It’s another cold Saturday morning and I’m running slowly across a muddy sports field.

A faster runner passes me. Large clumps of dirt fly up from the back of his heels as he sprints through, one almost colliding with my face. Soon the other runner is not much more than a speck in the distance.

As I turn a sharp corner one of the volunteers wearing a fluorescent jacket yells encouragement. ‘Come on! It’s all downhill from here!’

A tall runner beside me manages to utter some words of comfort in my direction.

‘Well, that’s good to know at least.’

About thirty seconds later we hit a sharp incline. It’s short, but makes the muscles in my calves burn.

As I amble towards the finish line there are various thoughts in my head. Why do I do this? Why the feck do I do this? Jesus, I really wish I was dead.

Sometimes it’s hard to believe that this is what I do for fun and relaxation.

I cross the line and another volunteer hands me a little plastic token and some words of congratulation.

It’s another cold Saturday morning and I’m at another Parkrun.

Today I’m doing the Queen’s Parkrun in Belfast. I’ve actually done this run before but they’ve recently changed the course so I wanted to have another look.

I trudge towards the pavilion and hand my barcode and token to yet another volunteer who records my place.

She smiles warmly and says: ‘Well, what did you make of that then Jonathan?’

I’m briefly stunned that this complete stranger knows my name. For the smallest of moments a pleasing thought runs through my mind that my fame as a Parkrunner carries all before me.

Then I realise that she is just reading my name off my barcode and trying to be nice.

Then I remember that I really ought to say something in response. That’s how it works.

I try to say ‘It was very hard. Too many bends.’

But what actually comes out between gasps is ‘Hardmanybendy.’

She smiles again as she hands back my barcode. I swipe sweat away from my face.

The greatest attraction of Queen’s as a Parkrun venue is the facilities. At most other Parkruns you have to gather in a park, exposed to the elements. At Queen’s there is a large, modern and bright pavilion so you can delay going out to run in the rain until the latest possible moment.

The pavilion also serves as the spot for a post run coffee and chat. Dozens gather there to compare times or catch up on their anecdotes from the office during the past week. There’s a warm buzz of good-natured conversation, well earned after a hard run.

I take a cup of cold water from a table. There are maybe fifty people gathered in the room. I move away from them all to a bench at the far wall and take a seat.

I watch the other runners come in and leave. Groups are forming and I’m content to watch rather than participate. I’m overcome with that familiar feeling, one that has been with me throughout my life, that every person in the room knows each other, apart from me.

Then a man walks towards me. I pretend to be staring at my cup and take a couple of sips. He stands close by.

‘Good to get the run out of the way early in the day.’

‘Aye’, I respond, deploying the full scale of my raconteurial talents.

The man sits beside me now. He is older than me, perhaps by twenty years. His hair is white but his body wiry. He has serious eyes. While I am breathless he is completely measured.

And then he begins to talk to me about the run. I tell him that Wallace Parkrun is my home course and he is familiar with it. In fact, he is familiar with all the Parkruns in Northern Ireland, having completed every single course. This gives me the opportunity to tell him about my current challenge to run all the Parkruns and he listens with patient interest.

Then we compare notes on some of the courses we have both completed, which ones are the fastest, the hilliest, the most picturesque.

Today I’m wearing a Belfast Marathon T-shirt. I got it when I finished the marathon in 2016. Perhaps I’m hoping that my new companion will notice it and realise that I was once a decent runner.

‘Do you do any other running?’ I ask. ‘Anything long distance?’

‘I like to do ultra marathons. Doing 150 mile runs is a good challenge for me.’

‘Oh,’ I say.

We talk like this for a few more minutes. I don’t know what my new friend’s name is, or even what he does for a living but it was pleasant just to connect over a chat about running.

That’s one of the many benefits of the Parkrun. You always meet someone to have a chat to. Yes, even someone as antisocial as me.

Soon it’s time for me to leave the pavilion and I say goodbye to my new friend. He offers me his hand.

‘Are you running back to Lisburn now?’ he asks.

‘Uh no, I think I’ll just take the car.’

‘Right, well maybe I’ll see you at Wallace Parkrun sometime.’

Yes, maybe you will.

My son has been ill this week. Nothing serious but his ailment ensured that he had to stay away from school and temporarily avoid contact with other children.

This meant several long days with the two of us cooped up in an enclosed space. Now, as I’ve often said, I consider spending time son the greatest privilege of my life, but hey, you can have too much of a good thing.

