A parenting masterclass in football training meltdowns

I picked up the kids from my mother-in-law's at 5pm on Tuesday to take them to their respective football sessions.

- Steve Canavan

This is quite an intricate operation because it involves getting Wilf-aged six but with the vocal capacity of someone way beyond his years-to his training for 5.20, staying there for about 20 minutes until Mrs Canavan arrives ('I can't possibly leave work a bit earlier to help you, it's just impossible'), then whizzing off to the other side of town to make sure Mary (aged eight) gets to her training for 6pm.

It's fair to say I don't look forward to Tuesday evenings in general, but this Tuesday in particular took the biscuit. The kids' school is having some sort of sport week this week so the children are allowed to wear PE kit and trainers each day.

And so I thought-and boy what a mistake this was-I wouldn't take, as I normally do, football kits for Mary and Wilf to wear at their training sessions, and that they could stay in their PE kits instead. It'll cut down on washing and they won't mind at all, I thought.

I was wrong. 'Where's my kit?' were Wilf's first words as I called at the mother-in-law's (she collects them from school on a Tuesday).

"I've not bought it. You can stay in your PE kit," I replied.

Had I picked up a lump of dog excrement from the pavement and smeared it all over his face, I don't think it would have caused him as much upset.

His face contorted into the shape of a black mamba about to inject deadly venom into its prey and he began wailing and screaming at a volume so loud a transit van two miles away swerved off the road.