half ten?"

"That's when it's supposed to start raining men," I gibbered, "and, if you hadn't noticed, male precipitation is a bit thin on the ground this evening." I swept my arm to take in the expanse of the room. There were almost no other unattached blokes there. On the other hand, there were quite a few lonely girls who'd left their umbrellas at home. Nearly all of them were looking at us. I reckoned we had until the chorus to escape. "Run for your..."

I turned round and nearly fell over Eleanor.

* * *

The GPD continued to sweet-talk Trevor as we ordered our food. He sat nervously, his mouth slightly open, unable to make his voice work.

Trevor is at least ten years older than me but Eleanor is at least ten years older than him. It had obviously never crossed his mind to think of her in that way before. And, judging by the look on his face, now he'd had the thought, he was terrified by it. Karen might be scary but the GPD is actually frightening.

Karen still hadn't showed up and the rest of us were unwilling to fight.

We put our t-shirts and Deely boppers on.

* * *

Eleanor slowed me up long enough for Karen's friend Tess to grab hold of my arm and yank me bodily onto the dance floor. I suddenly found myself strutting my not-so-funky stuff. Fortunately, it was quite dark. Unfortunately, that just made my t-shirt glow even brighter purple. We'd walked like an Egyptian and fought for our right to party before I had a fresh chance to escape. Even then, the exit was blocked by Cress and Jess, who looked like they wanted to get in on the action, too

Could have been worse, though. At least I wasn't having to dance with Eleanor.

* * *

By the time Karen turned up for the meal, it was too late. The GPD was all smiles for Trevor but the rest of us had been lambasted about everything from the names of our children to our choice of footwear. We were afraid to speak and shiny tinsel rustled every time we moved our heads. Karen did fight back but the only seat left for her was right at the other end of the table. That end had livened up by the time desserts were served but my end was reduced to listening to the fun Karen's end was having.

Everyone had plenty to drink.

Of course, Trevor had been hoping to make his move on Karen but there was no chance of that. She was too far away and the GPD wouldn't leave him alone. I shot him the occasional sympathetic glance but he was too shell-shocked to really notice. It was a relief when the bill arrived. I thought it was over.

"Let's go to a club," said Tess. "I know a good place that's not far away."

There was plenty of merry agreement.

But then, no one had been expecting Eleanor to come along.

* * *

"Mind if I cut in?" I shimmied between Trevor and Eleanor and then spun him off across the room.

"Hey! None of that!" He tried to bat me away.

I ducked. He'd dragged me along to the club for support. I hadn't wanted to go. I'd wanted to head home to my Xbox. I was going to do my best for him, whether he liked it or not. "Would you really rather dance with her?" I said, pointedly.

"Er..."

"Anyway," I shouted over the music, taking advantage of his confusion, "I'm off to climb out the window of the gents any minute. You won't fit, so you're going to have to come up with another plan. I suggest you make your move on Karen. It's the only way to get the GPD to leave you alone."

"Who?"

"The GP... Oh, never mind. Who do you think? I had a word with the DJ. The next song should be suitable."

"I..." He was still confused.

"No need to thank me. Just collect my coat on the way out." I pressed my cloakroom ticket into his hand. "I'll get it from you at parent and toddler."

"But what if..."

I remembered that he responds well to being ordered about. "Show some backbone, man. Tell her how you feel. Let her see your passion."

"If you really think..."

"I do. Now, I'll leave you to it. If we dance together any longer at this time of night, then club etiquette seems to suggest that I've got to snog you. I don't think either of us want that, although I'm sure it would be another way to put Eleanor off."

This, at least, he wasn't confused about. "I'd rather tell Karen."

"You'll have to do more than that," I yelled. "You're going to have to show her your moves. Good luck."

We'd discoed our way towards the toilets. As the song ended, I struck my best Travolta pose, spun round with a flourish and disappeared through the door. I was already halfway out into the night air by the time Dancing Queen got going.

I paused, my feet balanced on a urinal. I couldn't quite bring myself to leave. I slipped back inside and crept over to the door. I opened it just a crack to see what was happening.

For an instant, I thought the dance floor was empty. But no! Trevor and Karen were in the centre, tripping the light fantastic. Their t-shirts luminesced blindingly and they were bathed in multi-coloured swirls from a dozen disco balls. It was a sight to behold. Everyone else had got out of the way to avoid being injured.

I stood mesmerised until the song finished and, to my delight, they went with club etiquette. There were cheers from the other parent and toddler members around the room. I smiled. My work there was done.

Then I noticed that not quite everyone was cheering.

Eleanor was livid and her eyes were sweeping the room, hunting for something.

Someone.

She knew. She knew I'd talked him into it.

Her eyes came to a stop, fixed on the gents. I was sure she couldn't see me. The door was only open the tiniest fraction. She couldn't possibly... And I was in the gents, anyway. She wouldn't...

She began to march over.

She was coming for me.

It wasn't the softest landing as I hit the cobbles of the alley but my face broke my fall and I was up and running within moments. I dashed off down the street, the heads of passersby turning to watch me, but I didn't look back.

I was almost home before I remembered to take off my Deely boppers.

* * *

I got my coat back today. Trevor and Karen were all smiles. I'll let you know how it works out for them.

I'm not looking forward to my next meeting with Eleanor, though. Could be messy.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Wooing Scary Karen

Dear Dave,

Your last letter was pretty short but it was good to know you're still alive. I take it that Daisy is being hard work at moment. Don't worry. It won't be long before you figure out how to leave the house in between feeds, nappy changes, Sam's mealtimes, sleeps and your own intravenous injections of coffee. If you start running low on food in the meantime, there's always home delivery. At least, with Liz on maternity, you have extra help and you don't have to faff with sterilisers and bottles. Sleep in shifts, if you have to.

How many people have asked if you're planning any more yet, by the way?

We're doing OK. To begin with, Steve didn't come round here as much as I expected. I guess losing his job took a couple of weeks to sink in. That or Deborah decided to go easy on him for a few days. Now, though, it's half-term (or October Week as they call it in the local lingo) and, with no nursery for Ophelia, he's been encouraged to take the kids out and about so Deborah can get some work done. It being October Week, there's no parent and toddler, swimming lessons or other regular activities. 'Take the kids out and about' essentially means go round to Ed's house and eat all his biscuits.

Of course, I'm no longer obliged to make him less of a Useless Dad. He isn't my wife's boss any more and so my deal with Deborah has expired. I don't need her help to keep his useless management abilities under control. Still, I feel a bit sorry for him and, also, Ophelia gets on really well with Marie, so I don't mind him turning up too much. It's just that every day is going a little far.

