Among the infinitude of presents my son received on his recent birthday was a colourful large rectangular box.

It was one of the first items he grabbed at because it was something he’d been nagging about getting for a while – a magic set.

Now, before I disappear down one of my characteristic long, world-weary whines, I should declare at this point that it was myself who purchased this item for him. It’s the inevitable father/son dynamic, he wanted it and I did as I was told. Also it was on sale.

But even before he’d seen it I knew it was one of those toys that (I presume) all parents dread.

If I buy him a ball then there’s not much explanation required. I roll it to him and off he goes while I go for a (well deserved) sit down.

But the magic set comes with its own 250 page instruction booklet as well as a stage-by-stage explanatory DVD.

My son enthusiastically opens the box, pulls out the contents, grabs the magic wand and waves it around while mumbling some secret words.

Nothing happens.

He gazes at me mummy and I expectantly.

Mummy is fastest to react.

‘Daddy will show you how it works son.’

My spirits sink. I try to distract him with some of the other toys. But even wearing the Batman voice-changing mask which makes me sound like the Satanic demon in The Exorcist film fails to amuse. I roll a few toy cars along the floor without enthusiasm but he won’t be distracted from the prospect of magic tricks.

I grab the black and white book and start to flick through the pages, trying to find an easy starter. The message on the box says it contains 100 tricks, but I’ll settle for just one.

Eventually I fix on producing a coloured ribbon from my empty hand. Now I don’t want to be expelled from the magic circle but I will reveal that this includes wearing a garish plastic thumb which is the least convincing attempt at a prosthetic since Gazza wore a pair of fake plastic breasts after Italia ’90.

I do the trick. My son stares at me. It’s all a bit awkward. It’s certainly not David Copperfield, or even Paul Daniels.

It doesn’t get any better. The trick with water in the bottomless jug is naff and the one where I’m supposed to hide little foam rabbits in the palm of my hand is frankly embarrassing.

My boy keeps saying: ‘But they’re in your hand daddy, I can already see them in your hand.’

Throughout the tortured experience my son watches with growing impatience, making it clear that he is dissatisfied with my execution of the tricks, rather than the tricks themselves. I suppose successful magic is based around having dexterous hand skills and the ability to distract your audience from what you are really doing. In truth I would need a pretty big distraction to be good at this, perhaps something like setting the house on fire.

My son is only five but I try to explain to him that there are certain things in this world which take time and patience. Not every skill can be mastered straightaway and there is merit in learning a craft, making mistakes, having another go, getting better, and keeping at it. There are plenty of quick fixes in this world but if he wants to be a magician then he’s going to have to work at it.

He listens to every word, his little blue eyes fixed on mine. I wonder if I’ve made a little breakthrough.

Then he says.

‘OK daddy, but can I open the science kit now and can you make something blow up?’

The magic set is currently gathering dust under the bed. It will probably stay there for a long time. But some day, perhaps when we’ve run out of other things to do, it will be pulled out and we’ll give it another go. Most likely my son will never pursue the interest any further. But maybe, just maybe, he will.

By all means go and buy the magic set.

You’ll like it….not a lot…but you’ll like it.

I’m old enough to know better but there are certain things which, as a parent, are sure to cause me a little twist of anxiety.

School sports day is one example. My wee man has not (yet) shown any aptitude for or interest in sports. I know he’s not the fastest or the strongest. He’s definitely not the most confident. And as sports day approaches, scenarios of disaster begin to gather in my mind like particles of dust in a dark corner.

What if all the noise and commotion overwhelms him? What if he gets upset because he’s not one of the best? What if the trauma makes him hate taking part in competitive games? What if? what if?

But while I’m wasting time worrying if he’s going to be ok, he’s too busy being happy to care. When I tentatively ask him about the races he keeps telling me the same thing, something they must have been taught in class.

‘It doesn’t matter where you finish daddy, as long as you have fun.’

The sun is strengthening and burning off the morning haze as we arrive at the school field. The smell of freshly cut grass intoxicates the senses. The painted white lines on the bumpy grass track are close to straight.

The children are led out by their teacher and I quickly spot my son, looking smaller in the crowd than he seemed when I had dropped him at the gates an hour earlier. Mummy and I are frantically waving until he sees us and jumps to his feet, giving us an enthusiastic little shake of his fist.

The races begin and I feel a little shot of anxiety. I keep asking my wife ‘Do you think he’ll be ok?’ over and over until she’s forced to pretend she can’t hear me anymore. I worry that at the first sign of adversity I’ll invade the track like Derek Redmond’s father.

(For the uninitiated Derek Redmond was a 400m runner who collapsed after tearing his hamstring in the middle of a race at the Barcelona Olympics. Although he was in agonising pain the athlete climbed off the track and attempted to finish the race on one leg. His father, who was watching in the crowd, burst through security and onto the track, gathered his inconsolable son in his arms, and supported him all the way to the finish line while the crowd cheered. I dare any parent to watch the clip on YouTube without letting a little tear escape.)

