It’s really tough being a father. Physically demanding, for a start. The brats have twice the endurance and four times the energy from the same diet as I have. Emotionally, the strain is even greater. “Jimmy’s dad lets him ... a) stay up till midnight, b) drink beer, c) watch porn.”

In reply to my suggestion that they move in with Jimmy, they have an answer ready: “I would but he’s fat and he smells.”

It’s just as difficult being a mom, I freely admit. It must be soul-destroying to know that you are the only mom in the neighborhood who force-feeds your family home-cooked food. “Why can’t we have burgers like Jenny?” Try explaining nutrition and healthy living to a stroppy seven-year-old.

Children arrive equipped with two survival essentials. They have adult intelligence but lack experience and restraint. I sympathize with babies who only have strong vocal cords driven by powerful lungs to attract your attention to their needs and wants. Is it unreasonable to expect them to learn words of explanation when they are older?

In a children’s dictionary, there is a blank between ‘waist’ and ‘war’. The missing word is ‘wait’. “You have to wait your turn,” you calmly point out. “I don’t want to wait. How long do I have to wait, anyway?”

Of course, they then invoke the other built-in survival device – the bullshit detector. “I need you to fix a puncture, daddy.” Every single time, that demand comes when the scores are tied and there’s less than a minute on the clock. “Just wait a minute, Honey, and daddy will fix it.”

She doesn’t have to say a word, the look says it all. Naturally, you want to listen to the so-called experts analyzing why your team lost yet again, but it isn’t long before you switch off in disgust at their ignorance. Surely, she knows that.

Then there’s the trip to the petting zoo along a country road. “Why are we going so slow, daddy? Isn’t this a fifty zone and you’re only doing twenty-five.” Matt at ten-years-old knows the traffic laws better than I do.

“There’s a guy in front.” What more can I say? “Why don’t you pass him?” Seems he hasn’t noticed the steady stream of cars going the other way at almost supersonic speeds.

The other thing kids are hot on is consistency, a concept they apply rigorously to adults. Alice, our seven-year-old went AWOL in the mall the other day. Mom and aunt decided she was too young to enter Victora’s Secrets, so one went in while the other was on child protection duty. A call to view a possible purchase distracted the guardian long enough for Alice to wander off. Fortunately, mom recognized her own daughter’s screams when she discovered she was lost.

Although I was at work at the time of the incident, it turned out that it was mainly my fault. At any rate, I was the one who had to tell Alice how to deal with the situation if it arose again. I advocated immediate surrender to a uniformed cop, honest and upright protector of all of us, especially little girls in distress.

A few days later, Alice was with me when I was pulled over by a cop. As he approached the car, I questioned his integrity and parenthood, under my breath – that was my intention at least. I had a busted taillight, and he was ready to let me off with a warning when my daughter piped up.

“Daddy says you’re a bad man for stopping us. Why aren’t you being a kind protector, like daddy said cops should be?” Now cops, for some reason, prefer to be called law officers, so that was one strike against me. And then he took the suggestion that he was a bad cop personally. It cost me a fixed penalty ticket.

Now here’s something. Why are they all officers? What happened to pfc? GI Joe thrashed the Nazis and the Nippons but cops all have to be officers.

Sometimes childish candor works in your favor. “Do you like Mr. Lemon as much as mommy does?” Alice asked me after a visit to the store with her mom. My Spidey sense was alerted.

“Did you meet him at the store?” I smiled, trying to sound casual. “He was waiting in the coffee shop, waving to mommy and calling her Suzie.” I had no idea who ‘Mr. Lemon’ was but I certainly intended to find out. “Did you join him?”

“Yeah. He tried to give mommy a kiss, but she turned her head and told him ‘Not here, Fleep’. He called me a darling moppet and wanted to give me a hug.” She shuddered at the memory. My growing rage made it impossible to ask any more questions without frightening the kid.

Later, when the children were settled for the night, I asked Susan about the incident. “I hear you ran into Mr. Lemon at the coffee shop.” She gave a tiny jump before continuing to watch tv. “He started work with us about a month ago. He just happened to be there, and it would have been rude to ignore him. Why? What did Alice tell you?”

“It sounded as if he was expecting you. Waving and kissing you. And what’s with the ‘Suzie’? When I called you that you cut me off for a week.”

“For a start his name is LeMans, like the racetrack. Philipe LeMans and I think he’s just lonely. The waving and kissing is just the French way, you know. Nothing personal.” I got up and made my way to the foot of the stairs. “I’m going to bed now. I expect you’ll need more time to come up with a more plausible story – Suzie.”

I was up early and out of the house before Susan woke up the next morning. I knew a few people in my wife’s office after years of attending company functions. Several of them might talk to me about LeMans, especially a few of the bitchy women who always tried to flirt with me.

I’ve learned in business that face to face is better than a phone call, so I turned up at the little cafe where I knew they often lunched. They were surprised to see me, but it was clear that they knew why I was there. Anna smiled at me and called out “Hi stranger,” before a slightly older woman reminded them that lunch hour was almost over.