Yesterday I tried getting out of the house before he arrived but the bell went while we were still putting our coats on.

"We're just off," I said, as soon as I'd opened the door. I used the buggy and a couple of children to block his way in.

He looked crest-fallen. "Where are you going?"

"We're off to meet Sc... er, Karen." I've had to stop calling Scary Karen by that name around the house. Marie started repeating it. This made me afraid.

"Which one's she?"

"Erm..." How was I supposed to describe Karen? "She's a slightly older mum with two children, Malcolm and William. She's quite large. Got disqualified from the paintballing. Remember?"

Steve's eyes widened. "Oh! The scary woman with the enormous..."

"Yep, that's the one. She's got something organised in the park."

"But it looks like it's going to rain."

I shrugged. "I'm suspecting it's going to absolutely chuck it down but I said I'd go. It's a case of get wet or suffer Karen's wrath."

"I see what you mean," he said, trying to get inside. "How long are you going to be? I'll put the kettle on, ready for when you get back."

"Nice try," I said, ushering my children out of the house and locking the door firmly behind me. Steve's shoulders slumped despite the fact he was already bent nearly double over a buggy that was way too low for him. It just added to his general air of despondency. He hadn't shaved and his smart suits had been replaced by casualware which was already becoming ripped and crusty after only a few days of involved parenting. I took pity on him. "If you want to come with us, you can."

It was his turn to shrug. He didn't have many options. We walked round to the park.

There was quite a crowd. I didn't know half the mums there and many of the ones I did know had brought along older children that I'd previously only been vaguely aware of. Super~Mum, Julia, had her four with her and they were busily erecting a large shelter from poles and plastic sheeting. Considering her eldest is only eight, it was a pretty impressive sight. I was surprised, though, that the GrandParent of Doom wasn't standing over them sternly, holding a stopwatch and a whistle.

"Is your mother about?" I asked Julia, nervously. The GPD and I have some unpleasant history.

"She's busy cleaning my house."

"That's handy," I said, relieved.

She shook her head. "Not really. I had to tidy up specially before she came round."

"Ah. She hasn't lightened up much then?"

"No. She's been even worse since I told her that I'm thinking of sending the children to school."

"In your situation, I can't imagine I'd ever be thinking of much else." Julia currently home-schools her children.

She nodded and looked very tired. "I'm not sure I can keep going with teaching all four of them. She's offered to help more but, well..." She trailed off for a moment at the thought of yet more 'help' from her mum, then she shuddered and recovered. "I suppose she's just upset she won't see so much of them. She's taken a bit of a huff and didn't want to come out today."

"Ho, well, probably for the best," I said, holding out my hand to catch the first drops of a light shower. "I can't imagine she copes well with rain."

Julia looked quizzical.

"I'm shrinking! I'm shrinking!" I squealed, contorting myself into my best Wicked Witch of the West impression.

"I don't know what you mean," Julia said in mock outrage as she stifled a laugh. The rain started to fall harder. "I'd better help the kids."

"Right with you."

We were quickly joined by several other adults and the tent was up in no time. We all squashed in like toddlers round someone else's toy and waited for the shower to pass. Marie and Ophelia started running around trying to drink the rain and a few of the other kids copied. Some of the older children started a game of football. Fraser and Lewis stood and complained about the dampness and the lack of computer games until I told them that, if they got really wet, we might go home sooner. This encouraged them towards the kick-about. I stood shivering under the awning and dreamed of being back home with my Xbox. Then I suddenly realised that I was crushed up against Karen.

"So? Are you coming on the night out?" she asked.

"Wha-? I... Wha-?" I replied, my tongue making random noises as my brain struggled to take in the horror. "Night out?" I finally managed.

"We're having a parent and toddler night out. Didn't anyone tell you? It's at the Chinese round the corner. We went there for Tess' divorce party but that's OK, they'll have forgotten us by now. We had a lovely meal. I had the duck but I was paying for it for days afterwards. That was the time I had to go to the hospital for... (I zoned out for several minutes at that point) ...Jess told me to put him down but I'd just got the hang of the chopsticks and... (More happy thoughts seemed in order) ...that's the last time I'm taking the bus to Glasgow, I'm telling you. Unless I really have a chimpanzee with me. Bloody cheek! Next time... (Yep. Kids still happy and playing. Everything fine with the world) ... Great. So we'll see you there about eight?... (More dreaming. I... What?)"

I was brought back from my happy place with a shock. I'd obviously nodded and smiled at a very unfortunate moment. It was too late to back out. "Is Trevor coming?" I said in a panic.

"Oh, I hadn't thought to ask him. He's not really a parent but he is always helping out. Do you think I should?"

"Yes, yes," I said. Trevor is a hulking ex-soldier who's almost as scary as Karen but I was desperate for any kind of male backup. I didn't want to be the only man around when a dozen mums got their first chance in months to let their hair down. "How about you, Steve? Are you...?" I turned around but he'd disappeared. He's obviously not completely daft.

"Oi, out the way." A three-year-old shoved me aside and stuck his head up Karen's shirt looking for elevenses. It seemed like a good opportunity to go join in the football. At least I was pretty sure it was her three-year-old this time but still...

Lewis and Fraser were struggling. The makeshift pitch was becoming swampy and their natural aversion to getting messy was competing with their overwhelming desire to go home. They were happy enough to kick the ball themselves but kept running away from it when it got kicked towards them, in case it got them muddy. I joined their team for a bit to help get them going. Once they were properly dirty, they got quite into it.

I slipped away to check on Marie. She was with Julia's kids. I was pleased to discover that they were doing my job for me, teaching her the names of various plants in the shrubbery around the edges of the park, and I left them to it. I only found out later that it was the Latin names, they were teaching. Now I've got to tell her to watch out for the Urtica dioica whenever she's heading for a patch of nettles. Handy.

As predicted, it was beginning to chuck it down. Steve had already gone. I went back to the tent to collect up my stuff. I passed Karen and Trevor just as a mum raced over and pointed to the other side of the park. A man was taking his dog for a walk. A very foolish man.

Karen instantly rummaged around in her handbag and pulled out a whistle, a plastic bag, an official letter from the council confirming that no dogs are allowed in the park and a chunky, rubber-coated device that, for a moment, I thought was a torch. Then she pounded off towards the man, tooting loudly.

"That was a taser," I said to Trevor once she was out of earshot.

He nodded. "Ach, the bloke's got it coming. It's the little old ladies she catches smoking in bus stops that I feel sorry for."

"She...? No, I don't want to know. How are you doing?"

"Can't complain. Karen's just invited me out for a Chinese."