We’re both adept at finding novel ways to pass the time but this week has stretched our creativity to breaking point. And then a bit further.

Here’s a small selection of some of the activities we’ve taken part in together….

1 Dodge the Penguin

An extemporised time-killer which soon developed into a formal game with an established set of rules which my son insists on reading out in full every time just before we play. The gist is that we take it in turns to hurl an inflatable toy penguin called Pecky at each other. Points are awarded for evading the throw, with bonuses for particularly athletic dodges and spins.

My son has won every bout so far. My low point was reached when, in a frantic effort to elude Pecky, I ran headfirst into the patio doors and almost knocked myself unconscious. As I lay dazed on the floor my son danced around me, squealing with delight and yelling ‘Daddy! Do it again! Do it again!’

2 Madagascar

The Madagascar films have become the narrative and soundtrack of our week with my son watching them repeatedly and then peppering me with questions such as ‘How come there are Penguins in the jungle daddy?’ or ‘How can a giraffe be in love with a hippo daddy?’

A slight note of discord was reached in our ongoing disagreement over sequencing. My reasoning that Madagascar 1 should be viewed first followed by Madagascar 2 and then Madagascar 3 is in sharp contrast to my son who insists they should be watched in the reverse order. When I gently try to dissuade him that he’s got it the wrong way round he scornfully replies ‘Duh daddy!’

The legacy of Madagascar has been that my wee man has spent much of the week singing ‘I like to move it, move it!’ while insisting that I dance along. 

3 The train set

A visit to the toy shop for some distraction ended with us coming home with a new toy train set.

My first realisation was that the track would not join together on the thick living room mat. So I moved it, which merely revealed how dirty the living room floor was.

Then I went to insert the batteries in the train. I removed the tiny screw from the battery compartment and promptly dropped it on the kitchen floor. As I was on my hands and knees vainly searching for it I realised how dirty the kitchen floor was.

After having to sellotape the lid back onto the battery compartment my son watched the little train go around the track once. Then he turned to me and said ‘What else does it do daddy?’

He spent the rest of the afternoon watching one of the Madagascar films again while I spent it in the company of the vacuum cleaner and the mop.

4 The medicine

It was all very civil and agreeable as the GP told my son that he would have to stay off school for a few days and would have to eat lollies and ice cream. So jolly was the occasion that we barely noticed her mentioning the medicine.

We were not even alarmed as we picked the bottle up at the chemist. After all, surely nothing evil could come in such a pretty shade of pink?

Then my son tasted it.

And everything changed.

His face twisted in horror and he proclaimed the medicine as the worst thing he had ever tasted. The instructions on the bottle said he has to get 5mls four times every day.

Thus began a seemingly unending procession of rows, threats, wrestling, clenched teeth, crying, sticky hands and changes of clothing.

Finally this afternoon, just at the point where I was about to give up hope I brought the medicine to him. This time my son didn’t argue but simply opened his mouth and allowed me to pour it in.

He closed his mouth and his eyes met mine.

I didn’t say anything but I just nodded so he would know just how proud his father is of him.

Then he spat the medicine into my lap.

5 Writing a rap

My son demanded a piece of paper this morning so he could write a song. He chewed the tip of a pencil for a moment before coming up with the title Kids’ Land.

Soon he had composed the lyric for a first stanza which went:

‘If you want to have fun, go to Kids’ Land

It’s the best place for kids to play.’

I then set about putting it to music and discovered that it seemed to work best with a rap beat. So we performed it as a rap duo in the living room. He rapped the lyrics while I made beatbox noises in the background. Dreams of stardom overcame us.

Unfortunately our fledging crew soon dissolved due to creative differences. My boy objected to me trying to tie a soiled handkerchief around his head as a bandana and I regretfully lost my cool and told him I would ‘pop a cap in his ass’.

It was late in the summer of 1996. I was young and scared of the world. So scared that I spent much of my energy hiding away from it. On a fine Saturday evening I found myself in the small seaside town where I grew up visiting family.

I had been dispatched to a local chippie to buy dinner. At that time I don’t think I had yet enjoyed a Chinese meal and I’m quite sure I’d never tasted Indian food. Pizza I may have experienced fleetingly. Exotic food, to my blinkered palate, was coleslaw. Takeaway dinner could only mean the fish and chip shop. The chippies back then sold chicken burgers which contained brown meat, but we didn’t know enough to mind.

