I took my baby girl to the local café on Saturday. We had barely sat down when a waitress came over and gave me a banana for baby and a cup of tea for me. “On the house” she said with a big smile. I smiled back and as she sashayed away she gave me a wink.

You’re probably thinking ‘what a lovely surprise’. But while it was lovely, it wasn’t a surprise. At least, not for me.

This kind of thing happens all the time.

Throughout my life as a dad, I’ve regularly had women hit upon me. Once, a well-dressed lady bought me a chocolate cookie when I was standing behind her in the queue at the bakery (it was yummy, although looking back maybe it was intended for baby), while there was another occasion when a charming woman paid my bus fare and slipped me her phone number as I struggled to pull the pram on to a bus. Another time, as I was walking through London’s Portobello Road market, I was tapped on the shoulder and handed a lovely teddy bear (it turns out baby had dropped it in the gutter moments earlier).

And whenever I’ve asked what I’ve done to deserve such treatment, the donors of these gifts have always said the same thing: its so nice to see a man spending time with his baby.

I am no Brad Pitt but I do have two legs, two arms, two eyes (well four actually – I wear glasses) a brooding lopsided grin and a baby in a pram. I am irresistible to women. I am a hot dad.

It is embarrassing. While playing the tickle monster game with baby in the park I am asked by mothers, not all of them single, if they can be chased and tickled too. They coo and swoon as I push baby on the swings. Sometime there are so many gathered around me that baby starts to cry. As I comfort her all they do is swoon more.

If you’re a woman reading this – or, more importantly, looking at my picture – you will know exactly what I’m talking about: you are probably  already writing  a marriage proposal.

If you are a man, I’d hazard that you’ve already formed your own opinion about me — and it won’t be very flattering. For while many doors have been opened (literally) just as many have been metaphorically slammed in my face — and usually by my own sex. I know how Samantha Brick feels. You almost certainly find me a threat – a threat to your career, your relationship, your masculinity.

Time and time again jealous husbands have frozen me out of their lives. “You’ve ruined it for us” they say ” I never changed nappies now after seeing yiou dio it she says I:m not a real man.”

Take last week, out walking baby a mate who I wnet to school with passed by in his car. I waved — he blatantly blanked me. Yet this is someone who I have known for over 30 years, and who I have been down the pub with on countless occasions.

I approached a mutual friend and discreetly enquired if I’d made a faux pas. It seems the only crime I’ve committed is not leaving the house with a bag over Baby M. He doesn’t like me, I discovered, because he views me as a threat. The friend pointed out he is shorter, heavier and has never changed a nappy.

And, according to our mutual friend, he is adamant that something could happen between his wife and me, ‘were the right circumstances in place’, even though I’m happily married.

Perhaps you’re a father yourself, and have experienced a fraction of the bastardness I’ve encountered at the hands (and once or twice, the boots) of insecure, embittered males. Maybe you can in some small measure empathise with how difficult it is to live in a society where a man is constantly expected to be a good dad, but is then punished for being better than anyone else.

Is it any wonder that David Beckham moved his family to the US?

You can also watch kids tv all day and not feel guilty about it. Its like being a student all over again.

And you can fart with immunity when in restaurants, shops, or other people’s houses because you always have someone else to blame.

According to research the average dog can understand about 165 words, including signs, signals and gestures. They can also count to about 5.

Stanley Coren, a professor at the University of British Columbia and leading researcher on dog behaviour is so smart he has letters before and after his name. He has been doing doggy tests, and says the average dog can count, reason and recognise words and gestures on par with a human 2 -year-old.

“They may not be Einsteins, but are sure closer to humans than we thought,” he says.

The smartest dogs, he calls them the “super breeds,” are on par with a 2½-year-old, recognizing up to 250 words.

While dogs ranked with the 2-year-olds in language Coren found that in terms of social inteeligence, our furry friends fare even better.

“The social life of dogs is much more complex, much more like human teenagers at that stage, interested in who is moving up in the pack and who is sleeping with who and that sort of thing,” Coren told LiveScience.