"Er..." I said. Trevor has a thing for Karen. This is part of what makes him so scary (along with the fact he could crush me like a bug using only his eyebrow). "You do know all her mates are going to be there? And me?"

"Oh, yeah," he muttered, "but I don't want to rush things. She's a very attractive woman, that Karen. Gives me the chance to use some of my charm with no kids about. Yeah, tell my joke, show her a few tattoos and my shrapnel scar, arm-wrestle if she's up for it..."

I wasn't sure what to say. We both stood in the rain and watched Karen off in the distance chasing a rottweiler.

"I should go help her," said Trevor but didn't move.

"I think she's got it covered," I said and then had an idea. "If you really want to impress her, though, you could go check on her children. Make sure they're OK and keep them entertained."

"How do I do that, then?"

I shrugged. "You could try showing them your tattoos."

"What about the scar?"

"Depends where it is." He bent over and let me see behind his ear. "Yep, that'll be fine," I said, without looking too closely.

"You really think..." He seemed surprisingly nervous about the whole suggestion.

I rolled my eyes and pulled childcare rank. "You've seen active service in three different countries. Are you telling me you can't handle two small children for five minutes?"

"No."

"Then hop to it, man."

"Right, yes." I was mildly disappointed that he didn't salute and call me 'sir' but at least he went off and followed orders.

"See you at the night out," I called after him and then gathered up my own children and headed home.

We were soaked and, as we opened our gate, I was looking forward to a hot cup of tea, some dry socks and a little peace and quiet. Unfortunately, Steve and his children were huddled by the door under an improvised shelter constructed from our recycling bins. "You took your time," he said. I was about to tell him where to go but he held up a large paper bag and said, "The cakes have gone a bit soggy."

At least he's learning something, I guess.

I let everyone in and turned on the heating. We all ended up under blankets watching The Little Mermaid. Maybe that will discourage him from coming round today.

Nope. There goes the doorbell again...

I'd better go. All the best with getting some sleep.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Worlds collide

Dear Dave,

I'm a dead man.

Sarah is going to kill me. I'm surprised she hasn't left work early and come home to do it already. Maybe she's just stopped off at B&Q to buy some bladed garden equipment... Or a nailgun... Seriously, once I've finished writing this I'm throwing a change of underwear and all the gadgets I can carry into a suitcase and heading for Bolivia. She'll never find me there.

The day started well. I was at parent and toddler and everything was going fine but then I ended up sitting next to Useless Dad at biscuit time again. Scary Karen was sitting across from us and I waved but she was too busy telling Stefania the details of her colonoscopy to notice.

Useless Dad looked up from his newspaper. "Your wife sent you here again as well?" His baby son was lying at his feet, a rattle having rolled just out of reach. I picked it up and gave it back. The baby smiled and giggled in a transparent attempt to get himself adopted. I could see his three-year-old sister in the distance filling her shoes with Play-Doh.

I played dumb. "Yeah, you could say that."

"Deborah threatened to pour away my whisky collection if I didn't take the kids out of the house."

"Really?" I said. I'd met his wife a few times. She'd seemed calm and confident. I was suddenly concerned that having to do pretty much all the child-raising herself had caused her to lose it.

"Yes. This is getting totally out of hand. I'm going to have no end of work to make up. I might only be able to play golf twice this week."

"Really..." She wasn't losing anything. She was taking back what was hers.

Then my day took a rapid down-turn.

"My God, what is that woman doing?" said Useless Dad rather loudly. I glanced across to see Karen wapping out one of her enormous bosoms in order to feed her baby.

"Er, that's Sca... er, Karen," I said in a low voice. "She's just giving the baby some milk."

No one else seemed to have heard him. I think we would have gotten away with it if Karen's toddler hadn't wandered over to her just then looking peckish.

"Is that even legal?" squealed Useless Dad as the other undulating meal was wrestled into view and shoved into the waiting boy's mouth.

The conversation around us died. Other parents glared at us. And when I say other parents, I of course mean mums. We were the only men in the room and we were staring goggle-eyed at a breast-feeding woman. Useless Dad was even pointing. This was not the sensitive, enlightened image of fatherhood I have worked hard to cultivate over the years. I reached over and lowered his outstretched finger.

Karen was looking at us with a visage normally reserved for Norse gods who are about to do some smiting. I edged as far away from Useless Dad as I could without falling off my seat. Grinning nervously, I whispered out of the corner of my mouth. "Shouldn't you be leaving? Aren't you going to try working from home this week?"

He shook his head. "My laptop is still having the vomit removed after last week."

"Oh." I grinned harder and gave Karen a friendly wave. Her countenance only darkened further. Little lightning bolts sparked around her. Everyone was now watching us closely, waiting to see whether we would run or die. Some of them were obviously looking forward to a good smiting.

It was every parent for themselves.

I surreptitiously waved the remaining half of my biscuit at Marie and then gestured extravagantly towards Useless Dad. "New guy, everyone." I still couldn't remember his name but it wouldn't have made an impact anyway. I told them what they needed to know. "This is Deborah's husband."

Eyes widened, realisation dawned and understanding swept the hall. Those mums in the know turned to those next to them and began recounting their favourite tales of Useless Dad. Only a few continued to eye me with suspicion.

Marie ran over and grabbed my half-eaten chocolate digestive. "Thanks. I eat biscuit."

"Good, girl. I love you," I whispered so that only she could hear.

"I love you, daddy!" She shouted back and gave me a big hug.

After that, I was safe. I had an endearing guardian angel sitting on my lap (or a human shield dressed entirely in garish pink, depending on how you want to look at it). There were audible, "Aaawws!" from around the room. The storm passed. Karen finally returned my wave and went back to talking to her Polish friend.

I didn't want to push my luck, however. "We should probably go now," I said.

"Where to?"

"Er... home?"

"Deborah told me not to come back until lunchtime."

"Why not?"

"She wouldn't say but she'd looked out a leotard, a box of chocolates, the soundtrack to Pretty Woman, two cans of paint and some dust covers."

"That doesn't sound good." I would have suggested a trip to the swing-park but it was raining. I didn't fancy his chances of surviving a trip to the shops, the library was closed and I didn't want his kids loitering in a damp bus shelter for over an hour. "Er... Want to come round to ours for a bit?"

"Can I check my email?"

"I guess."

"Great. Let's go," he said, suddenly very keen.

"The girls should get on well."

"What? Oh, yeah... Yeah... How fast is your broadband, did you say?"

We wrapped up our various offspring, emptied out their footwear and headed back to our house. Marie led her new friend off to destroy some toys together, Useless Dad logged on and I looked out an old baby-seat for his sleeping son.