I remember the garish red and white colour scheme of the shop interior and the smell of burnt fat which seemed to cling to the hairs on your arms. When I reached the front of the queue I struggled to make eye contact with the woman holding a small pencil behind the counter. I mumbled my order (chicken burgers? Fish supper?). I noticed she had not written down what I had said, so I repeated my words slightly louder, presuming she hadn’t heard me. Only then did I notice the severe expression on her face and the hard stare she had fixed in my direction. My face coloured as she peered hard in my direction. 

Her unforgiving eye met mine. Then she started.

‘Are you smart?’ The words were delivered in a harsh north Antrim drawl (the same accent as my own).

‘Uh….sorry?’

‘I said, are you smart?’

The direct nature of the questioning disarmed me. I’d never been asked such a thing before and hadn’t the remotest thought of what an appropriate answer should be. In the end I mumbled something quite unconvincing.

‘Uh no, no, I don’t think so.’

But the chip shop woman was not to be put off so easily. She turned sideways and closed one eye, so she could stare at me all the more intensely with the other.

‘Are you sure you’re not smart?’

She spoke the words with apparent distaste, as if she suspected I was a leper who should be carrying a bell.’

‘Uh no.’

‘You’re definitely not smart?’

Like Peter, I denied it for a third time.

She began to write down my order. Midway through she stopped and fixed her glare on me once again, a hint of triumph in her fierce eye.

‘Yes you are smart! I know you, I’ve seen your photo in the paper. You are smart!’ she exclaimed with a sneer.

I knew immediately the photo she was talking about. I had recently graduated from university and, against my wishes, my Ma had insisted on putting the photograph in the local paper. It was a small community and back then things like that got noticed.

The woman moved away then and began to shovel chips into a bubbling fryer. I rested against the windowsill, burning from shame over the interrogation. Desperate for a distraction I watched traffic slowly moving in the direction of the quay. Other people came into and left the shop. Presently the woman beckoned me back to the counter to collect my food.

As she wrapped it in sheets of white paper she resumed the attack.

‘So, are you going to teach then?’

Again it was a question I could never have anticipated and I blurted another unprepared answer.

‘No, no, I don’t really think I’m cut out for teaching.’

Her glare lifted from the food back in my direction.

‘So what are you going to do with yourself then?’

It was the question I dreaded, the one I’d asked myself countless times but could never find an answer to. What exactly was I going to do with the rest of my life? I pushed my hand through my hair and looked sideways as I tried to offer a sufficient response.

‘Uh, I don’t really know for sure at the minute. I suppose I’ll sign on for a while and see what comes up.’

She stopped moving as soon as I said it. She looked me up and down, making no attempt to conceal her scorn.

Then she spat the words, a harsh edge of bitterness in her voice. 

‘That doesn’t sound very fucking smart to me.’

She returned her gaze to the food.

‘Do you want salt and vinegar on these chips?’

There’s a permanence in this November rain. You can’t tell where it starts or finishes, you only have to be outside for a few seconds and it’s all over you, cold and inescapable. A fine mist that cloaks every blade of grass in the garden.

It’s a day for the house. But it’s also the last couple of days of the mid term break and we don’t want to waste it. We watch the weather through the smears on the window.

‘What do you want to do today buddy?’ I enquire gently.

His small, round face is twisted in concentration for just a moment. Then he brightens. A breakthrough.

‘Let’s go to the beach daddy!’

I shiver involuntarily.

‘The beach? It’s not really a beach day buddy? What about the cinema? Shall I see what’s on?’

‘No daddy, I want to go to the beach, please!’

I glance at mummy but she just shrugs her shoulders. I turn back to my son and can see the hurt coming into his features. I soften.

‘OK buddy, the beach it is. But we all have to wrap well up.’

We’ve got the beach virtually to ourselves. Of course. There’s the occasional dog-walker and a haughty seagull which looks big and nasty enough to pluck out your whole eyeball, but they are just hurrying through. Seeking shelter.

The fog rolls across the top of the tide like a thick sauce. There are piles of dark, slippery seaweed creating formations like military defences on the sand. Our nostrils are full of the scent of its pungent brine.

And we’re playing in the sand. And at the edge of the water. My son loves to play dare with the sea, creeping out as far as he can, where the sand is softest, and then retreating quickly with delighted squeals as the waves come in.