The races get underway. My wee man is nowhere near the front of any of them. But he tries hard and he never stops smiling. He’s actually going along quite nicely in the shuttle sprint relay until he decides half-way through that it’s more fun to skip than to run. I’m expending loads of nervous energy shouting encouragement and every couple of minutes he looks over to give mummy or myself a shy wave or a thumbs up. At one point while the sound system is playing Europe’s ‘The Final Countdown’, I could swear he’s dancing. And he just keeps on smiling while the sun shines.

The headmaster reads out the names of all the little boys and girls who have won the races. My son is not among them but it doesn’t matter because he did it. And he loved it.

I wonder why I let myself get uptight about it. I suppose it’s because, as a parent, I know I’m sending my child off to run his own race, without me being able to help him. So much of what he’ll know from now on in life will be about competition, achieving results, trying to be the best. There will be plenty more races in his life and I’ll always worry.

As the event finishes and the parents begin to disperse I sneak over to the bench where my son is sitting patiently. I give him a quick cuddle and a fist-bump.

‘Well done buddy,’ I say, ‘you were brilliant’.

He’s still smiling as he responds.

‘Oh daddy, I told you, it doesn’t matter where you finish, as long as you have fun.’

Being a parent means being there to teach your child. But sometimes we can learn from them as well.

You certainly can’t accuse my son of not knowing what he wants.

It was more than six months ago that he first informed me he wanted me to make him a pirate ship birthday cake for his party and his dedication to the concept has been unwavering ever since.

Which means I’ve had plenty of time to think about it. Or not. I adopted the same approach as with my tax returns of assuming that if I simply banish it from my mind it will go away. It didn’t.

The problem is I’m just not very good at baking. That’s not to say I can’t whisk together a perfectly serviceable standard birthday cake. I can also almost guarantee you that anything I bake will taste good. It’s just the aesthetic side which lets it all down.

In short, I’m utterly cack-handed at anything which requires neatness, precision, tidiness or patience, rather like an arthritic jellyfish who’s drunk twelve pints of extra strong cider trying to carry out keyhole heart surgery. An elaborate celebration cake which requires layering, cutting and decorating? I knew this pirate ship was heading for stormy seas.

But yet I insisted that I was going to have a go at something which was clearly beyond my capabilities. I could have bought or ordered an immaculate pirate ship cake. The problem was my son had asked me to make it, to do it myself. He’s just getting old enough now to be aware of my practical limitations, my complete ineptitude at DIY. Perhaps he just wanted some realisation of a mystical link between father and son, some physical evidence that daddy actually can make something. I knew I had to do it.

And so, while the rest of country was sitting down to watch Harry and Meghan’s wedding, it began. I came up with a method. It worked perfectly well – in my head.

The first bit was easy. I baked a chocolate cake in a large rectangular cake tin from an old recipe I’ve used before. When cooled I cut it into two long thin rectangles, one became the main body of the ship and the other I sliced into three parts to become the raised prow and stern.

The layering went better than expected and the cake was now starting to look ship-shape (pardon the pun). This involved the use of dowels to stabilise the cake. I bought these specially out of a baking shop although it did occur to me that a plastic straw would probably serve just as well (just remember to remove before eating!). Then I cut the front of the cake into an almost professional looking V-shape and my optimism was growing.

Before icing I tried to cover the cake with vanilla buttercream to smooth the surface before icing. This is where the inevitable decline set in. Frosting the vertical sides of the cake proved to be difficult and, at points, more of the cake seemed to be falling off than buttercream going on. The low point was when the whole prow broke off in my hand and had to be hastily stuck back on with another dowel. By now a sense of low panic was descending on me.

With the cake inexpertly frosted I tried to cover it with brown icing (which I thought would create a wood effect). But the cake was such an irregular shape that the finished task quickly developed into a patchwork of ripped and torn scraps of icing. As I attempted to smooth the icing down and I surveyed the messy criss-cross of joining lines it occurred to me that I had created the Frankenstein’s monster of pirate ship birthday cakes.

So the cake was ugly, bumpy, creased and, undoubtedly, leaning towards one side. And none of this was the slightest surprise to me. I knew my limitations and I had lived down to them perfectly.

But I did have a plan for a counterattack. When the appearance is not pleasing on the eye, then the tactic has to be to confuse the eye. With some edible glue I fastened a number of Milky Bar buttons to the cake as makeshift portholes. The lines and creases on the surface were covered with little silver candy balls which I thought would pass as metal bolts. In advance I had made gingerbread pirates and anchors which covered some of the rougher patches. As my granny used to say, to ‘take the bad look off it’.

A mast with Jolly Roger sail and flags was commandeered from my son’s toy pirate ship alongside a miniature cannon and treasure chest. I wrote a ‘Happy Birthday’ message with white chocolate. By the time some birthday candles are added hopefully the whole effect will be so busy as to disguise some of the obvious defects.

Tomorrow the cake will be presented to a room full of five-year-olds, most of whom probably won’t give it a second glance.