After I'd provided half an hour of free childcare, Useless Dad came through and said, "Your internet connection has stopped working."

"It does that sometimes," I said, kicking the cable I'd just yanked from the wireless router out of sight. "It might be down for a while. Cup of coffee?"

Grudgingly, he followed me through to the kitchen and was somewhat thrown by the confusion of colour. I've put off redecorating by covering all the available wallspace with the kids' artwork. He raised his eyebrows at our Nintendo-themed calendar. He perhaps realised that an infestation of children only becomes harder to ignore as they get older.

"What is it you do again?" he asked.

"I look after the children."

"When you're not looking after the children."

There are many tempting things to say in this kind of situation, such as, 'I'm not telling you my secret identity', 'Sleep' or 'Shh! When they can't see me, they think I don't exist'. All are true but usually take more explaining than is really worthwhile. "No, that is my job," I said.

"Oh..." said Useless Dad. "What does your wife do then?"

"She's a marketing analyst."

"Where?"

"LBO." He looked confused and didn't respond. To fill in the awkward silence, I asked, "What is it you do?"

"I'm head of marketing at LBO."

"Oh..." I suddenly recalled Useless Dad's name. It was Steve. Sarah's manager is also called Steve. He's quite useless as well. For there to be two useless managers called Steve in LBO's relatively small marketing department was really quite a coincidence. I mean what are the chances of...

My eye developed a spontaneous twitch. I inhaled sharply as if someone had stood on my toe. I stifled a whimper. On the list of people not to invite into your home, the wife's evil, misguided boss is pretty near the top, just above Dracula and Jabba the Hutt.

"What was your wife's name again?"

"Er..." I decided to lie and said the first name that popped into my head. "Brian?"

I remembered the two reasons why I normally don't lie: a) It's bad and wrong. b) I'm rubbish at it.

"Pardon? Your wife's name is Brian?"

"Erm, it's a pet name I use sometimes. You know, like 'dear' or 'hen' or, erm..." I glanced around the room for inspiration. It was not my day. "Er, or 'Donkey Kong'... Erm, actually her name's Sarah. You probably know her."

He gave the impression of having to think about it but eventually he managed to put all his ducks in a row. He looked around the room with new eyes. Narrowed eyes.

"So Sarah has children then?"

"Yes," I said, biting my tongue. Useless Dad/Manager had made the presentation on two of the three occasions she had gone on maternity leave. On the third occasion he had simply forgotten and phoned up after a couple of days to see where she'd got to.

"How many?" he asked.

"Three."

"Three!?" He said it like we were some kind of subversive breeders intent on taking over the world. "Are you sure?"

"Pretty much certain," I said. I took some deep breaths and sat on my hands to stop myself slapping him.

He pumped me for all kinds of further information to do with such things as the kids' ages, schools, holidays and health. I might have thought he was just showing an interest but I was fairly sure he didn't know some of the answers for his own children. It was also possible he was trying to gain some understanding of our situation in order to help Sarah maintain her work-life balance. I suspect, though, he has more sinister plans...

I tried not to say anything career damaging and stated several times that I'm the one responsible for looking after the children even when they're ill. I'm not sure what registered, though. Then, at last, it was lunchtime and he hurried off to dump his children with his wife and then go and play squash. I've been chain-eating chocolate bars ever since. Sarah's not going to be happy. I don't know whether to phone her and warn her or wait to see if Steve mentions it to her. Or maybe I should just text - that might be safer. Or...

Is Bolivia nice this time of year?

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Toddler Wars!

Dear Dave,

As you'll know, one of the primary qualifications for being a housedad is a high boredom threshold. You have to be able to play Snakes and Ladders over and over again for several days, and not mind watching Nemo being found fifty times in a month. Of course, boundless energy allowing you think up and facilitate exciting new activities on a daily basis is a valid alternative but, for most of us, survival is a much more realistic objective. If the kids are happy, just go with it.

I've found many ways of coping with the tedium of a wet afternoon at home. For instance, encouraging a child to make the task in hand massively more complicated for me provides fantastic mental exercise. You should try it. Why bother with two-player Monopoly when three cuddly toys can join in? Play should not proceed clockwise but in alphabetical order of hair colour. Everyone should swap playing pieces after each game. Just attempting to remember whether to move the boot or the car next will keep you busy.

Another option is to put excess brain resources into critical analysis. Are the Teletubbies' favourite things an expression of their individual characters or part of the definition of those characters? In what way is Hungry Hippos a metaphor for life? If Pui and Sid from CBeebies got together, what would their children be like? Who decided Snakes and Ladders was fun? What does Tinky-Winky normally keep in his bag? Where's the nearest nursery? What do Fimbles taste like? Who clears up after Clifford the Big Red Dog? Why doesn't Wily Coyote order KFC? What bearing do the underlying suppositions of Scooby Doo have on our understanding of eschatological events? And why isn't it teatime yet?

This is fun but can become obsessive (and thus scary) after a while. You wake up screaming from Tweenies-inspired dreams where small children transform into puppets whenever they go outside. As for making things complicated, sometimes simplification is the way to go. Turns out toddlers can be persuaded to play Snakes and Ladders with imaginary dice which removes a great deal of the need for concentration. (It also allows things to be ended abruptly when sanity requires - "Look! Twenty-seven! I win.").

When boredom threatens, I normally just put my brain into neutral and let it wander wherever. This is usually nowhere very much, by way of Nicole Kidman, biscuits, the probable length of time it will take for the PS3 to halve in price, what to make for tea and whether, if I close my eyes for a second, I'll be able to open them again. Sometimes, however, inspiration strikes.

I was at parent and toddler the other day, drifting away to a make-believe amusement arcade where the games are free and chocolate digestives are served by Australian movie stars, when Marie gave me an idea. She was busy collecting a pile of toys in the corner of the room and screaming at any other children who went near them. "Mine! It's my trolley! You not touch it! It's mine!" Of course, while she was busy defending the trolley from one child, another would blithely sneak behind her and make off with a large plastic duck. Most parents might well have thought something along the lines of 'I should go and make her share,' but I know that's a waste of effort. I thought, 'There's a computer game in that...'

Think of it:

You are a pre-school general. Recruit a gang of under-fours by giving them toys covered in drool. Send them out to collect everything that isn't nailed down. Choose between devoting resources to protecting the loot or locating more. Set interfering grown-ups on your opponents. Slap opposing forces about with alphabet bricks; run them over in pedalled vehicles; put Play-Doh in their hair. Get allies to distract adults by climbing on piles of chairs and balancing precariously. Throw the toys into the pram (and make a run for it). Fight, cry and unexpectedly fall over. Unleash screaming tantrums. Rule the playgroup. Do it all in Toddler Wars!