Soon his wellingtons are glistening with glassy sand particles and there are spreading dark patches of moisture on his jeans. His cheeks are ruddy and his golden hair plastered across his forehead. He glances at mummy and I regularly, just to check we’re standing close by. He’s still young so makes no effort to disguise the enthusiasm and joy in his expression.

We stay here for some time and eventually the weather begins to change. The plucky sun begins to poke through the ubiquitous blanket of cloud and a gentle breeze scatters the mist, exposing MacNeice’s Smoky Carrick on the far side of the Lough.

The new lustre also reveals colours. The ochre and rust of the leaves on the hard path, the pallid yellow and dirty shale shades in the expanse of sand. The grimy water washing just a little bit further up the shore each time.

I’m aimlessly throwing stones into the foam. My son grabs a fragment of a branch and begins to draw shapes on the flat sand which is pocked by pebbles, fragments of shells and discarded plastic.

I notice he is drawing a large shape which might be a heart, might not. Inside it he inexpertly begins to scrape the outlines of letters. James. Debs. Jonee.

We pass some more time this way but soon the rain returns, harsher and more persistent than before as if to make up for an unexpected interruption. It falls now as fast moving sheets which sting your face and make your clothes cling to your skin.

It’s time to leave the beach.

My son is the last one to exit the sand. Moving a few steps behind us as he keeps inventing new games and mischief, trying to delay his departure for just a few more seconds.

Soon it will be time to return to work and school. But not quite yet.

Mummy and I are on the path, close together, arms linked as we walk back to the car. Our boy moves level, forcing us apart and taking his place in the narrow gap between us.

Sometimes it takes the young to point out the downright silliness that we meekly go along with every day.

Like the time when I was in Marks and Spencer and tried to explain to my son that we couldn’t go to a particular till because I had a bottle of wine in my basket and that counter was ‘No alcohol’. But, I told him, we could buy the wine at the next till.

He looked at me and said: ‘Daddy, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.’

And, of course, he was right. I could have taken the time to explain that due to an anachronistic law retail premises which sell drink still have to have specific areas where alcohol cannot be purchased, but what would have been the point? My five-year-old had spotted in an instant the goofiness of being able to buy a bottle of wine at till number 2 but not till number 1.

My local corner shop has found an interesting way to get around this conundrum. They have two tills which sell alcohol and one which does not. But in the six years I have lived at my current address I have never once seen the No alcohol till opened. So, in essence, they have set up a phantom till to get round the legislation.

Another similar issue arose this morning. Mummy and I had taken our boy to Dobbies Garden Centre in Lisburn for breakfast. We arrived shortly after 10am. After munching on sausages and toast my boy excitedly asked if he could look at the toys and the Christmas displays.

Soon he had found a little toy he liked and asked me to buy it for him. He’s been very well behaved recently and I wanted to reward him, but there was a problem.

I scratched my head sheepishly as I explained to him.

‘Sorry buddy, but the shop doesn’t open for another two and a half hours.’

He gave me a long stare, one which seemed to say: ‘Daddy, if you’re going to make up a fib to get out of buying me a toy, at least come up with something better than that.’

It is easy to understand his supposed reasoning. After all, we were inside the shop which was fully lit, music was playing and all the displays were active. We had already eaten in the restaurant and there were a few other shoppers strolling up and down the aisles. There were even staff members in the store, including a woman standing behind one of the till counters (presumably to ensure that none of us merely filled a trolley and walked out of the store without paying).

But despite all of the visible signs pointing in one logical direction, the truth, I had to tell my son, ran contrary to it. We couldn’t buy anything until 1pm because of restricted Sunday opening hours. Yes, we could have breakfast in Dobbies, but that was different.

We were caught in a strange no man’s land, like ghosts on a shipwreck. Able to shop for hours but not able to buy.

For more of this silliness let’s travel back to Marks and Spencer. The store closest to my house is probably one of the busiest in the country. On a Sunday, as I’ve already explained, they can’t sell any goods until 1pm. But there are large numbers of impatient shoppers who don’t like to wait. To get round this the store simply opens its doors earlier. The customers swarm in and begin to fill their baskets and trollies.

At about 12:45pm the queues begin to form at the checkouts. The staff take up their positions about five minutes before the hour. As the minutes tick off towards 1pm the lines can swell to consist of several dozen people who all simply want to be able to buy their shopping and go home. The retail assistants are also keen to get started as they know the longer they have to wait, the further the queue stretches.

