MAN'S WORLD

THIS SUMMER my eldest son is making the tricky transition from nursery school to big school, although it seems to be difficult only for me. I went with my wife for his final nursery school assessment, with every intention of participating fully. I had to abandon this plan when I realised I wouldn't be able to talk without choking with emotion, so I nodded and blinked a lot, and let my wife do the talking.

It is difficult to hear any sort of assessment of your own child without becoming a little emotional, but I was shocked, if relieved, to discover the extent to which my little boy is not like me. In his public life Barnaby is confident and outgoing, and his written assessment repeatedly refers to his enthusiasm for school, his ability to make friends and the obvious esteem in which he is held by the kind people who looked after him. I remember just one salient phrase from my own report card at his age: "Cries quietly to himself." I'm overjoyed that Barnaby has escaped this inheritance, but I know it's none of my doing.

The tricky tear-jerking assessment behind us, all that stood between us and the holidays was sports day. As a result of his nursery schooling, Barnaby is far too well-adjusted to get worked up about winning or losing, but it is not so with his father. I do not care about winning, because I never win, but I care deeply about losing, especially by a margin that is noticeable from a great distance. The children's races at sports day are very jolly and tend to emphasise the importance of taking part. The fathers' race is extremely competitive, with a certain amount of cheating. I was not looking to win the fathers' race this year, despite Barnaby's misplaced confidence in my chances. I just wanted to avoid a repeat of last year when, anxious to break away quickly at the whistle, I fell down.

Barnaby has inherited one thing from me: he is not fleet. His confidence in his abilities notwithstanding, he generally finishes some way behind his friend Polly. This year he did up the ante slightly by winning one race, thanks to his prodigious ability to balance a potato on a spoon. The mothers' race was an agreeable, largely barefoot affair, but, as the fathers assembled along the starting line, the atmosphere became rather unattractively serious, and the apprehensive teachers shouted for all small children to clear the area. I decided against a good start in order to stay upright. As the whistle went, I put my head down and dug in. With Barnaby's insistence that I try my hardest ringing in my ears, I bore down on the tape, finished comfortably in the middle of the pack and ran full speed into a holly bush.