Trust me, it's the way forward for strategy games. No more geek-pleasing space opera conflicts but a setting which people can relate to. Finally, AI where allies fail to do what they're told and enemies inexplicably walk into obstacles is no longer a bug but a feature. And then there's all the sequels: Seven-year-olds with Big Sticks, Buckfast Teenagers, Office Ambush, Mid-life Mayhem, Pensioners at a Jumble Sale and Zimmers at Dawn!

It's brilliant. Who says not enough sleep and too much Snakes and Ladders addles your brain? I'm off to write to the makers of Command & Conquer.

Hope you're keeping yourself entertained.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Useless Dad

Dear Dave,

I met a Useless Dad the other day.

You can usually tell them by the look of bafflement on their faces but there are often other giveaway signs:

• They think three minutes is a long time for a baby to have been crying.
• They are convinced that their partner has magical baby-whispering powers and so looking after children is somehow easier for her.
• They try and read the paper at parent and toddler and have plans to work from home later.
• The baby strapped to their front is upside down and kicking them in the face.

I don't mean novice dads here, I mean perfectly capable men who see having a family as an infestation of little people that the wife deals with. It's not that they don't like children, it's that they're not entirely aware of them. The other week I was talking to a mum with two children at parent and toddler (not Scary Karen's one, the one with the great biscuits but hard seats). Her eldest was three years but she'd only left her husband in charge on his own for a couple of hours ever. "When I came back," she said, "the baby hadn't been changed or fed and my daughter had drawn all over herself with felt-tips. I'm never leaving him alone with them again."

"So you're going to do all the work while he sits around drinking beer?" I replied. "Are you sure that wasn't his plan all along?"

Realisation dawned. "I never thought of that," she said.

"Maybe you should give him a bit of training."

Her eyes narrowed and she pursed her lips as if contemplating the possibilities. "Maybe I should," she said in the manner of an evil genius holding a cute bunny and a pair of electrodes, and smiled to herself.

I slipped away to find a chocolate digestive, knowing my work there was done.

Anyway, I was at the same parent and toddler the other day and saw this guy looking uncomfortable and went over to chat with him. He was perched on the edge of his chair, holding a six-month-old as if the kid were about to explode. Every so often he peered nervously over at the drawing table; the rest of the time he looked around shiftily, trying not to make eye-contact with anyone breast-feeding.

"Hi, there," I said. "Have you been here before?"

"No. The wife told me to take the morning off work while she goes for a massage."

"Wow," I said, not quite sure where my sympathy lay.

"Yeah, that's the second time since Easter she's just gone off and dumped the kids on me."

"Wow..." I repeated, suspecting my sympathy had sloped off to the gym for a good rub down. "That's, like, nearly once a week."

"I know. She never did this before. Then she was talking to this guy she met somewhere and decided I should 'take more of an active role'. She said the guy looks after his kids all the time, so I should be able to manage it now and then. Calls himself a homedad or something. Can you imagine?"

"I'll keep an eye out for him," I said. The baby was starting to look familiar and I noticed that a three-year-old girl at the drawing table was busy on a kaleidoscope of felt-tip butterflies that already stretched most of the way up her arm.

"Do you know how to stop this baby crying?" said Useless Dad. "He's been doing it for five minutes and I just can't get him to be quiet. He's never like this for Deborah. It's probably the smell. Something smells terrible in here."

I nodded. "Yeah, kind of like an unchanged nappy."

I heard the refreshments being set out and I made to slip away but then I noticed the pleading look on the baby's face. It was the look of a small child who has been screaming to no avail for awhile and is in desperate need of a translator (or a t-shirt with the slogan 'I'm sitting in poo, you idiot!').

I sat back down. "You might want to check your son," I said to Useless Dad.

"What?"

"His nappy." The man looked blank. "You know, you might want to check it."

"Oh! Right..." He investigated with slightly less care than was wise and then swore. "Where did that come from?" I stayed quiet, hoping it was a rhetorical question, and he continued. "It was only an hour ago that Deborah changed him. What am I going to do now?"

Unfortunately this appeared not to be a rhetorical question. I glanced over to check on Marie. She was dressed up as Bob the Builder and was happily playing with a stuffed toy of Postman Pat, trying hard to saw him in half. I sighed. I could have done with being called away to an emergency. "Do you want me to talk you through it?" I said reluctantly.

And I really had to. He opened the changing bag like he had no idea what was inside and things just went downhill after that. He got there eventually but I had to resist the urge to take over on several occasions.

"I take it you've changed a few nappies then," said Useless Dad when we were done.

"One or two," I said and decided to come clean. "My wife goes out to work and I stay home and look after the kids."

"Oh, really?" he said, not quite getting it. "I'd rather have a rest at the weekend than babysit. Deborah's thinking of doing something a few hours a week but I'm trying to talk her out of it. It's not like we need the money and, honestly, she's much better with the kids than I am. Doesn't really seem worth it."

"No, my wife works full-time," I said but it was like he couldn't hear me and then he had to rush home. He had some work he wanted to get done. He packed up his stuff and strapped on his baby-carrier.

"That's upside down," I said.

"I know," he said nasally, his son's foot wedged up his right nostril. Then he grabbed Butterfly Girl and dragged her out the door. I shook my head and made my way towards the refreshments.

Marie was still putting her tools to good use as I went past. "I hammer Postman Pat to table," she said.

"Good girl," I replied and hurried to get my tea before the mugs ran out.

The whole experience was quite an eye-opener. Mums give me a huge amount of credit for being a stay at home dad but I only do as much as they do; less, if they're dealing with partners anything like Useless Dad. Sarah is more than willing to help look after the kids when she's not at work and it sounds like your Liz is the same. They may not know exactly where the pastry-cutters are kept or which day the bins go out but they can be trusted to look after the kids for whole days at a time. They don't grudge it either.

We should probably appreciate them more. I'll keep reminding you, if you keep reminding me. Deal?

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Super~Mum's secret

Dear Dave,

Thanks for asking about Scary Karen's parent and toddler group. Things have been going reasonably well the last couple of weeks. Karen has a new friend in the form of a Polish mum whose English is limited to discussing the weather and cricket. Even south of the border this wouldn't normally make for particularly lengthy conversations but Karen is more than happy to take up the slack. The Polish mum sits and listens, her face screwed up in concentration as Karen rabbits away, and I get to eat my chocolate biscuit in peace. If someone has to listen, they might as well be getting free language tuition at the same time, I guess. The other mums seem to have accepted me. Everything is quite relaxed.