But I showed it to my son today. He didn’t say anything, he just stared at it for a while. Then he walked over and gave me a long, silent hug. Sometimes failure is not so bad.

The only thing left now is to work out how to slice the blasted thing.

There’s something in the name ‘Planet Fun’ which immediately appeals, something irresistible, suggestive of a hedonistic utopia which we all yearn to visit.

On the way to Belfast we’re all excited about the exotic, mysterious location we’ve been invited to.

After a short search we find Planet Fun in a derelict B&Q warehouse on the Boucher Road. Nowadays it’s called S13.

I’m here with my wife, son and little nephew and we’re given VIP bracelets as we enter on a sunny Saturday afternoon. The first attraction we visit is the Giant Wheel which soars above the city, providing stunning panoramic views for many miles in all directions. Although not if, like my wife, you refuse to open your eyes during the whole ride. I risk being thrown out of the carriage when I pretend to her that the wheel has broken down when it stops to let new passengers on while were suspended many feet up in the air.

But she gets her own back on the bumper cars, where erratic, reckless driving is rewarded and my attempts to appeal to other motorists’ sense of good manners and fairness are cruelly and repeatedly battered.

Planet Fun works for us because a large section of the theme park is devoted to young children. My son is four, my nephew three and the quieter area within the warehouse is a good foil to the frenetic excitement outside. A series of smaller rides featuring cars, trains, teacups and swings keeps them occupied for most of the afternoon while mummy and I relax with a coffee and doughnut.

One of the highlights for the younger children is the caterpillar mini-rollercoaster. On the day we visit it is temporarily disabled as repairs are carried out, which only helps to create a sense of deepening anticipation. When the ride is eventually opened to the public again scores of children dart out of the popular inflatable village to join the queue.

But the gremlins are still in the system and the rollercoaster operator has to call a mechanic to get the ride going while we sit waiting in the carriages. He does this by physically pushing the carriages along the tracks until they gain enough momentum to carry on unaided (I’ve never been mechanically minded but this seems a strange remedy to me). Once the rollercoaster is moving it comes into its own, drawing a series of shouts of delight and mock terror from its young occupants.

Our time is almost up and we let the kids pick one last ride each. My nephew goes for the mini wheel and my son for one last bashing session on the bumper cars. This just leaves me enough time to have a go on the Star Flyer, the tallest ride in the park.

We could have stayed for much longer because there’s plenty more to do but the kids were exhausted. Exhausted but delighted. All the way home from S13 they talked about their favourite rides and asked questions about when we could go back again.

When I put my son to bed I noticed he was still wearing his bracelet. I went to take it off but he insisted I leave it. It’s his reminder of the day of fun.

I found my old watch today. It had been gathering dust in a cupboard for the last six months or so.

I say watch but it actually goes by the name of ‘smart bracelet’.

After charging the battery the only task that remained was to set the time.

So I looked at it.

I pressed it.

I swiped it.

I tapped it.

I shook it.

I scratched my head.

Then I looked at it some more.

I pressed it again.

I swiped it again.

I tapped it again.

I shook it again.

I don’t want to get too monotonous here but this cycle was repeated several times.

Until I finally concluded definitively that there is no way to change the time on a smart bracelet. If the time on the display is wrong then you’ll just have to alter the speed that our planet is spinning. A less daunting task, it seemed.

So I did what I always do when hopelessly floundering. I googled it.

The only drawback with this is that I don’t know the brand name of my smart bracelet so I had to watch several videos of American and Japanese men enthusiastically showing off the features of their new gadget until I found a device which looked like mine.

I watched a video. And discovered I was right, you can’t change the time on a smart bracelet.

What you have to do instead is ‘sync’ your smart bracelet with your mobile phone via Bluetooth.

This alien process includes downloading a health app which asked me my a) height b) weight and c) what I want to achieve.

a) not sure

b) don’t know

c) just to set the time.

I successfully downloaded the app. The time display magically corrected itself on the watch. But now the app keeps making strange requests, asking permission to do things like ‘analyse your sleep’.

I thought of a simpler time, when I was a happy schoolboy with a digital watch bought at the Lammas Fair. Setting the time was simple, you just stuck a safety pin into a little hole.

Those times are gone. These days my smart bracelet is smarter than me.

There are some things you can only say to someone you really love.

With that in mind here are my five favourite insults delivered to me by my son recently.

1 ‘Daddy, if we were all put in prison then I would escape through the bars and I’d drag mummy out too but your big, fat belly would get stuck.’

2 ‘Daddy, it will be good when you die because I really like going to graveyards.’

3 ‘Daddy, can you please not sit beside me because you smell like poo.’

4 ‘Daddy, mummy does the news on TV, why do you never do anything?’

5 Screaming during a red-faced tantrum.

‘I hate you daddy! I hate you!’

Daddy looks hurt.

‘But I love you son.’

Son looks momentarily confused. Then he yells.

‘I love you and I hate you daddy!’