But wait they all must. Then, at exactly the stroke of 1pm, the computer unlocks the tills and the customers rush towards the desk and frantic buying begins.

I always try to see both sides in any argument but, in all of the practical examples I have listed here, it is hard to see who benefits from the situations which have been allowed to develop.

The current rules for Sunday trading came into force in Northern Ireland in 1997. They state that shops with a floor area of up to 280 square metres can choose their own Sunday opening hours. Shops with a larger floor area (eg Dobbies or Marks and Spencer) can only trade between 1pm and 6pm on a Sunday.

I’m not sure what the origin for this 280 square metre figure is. I’ve checked The Bible but can find no mention or reference to it there.

What this all means, in real terms, is that Tesco can open its Express stores between 6am and midnight on a Sunday but its larger Extra stores only between 1pm and 6pm. Again, it’s difficult not to pose the question, who does this benefit?

There are, of course, those who see merit in restricted Sunday opening. Those who believe in keeping the day sacred due to spiritual belief or those who simply think an agreed day of rest is a good idea. Some also argue of the disruption to family life of having to work on a Sunday.

Some smaller and independent traders also make the case that restricted Sunday opening for larger outlets gives their stores a chance to compete with the retail giants.

On the other hand, anyone who has ever walked around Belfast city centre on a Sunday morning may conclude that it’s a strange and unnerving experience, strolling past endless shopfronts with their shutters down.

I used to be employed in the city centre and part of my job determined that I work on Sundays. Often I would go for a walk along the streets before I headed to the office.

On a couple of occasions I remember encountering confused tourists and having to tell them there was simply nothing open yet. They had the same look of bewilderment that I saw on my son’s face when I tried to explain to him why I could buy him breakfast in Dobbies, but not a toy.

The act of writing an honest blog can often involve sharing information which does not necessarily present any advantage for the author.

To my mind that’s the worth of the format, the realisation of a faithful communication between writer and reader, even if it makes me seem feeble, weak or absurd.

But sometimes a little too much honesty can be uncomfortable. I can imagine my dad, for example, reading what I’m about to write, shaking his head and quietly mumbling ‘Jesus Christ.’ Others may have the same reaction. So be it.

I think it’s safe to suppose that this one can be safely stored in the ‘It could only happen to me section’.

It was a couple of days ago that my son first mentioned conkers. I was only half listening at the time because he was directing the conversation towards mummy while I was enjoying some valuable moments of respite.

I don’t think he had any proper understanding of what a conker is, or what he could do with one. Presumably he had picked something up from a playground conversation and merely had a vague idea that it was a concept he should express an interest in.

I didn’t think any more about it. Not until this morning when I found myself in the grounds of a hotel in Dublin staring at a tree.

I was there for a conference but, as I’d turned up a little early, I’d gone for a walk to pass the time. There were several beautiful trees and one of them was a splendid horse chestnut which had shed an array of ochre leaves and fat conkers on the surrounding grass.

Suddenly I remembered my boy’s words from earlier in the week. It all seemed to fit. Here I had been presented with a sure way of getting some super daddy bonus points. I stuffed a dozen or so of the conkers into my pockets before I went to work.

It was only much later in the day, as I drove back north, that my thoughts returned to the seeds I had collected. I was a little excited but it was tempered with caution. I knew that conkers was a game I had enjoyed in my youth but the world has changed so much. There were half-remembered snatches of stories about conkers now being regarded as a dangerous activity for young children, schools which had banned the activity from the playground and the insistence that youths wear safety goggles to participate.

While I didn’t want to be on the wrong side of the conkers argument, I figured that a lot of this was erring too far on the side of caution. Using a sledgehammer to crack a conker, you might say. 

I got home. Because I had been in Dublin my son was spending the afternoon with his grandparents. This gave me a little time to prepare the conkers. I soaked them in vinegar and baked them in a very hot oven as I had memories of doing from decades ago.

Then I set about piercing the conkers. At this point I exercised extreme caution because I remembered stories of boys who had suffered nasty injuries by sticking pencils or screwdrivers into their hands when holing conkers.

I was slow, steady and deliberate and after about half an hour I had ten conkers which were successfully pierced and dangling jauntily from pieces of string.

Then I drove off to pick up my son. I brought the conkers along also because I had assumed,my boy would be so excited he would want to play with them without haste.