I was more tense this week, however. As you know, I was expecting Julia the Super~Mum to show and I wasn't sure how well she'd get on with the other parents. I was meaning to get there right at the start and introduce people but we arrived late. Very late. We all slept in and I had to abandon Marie to Numberjacks while I rushed to get the boys ready for school and nursery. Then, when I did get to her, she refused to eat her breakfast and simply yelled, "I not eat yogurt!" whenever I looked in her direction. This continued even after I'd eaten the yogurt myself, washed up the bowl and shown her the fridge was empty. Next up was trying to get her dressed. She wanted to go to parent and toddler in a nappy and sparkly pink wellies. I suggested she might get cold. "I not eat yogurt," she said defiantly. I realised it was going to be one of those days.

Eventually I managed to persuade her to choose some other clothes. She selected a red and green top, pale blue trousers, rainbow socks, sandals, pink gloves and a santa hat. She looked like the bargain rack at Oxfam but at least she was dressed. I opened the door and tried to leave. She insisted on going in the buggy. I pointed out that parent and toddler was across the road and that she could walk. She insisted on going in the buggy... and taking her little dog with her.

She doesn't have a dog.

I pointed this out as well. "It purple," she said. She doesn't have a dog, real or stuffed, purple or otherwise. I offered her every other toy I could think of. She took them all... then demanded her dog. I had to draw her one in the end. She held the picture proudly in both hands as I wheeled her over the road, two dozen soft toys jammed into the buggy around her. She grinned broadly, nodded to herself and, with a satisfied sigh, said, "I not eat yogurt."

It was barely worth turning up by the time we made it to the Millennium Centre and wheeled our way down the corridor to the hall. Trevor the stocky bouncer was blocking the doorway. "You don't want to go in there," he said. I laughed politely, thinking he was joking, and tried to go in. "No, I'm serious," he said, raising his hand. "You don't want to go in there. She's got Karen and she's..."

Then the singing started.

I'm used to attempts at group singing at parent and toddler. It normally involves one enthusiastic helper belting out some nursery rhymes, a handful of parents mumbling along and a mob of toddlers clubbing each other around the head with tambourines. The overall effect is seldom melodious. No one in their right mind tries anything fancy. The fact that the sound of Row, Row, Row Your Boat was drifting out of the hall in cacophonic three-part harmony suggested that a truly insane person was at work within.

"This is all my fault," I said and pushed past Trevor.

Marie looked at him suspiciously as we went in. "I not eat yogurt," she muttered under her breath.

The scene which greeted us was hard to take in all at once.

The first item to catch my attention was an enormous Twister board drawn out on the back of some old strips of wallpaper. There were many brightly coloured handprints and footprints on the board and surrounding area. It was as if players had been forced to dip their bare hands and feet in paint before taking part. This was not an encouraging start.

The second item was a table laid out with drying papier-mache artworks. These were a far cry from the models of my youth, which tended to involve just slapping sticky newspaper all over an inflated balloon and then drawing a face on it. It appeared that the children had been encouraged to use their creativity in choosing items to encase in a giant spit-wad. There was a handbag, a toy giraffe, three shoes, the tea urn, a scooter and one very surprised looking cat.

The third item was the refreshment trolley. It was piled high with very healthy looking snacks. None of them had been touched.

The final item was an enormous cardboard box which had been placed in the centre of the room. It was decorated to look like a house. A door and windows had been cut in it but these were shut. Gathered round the box was the most miserable group of bedraggled mums and toddlers I have ever seen. They were covered in paint and glue but were being forced to smile and sing. At least one parent was soaking wet and two of the children appeared to have been stuck together. I sensed that no one had received their normal quota of tea or chocolate biscuits.

Julia was standing with her back to me, conducting.

I decided to retreat but in my panic-stricken terror I stepped into a tub of paint, tripped over and landed in a tangle of buggy, soft toys and art supplies. The singing stopped. All eyes turned to me. I picked myself up and tried to wipe away the yellow paint that was dripping from my crotch but my hands were already covered in green. I merely created brown.

"You must be Ed," said the woman who had been conducting. She wasn't Julia. She was an older, greyer, more frightening version of Julia. I realised that I was dealing with Super~Mum's mother. Technically, this might define her as Super~Gran but, believe me, there is nothing 'gran-like' about her. Amidst the chaos she had wreaked, she still stood smart and proud, her expensive clothes and make-up untouched. She is the GrandParent of Doom.

There was a pause as the GPD surveyed me with distaste. Behind her no one dared move apart from Julia's three-year-old, Marcus. He silently flicked up a piece of paper. On it were clumsily scrawled the words, 'save yorselv.'

"Julia is busy teaching the older children calculus so I decided to bring Marcus along myself. I'm Julia's mother, Eleanor," said the GPD. Her words were polite but her tone gave the impression she viewed me as an aberration of nature. There was another pause. All the eyes remained fixed on me but I couldn't think of a reply. One corner of the GPD's mouth curled upward in the glimmer of an evil sneer. "Thank you for the invitation," she said.

The assembled eyes narrowed. Sympathy for me drained away. There was dark muttering in Polish.

The GPD seemed pleased by this response. "Seeing as you're so late, perhaps you and your daughter would care to give us a rendition of She'll be Coming Round the Mountain." She pointed to a central spot in front of the box. I unstrapped Marie and slunk over, already slumped in defeat.

Marie seemed oblivious, however. "I not eat yogurt," she said.

"We'll see about that," said the GPD.

It was a nightmare. Fortunately the singing was soon over but a few minutes later I inexplicably found myself dangling a multi-coloured Marie over the Twister board while trying not to topple over on Tess and her son. Admittedly I was covered in paint already and Marie was keen but how I got there is something of a blur. I think the GPD must employ some kind of Jedi mind control.

"Where's Karen?" I whispered as we all reached for a yellow.

Tess motioned her head towards the centre of the room.

"She put Karen in a box? How did she get Karen in a box?"

"She got us to do it," said Tess.

"YOU put Karen in a box?"

"Don't have a go at me. You've only been here five minutes and you're using your daughter as a paint brush. Think what the crazy witch would have you doing if you'd been here an hour. She thought the way Karen was feeding her baby was indecent and, well, I don't know, it just kind of happened."

"But why did Karen let you...?" My voiced trailed off as I looked about. The devastation in the hall was complete. I would have given good money to have been able to hide from it inside a cardboard box. Worryingly, even a cardboard box with Scary Karen already inside seemed quite attractive. I wondered if the GPD took Visa.