Dogs can certainly drool like a teenage boy on heat.

And, no, not all breeds are created equally.

The smartest dogs? The borzoi, chow chow, bulldog, basenji and — finishing dead last — the Afghan hound.

Last weekend we visited my parents. While wifey and mum went shopping with baby I decided to spend some man time with dad. I asked him what he wanted to do? Go fishing? Go down the pub? Watch some football? Anything you want dad, my treat. But I knew what his answer would be – “Visit Wickes.”  Wickes, the DIY superstore.

I hate DIY.  When I was 10, dad said to me that he didn’t want me to grow up like him and have a manual job (he used to be a welder, he is retired now).  He urged me to read and educate myself and take my studies seriously. He wanted me to be white collar not blue collar.I took this to heart and decided not to get involved in metalwork and woodwork at school. Consequently I have no interest in DIY.

But to Dad, Wickes is his Wembley, his Gucci, his perfect day out. Amongst the ball cocks and plasterboard he is at home. If they allowed him to, he’d stay in one of their sheds.

As we wander the aisles, him in nirvana fondling sandpaper and lovingly caressing screwdrivers, I try to feign interest whilst stifling my yawns.

Now that he is retired  and bored I ask him why he doesn’t get a job working at Wickes.

“I’d hate dealing with the public asking stupid questions about grouting and plumbing,” he says

“Like me?” I’m always phoning him up to ask the best way to fix a shelf that is wobbly or what do when a fuse blows.

“Your my son, thats different.” He says. It’s a tender moment. He is not a man to express emotion but that’s as close to a “I love you” as I am likely to get.

With that in mind I have decided that I am going to get involved in DIY. Now that I am a father I have decided to put my hatred of DIY aside and learn how to use a power tool and grout and all that manly stuff.  So I have invited dad to help me do up our bathroom. When I asked him I could swear he had tears in his eyes.

You can follow our project on the Wickes page on facebook

Once again Twitter has proved how little people really know. Check out these tweets from people who have only just realised that James Cameron’sTitanic blockbuster was based on a true story.

She could have said the intellectual challenge, the money, the friendships,  but no its all about putting on a dress and make up.

A dress and make up that everyone else gets to see but me.

I somehow feel like I am getting a bad deal here.

If I am lucky I get to see wifey for five minutes a day looking hot. In the morning just before she leaves.She emerges for the bathroom  made up and pretty kisses me and then leaves. And in the evening she comes in looking hoy goes straight into the bedroom takes off her nice top and pencil skirt and puts on a tatty pair of legging and a baggy jumper.

With the arrival of spring and Tiger Woods winning at the weekend it turned my attention back on to golf.

Despite Tiger Woods best efforts to inject some sex and attitude into the game some of my colleagues still think it is a fuddy duddy game. I disagree. It’s a great way to spend an afternoon. Living in London, its nice occasionally to get 4 hours of fresh air and exercise walking around a beautiful landscape, occasionally hitting a small ball, although mostly hitting the ground in frustration.

I only tend to hang out with male mates when there is some kid of competitive edge – such as squash or poker – so golf is perfect for a spot of male bonding. But I also play golf with wifey. And that is even more competitive. I think it is fair to say that we have had more arguments on the golf course and in the clubhouse / driving home than in any other facet of our life.

And now I am thinking of getting baby M into the game. She will be two soon and I was thinking I might get some clubs for her. It might seem a little bit early and also probably downright dangerous but I’m sure I read that Tiger started playing when he was 2 (or maybe it was 4?).

It would be great if she turned out to be a great professional golfer then at least I wouldn’t have to worry about my paltry pension fund. I could be her caddy and just cash the winners cheques. But then again if her golfing prowess, like Tiger’s is linked to a rampant sexual appetite/addiction, perhaps its best not to encourage her.

Maybe I should raid her bank account instead and buy myself some new clubs for the new season?

This post was sponsored by Direct Golf.

If i win, I promise me and toddler will go on all night bender (well maybe drink milk have a special biscuit and stay up till half past eight watching Madagasgar).