Half an hour later I was at my in-law’s house and proudly presented the two largest conkers to my son.

He looked up from the game he was playing for the briefest of moments.

Then he said: ‘Mummy got conkers for me yesterday daddy.’

And then he went back to his game. I was left feeling foolish with an unwanted conker hanging pathetically from a length of cord in each hand.

Then we drove home. My son is going through a phase where he is fascinated by the physical world and he insists on bringing a large light-up globe wherever he goes. Still reeling from my conker rejection I thrust the globe onto the front seat of my car alongside the conkers and headed back.

By the time we reached our house I was pretty firm in my conviction that my son’s fleeting interest in conkers had long since evaporated. The truth was that I was more interested. I was pleased with the conkers I had found and nurtured and I was unwilling to let go of them too readily.

I carried his stuff indoors and laid the objects on the living room floor. My son’s globe is attached to an electrical cord and plug. Somehow the strings from the conkers had wrapped themselves around the cord in an unseemly, tangled mess.

Now, this was an obstacle which a person of patience and a reasonable mind could certainly have overcome.

I was not that person.

After a couple of minutes of useless fumbling I began to pull the conker strings agitatedly in an effort to free them. This only succeeded in creating a large, stringy knot around the cord which was bound so tight that none of the conkers could be extricated. My son sat and watched me as I struggled with the strings.

I lost my composure and went straight for the kitchen to grab a knife. At this point I have a memory of a passing thought that scissors might be a better option, although this may merely be hindsight trying to recover some of my grace.

I began to cut the conkers free.

At first it worked well.

Then it didn’t.

What happened next is entirely predictable but also quite hard to explain.

As I hacked at a string I was overcome by a wretched stinging pain in my fingers. I knew at once I had cut myself and that it was a nasty gash. I leapt to my feet and muted my profanities because my son was still beside me.

He followed me as I rushed from the room, blood dripping and leaving a trail on the floor like a slug.

I put my right hand under the cold water tap and identified a long gash on my right index finger. Even though I was forcing considerable pressure onto the wound the blood kept coming. At this point I noticed I had also sliced my right thumb.

I wound the cloth tightly around my thumb and finger but the blood still kept coming, turning the material a deep and startling crimson.

Now, and I admit this was an unexpected development, I realised I had also opened a sizeable wound on my left index finger.

I should explain that I’m left-handed and hold the knife handle on that side. To cut two fingers on my right hand was unfortunate but I could just about understand how I’d done it. To add a further gash to the hand which I use to hold the knife had left me scratching my head, or it would have done if I’d had any undamaged finger left to scratch with.

But it was not the time to ponder my folly because I was bleeding all over the kitchen floor. I managed to prise open the first aid box and pulled out a box of plasters with my blood saturated fingers.

And now I realised the glaring flaw in the design of sticking plasters. You need working fingers to open them. I struggled gamely with the little plastic covers but it was like trying to knit while wearing oven gloves. Meanwhile the blood kept flowing.

In desperation I attempted to gnaw through the plastic covers but succeeded only in biting a plaster clean in half, leaving a strange antiseptic taste on my tongue.

As I did this I realised my son was still watching the whole performance. My son who is supposed to learn from me, to follow in my footsteps, to enjoy the benefits of all my wisdom.

I smiled and laughed manically.

‘Daddy’s just playing a game buddy. It’s great fun!’

Eventually I managed to prise some plasters from their covers and stuck them to my injured fingers. It wasn’t elegant but it held the bleeding back.

Soon after my wife returned home. Pathetically I showed her my bloody hands. She smiled, a smile that said I’ve seen it all before.

‘Come on, let’s get you cleaned up then.’

With my hands properly bandaged I started to feel a little better.

However, as I think Newton’s third law of motion states, for every staggeringly stupid action there is an equal and opposite staggeringly stupid reaction.

Having both index fingers injured curtails your ability to do simple tasks.

Like putting your pyjama trousers on.

Which probably explains why I fell over and bumped my head while doing it.

I’m in bed now. My fingers are throbbing. Which is good in the sense that it takes away from the pain of the bump on my head. No more harm can come to me tonight. Surely.

And it all goes to prove that my earlier fears should not have been so quickly dismissed. Conkers are dangerous, nay, lethal objects.

Postscript: The next major parent/child interactive task in our house will be the carving of Halloween pumpkins. I think I’ll leave it to mummy.