Time dragged on. We painted. We stuck. Eleanor put a straw in some natural yogurt and tricked Marie into drinking it. The girl was almost finished before she realised what it was. She burst into tears. "I not eat yogurt," she whimpered. The GPD snorted contemptuously at us both and then walked off.

"It's time to go but no one's eaten their snacks," she announced shortly afterwards. "Eat them now or take them with you. They are made from my own recipe and extremely nutritious." Then she made her error. "What will your husbands say if you don't feed your children?"

Obviously this annoyed me for various reasons but Karen is single and half of her friends are divorced. Most of the rest manage to raise their children despite their husbands' intervention, not because of it. The temperature in the room plummeted several degrees.

"When I was bringing up my children..." continued the GPD, unaware of her mistake.

"Enough!" The cardboard box burst asunder and a towering figure emerged, her hair dyed stiff and yellow with paint, her body stained blue, a baby still clamped to her vast, undulating chest. Scary Karen was transformed into something terrifying - a Pictish queen ready for war. She looked at the gaggle of toddlers huddled by the buggies. They were messy, tired and desperately in need of caffeine and sugar. She pointed at the GPD. "Kill!" she said.

They didn't need persuading. They surged forward, ready to batter her senseless with pinatas and then paint her orange. Luckily for her, Trevor rushed in and held them back with a table. "I think you'd better leave," he said.

"Well, I've never..." she began but there was a tap on her leg. "What is it?" she said, turning to see who was behind her.

"I not eat yogurt," said Marie with satisfaction and tipped a bowl of the stuff over the GPD's immaculate shoe.

Victory was complete. The GPD grabbed her grandson's hand and marched squelchily away, huffing to herself. Everyone cheered.

I went and collected Lewis from nursery and then came back to help clear up - I needed to earn a little forgiveness. Later, I made Julia a cake and took it round to give her some sympathy. It turns out that her mum lives a couple of streets away and has nothing much else to do except come and help with the kids. This explains a lot. We talked a bit, she cried, the kids ran riot and we ate the cake. I think we'll get on a lot better now.

After that, I had to go to the shops and buy some yogurt. Marie really wanted some.

Hope things aren't as crazy for you. How's Liz doing?

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Cancel the search party

Dear Dave,

I'm still alive. I made it through an hour and a half of the new toddler group and got out with only a few minor dribble stains and a small bruise. Which isn't bad going considering. Here's what happened:

Scary Karen had asked me to bring along a donation of toys so I packed up a load of things I've been desperate to get rid of for ages. These included a very noisy Thomas the Tank Engine which whistles tunes, a motorised pig which sings Old MacDonald and a pair of electronic maracas. I foolishly forgot to take the batteries out of anything, though.

Then I headed across the road to the Millennium Centre, through reception and down the corridor to the side hall. I was somewhat surprised to find a bouncer at the door. He was a squat, bald-headed guy who had bulging muscles everywhere, even places I'm pretty sure I don't have any muscles at all. A wealth of tattoos rippled over his bare arms.

He looked at me suspiciously. "You here for the toddlers?" he grunted.

I had a momentary vision of myself driving off with a cattle-truck full of under-fives. I almost mentioned it but then I noticed the assault rifle inked onto his bicep. It was labelled 'Betsy'. I decided to play things safe. "Er, yes," I said and waved my bag of toys and small child at him. "This is my little girl."

"I like pink!" shouted Marie to back me up.

The bouncer looked at me even more suspiciously. I could almost see the cogs turning in his brain - it was a parent and toddler group, I had brought a toddler, I was a parent, he couldn't justifiably turn me away... but I had showed up to the party one X chromosome short. The cogs spun for a while. I detected a faint smell of burning rubber.

"I go play now," said Marie and walked through the door.

The man's brain re-booted. "'Spose you'd better go in," he said. I smiled and thanked him and went in.

Some mats had been put out in the middle of the room and sprinkled with toys and children. A dozen or so chairs were placed round the edges. Four women had pulled their chairs close together and were having a heated discussion. They looked at me suspiciously as I entered. I smiled at them and followed Marie. She made a bee-line for a toy ironing board and iron. She picked up a baby doll, cuddled it and then proceeded to spend several minutes systematically removing the creases from its face before stuffing it in the trunk of a ride-a-long car. (No more CSI for her).

The women obviously knew each other and were having an argument about who had the worst scar. (Don't ever go there...) I tried not to listen, which was easy since every child in the room except mine appeared to have a whistling Thomas that they were beating to death with electronic maracas. No one else had thought to remove the batteries either. I stared into space and muttered encouraging things when Marie took the baby out of the car and replaced it with the singing pig.

Eventually Karen entered the room with a refreshment trolley and all the adults drifted towards it and the promise of chocolate-covered sugary goodness. Karen gestured at me and said, "This is Ed." Instantly the eyes of the four women widened in a mixture of recognition and awe. Karen introduced them to me as well but I instantly forgot their names. Let's call them Jess, Bess, Tess and Cress. (I've been reading Meg and Mog a lot recently). The bouncer's name was Trevor. He glared at me through narrowed slits.

"You're the housedad," said Jess.

"Karen has told us all about you," said Bess. Tess nodded in a the way that suggested this might have been a lengthy process.

"Really?" I said. I couldn't entirely remember ever having had much chance to tell Karen anything about myself.

"Yes," said Tess firmly.

Cress started speaking very rapidly. "You have three children, aged 6, 4 and 2. You look after them all day, deal with them at night and then get up the next day and do it all over again, even when they're sick, or you're sick, or you're all sick. You clean the house, you change the nappies, you wipe up the mess. You take them out in the fresh air, you do their homework with them and you feed them at least five portions of fruit and veg every day. You..."

I interrupted as she took a breath. "Don't you do all those things for your kids?"

"Yeah," said Jess. "But you're a man."

"Do you do the cooking as well?" said Bess, jumping up and down a little.

"Kind of," I said. "I don't have much time. These days I tend to just move food from the freezer to the oven rather than cooking, as such."

"That's more than any of our men ever manage," said Tess irritably but then softened. "Want a chocolate digestive?"

Things settled down after that. Karen's friends weren't that scary after all. It turned out their community service was just for getting out of control in a protest around Faslane. Trevor, however, made me nervous. He lurked around the trolley. He didn't have any children of his own with him. He continued to glare at me. He looked like he should have worked at Faslane, possibly as a missile.

He only stopped glaring when Karen came and sat next me for her normal chat. She wapped out her baby's elevenses and Trevor's brain went into spasm again. He didn't know where to look and then pretended to read the notices on the wall. I forgot about him for a while as I became mesmerised by Karen's account of her attempt to return an item at Ann Summers and I prayed for the world to end.

However, when the lights went out and I was finally able to grab Marie and head for the exit, Trevor sidled over to me. He wasn't very good at it. "You and Karen," he muttered shiftily.

The cogs in my own brain suddenly clicked into place, then slipped out of gear and whirred away helplessly. Shock, surprise, understanding, fear and incredulity battled for control of my eyebrows. "Karen is merely a... er... friend," I stammered. "I have absolutely no desire to... er, have any, er, desire. Erm, is that the time? I have to collect my son from nursery. Nice to meet you."

I got the bruise clunking my shin as I ran away. It's still sore.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

PS Next week's an arts and crafts session. All this but with added glue... I can't wait.

Scary Karen

Dear Dave,

Did I tell you about Scary Karen?

We met when I inadvertently sat down next to her during biscuit time at parent and toddler recently. She was older than most of the other mums, big and looked serious. She started a conversation by introducing her toddler. "This is my son, Malcolm. He's named after my dead brother." She followed this up by introducing her baby. "This is William. He's named after my uncle. He's dead now, too." She then proceeded to breastfeed the baby.

Now I'm used to being around breastfeeding mothers. Some are so subtle that I've been talking to them for five minutes before I realise there's a baby up their jumper. Most use a certain level of discretion or at least give me enough warning to look away while their human limpet gets properly attached. Not many wap out an enormous quivering boob right in front of me while continuing to fill me in on the details of their deceased relatives. I just about choked on my chocolate digestive. It was scary.

Most people would probably have smiled politely, gulped down their coffee and then whisked their bemused child off for an unexpected nappy change. I, however, have the unfortunate character flaw of being a 'good listener'. If someone starts talking to me then I'll just sit there in rapt attention like a toddler mesmerised by a row of flashing lights. I'll nod and smile and occasionally interject but I'll be unable to move as my brain is slowly filled to bursting point by knowledge of what everyone in someone else's family had to eat for lunch in a museum of miniature teapots on a daytrip to Dumfries. Even better, as they consider exactly how many little jars of jam were consumed, my screensaver face kicks in and I'm really in trouble. When my brain explodes from shear tedium it would be nice if I developed a blank gape and a vacant stare. Maybe then I'd get left alone. Instead my facial muscles slump idly into an expression of sage-like thought and concentration. This just makes it look like I'm listening even harder. I get to hear all about the teapots and an exhibition of replica steam engines whittled out of railway sleepers from around the world.

So I sat there and quickly discovered that Scary Karen is a 'good talker'. There was no escape. I learnt about her bowel surgery, aromatherapy, her difficult experiences in childbirth, a past life as a torturer and the importance of dental hygiene. She only stopped when the helpers started turning out the lights. Marie had already climbed into her buggy and was straining forwards while holding onto the frame in a doomed effort to drag herself home. We left at speed but I kept looking over my shoulder to check Karen wasn't following us.

The next week was similar except she hunted me out and sat next to me. Then it was wap, choke, chat all over again. I nodded attentively as I was informed about the wonders of homemade cottage cheese, the variable consistency of cat vomit and the dangers of naked yoga on a bus. As soon as everything went dark I grabbed the buggy and ran, screams of "You don't push! I pull me!" trailing behind us down the street.

Things have not improved much since. I've considered changing toddler groups but I know lots of the people at St Jude's, it's close, the chairs are comfy and there's nothing much else on a Monday anyway. I've been trying to disagree more audibly with everything Karen says but she doesn't appear to have noticed. Worse still, she's starting another group on a Wednesday morning in the Millennium Centre which is virtually across the road from my house. She's got the hall booked for tomorrow and invited along a few people she met doing community service. And, you've guessed it, she wants me to be one of the group's founder members.

Another of my character flaws is that I'm not great with conflict. I much prefer to give someone a valid excuse for not doing something than simply tell them I'd rather eat my only pair of shoes. I told Karen that I need Wednesday mornings to do my grocery shopping. She suggested using the internet and getting a delivery. I reckoned it was easier going to the store myself. She gave me a computing tutorial. I said that I didn't really trust some random assistant in Tesco to choose my bananas. She told me she worked as an assistant in Tesco. I... I caved in. I said I'll go.

It's going to be me, Marie, Scary Karen, a select band of her scary friends and a gaggle of their no doubt scary children.

I'm a little nervous.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Parent and Toddler

Dear Dave,

Thank you for telling me about your experiences with little Sam at the parent and toddler group. It sounds like you're blending in well. (Or at least as well as any man can in a room full of women who don't believe he can really exist. You'll know you've really cracked it when someone asks you what your husband does for a living). I have to tell you, though, that the competitiveness you mention is unavoidable. The desire to come out on top always surfaces whenever any group of children is involved.

The parents are bound to succumb.

It starts innocently enough as parent A checks that her kid is normal – that it's not too odd for a child to only have had four teeth at a year, or to still be crawling at fifteen months. Parent B reassures. Her child only had six teeth at a year and only learnt to walk at fourteen months. Parent A isn't reassured. Six teeth is more than four. How about speech? Can child B say 'tractor'? Ha, no! That's a point back to Parent A. Parent B retaliates. How many blocks can Child A stack? Only twelve? Really? He hasn't built a scale model of St Paul's, complete with dome? Well, I'm sure he'll learn. 3-1 to Parent B.

Then it escalates.

Before long there are unconfirmed reports of advanced calculus and fluency in five distinct and unrelated languages. Meanwhile the kids happily sit oblivious, chewing on brightly coloured bits of plastic.

It's very strange. Still, Genius Girl came out on top today. At playgroup she demonstrated her innate understanding of the world's socio-economic system and put the knowledge into practice. She took the brightly coloured bits of plastic from the other children, chewed on them herself and then gave them to the nearest adult. In essence, she took from the little people, gave to the big people and had her own small nibble on the way. There's a bright future ahead of her in the City. That or a beating by a mob of angry toddlers.

Ho well, at least she'll probably grow out of it. When she's eighteen, the chances are that she'll have tie-dye clothes, peace symbols painted on her cheeks and a Communist boyfriend. They'll go off to India together to hug trees. Meanwhile I'll still be playing the Progeny Edition of Top Trumps with the neighbours. (You call your kid a dropout? How many Highers did he fail? Ha! And I bet his girlfriend's only a socialist…).

As I said, the competitiveness is unavoidable. If you think you're not doing it, it probably just means you're winning. The important thing is to love the kid even if you're losing.

Oh and by the way, I'm glad to hear that Sam's differentiation is coming along nicely but I have to tell you that Genius Girl can already integrate trig functions.

And she can speak Swahili.

Yours, as ever, in a woman's world,

Ed.