IT'S 1914 and the posters go up all over Oxfordshire. “BRITONS – Kitchener wants you!“ Across the county young men volunteer for action. They march to war, their uniforms glistening in the sun.

Something must have happened because, exactly 100 years later, I face a very different kind of battle.

My 2014 battleground is a Playgroup for the under fives. The Incredible Hulk, Spiderman and Cinderella are jumping on me and knocking my spectacles askew. It seems Kitchener doesn’t want me anymore.

I look across at the other two dads in the room. We look pathetic. One of us waves a toy at a baby in a desperate attempt to calm it down. He looks like he’s ready to collapse.

Our ancestors were groomed to run an empire. These days they barely trust us to change a nappy. But it’s not all bad. I get to spend time being ritually humiliated by my offspring, who are very cute. There’s a song and dance section where I show off my talents to Old MacDonald Had A Farm. And there’s free black coffee.

This I can handle. It reminds me of the good old days, standing around the coffee machine when I had a full-time job.

I’ll pretend to punch in the number for “18 Strong”. I’ll pretend I’m tired because I have a hangover and not because I was up at 6am pretending to be Bob the Builder. I’ll pretend the playground leader doesn’t look at me like a glutton when I come back to claim a second cup.

And if my children are distracted for long enough I might surreptitiously open the football game on my phone in which Ronaldo and Messi play for Oxford United (I am not making this up). Women form strong support networks in these rooms.

Less so me and the other specimens of the dadhood on display. Personally I have the feeling we’re just not built for this sort of thing. So long as our children are happy we’re content to hide in the corner. And we’re only casually aware of the mums making polite conversation on the opposite side of the room.

Then very occasionally the strangest thing will happen. One of the mums, much like the Germans during the Christmas Truce of 1914, will cross over No Man’s Land and to speak to one of us. Now, I can talk endlessly and enthusiastically about how delightful my children are. And I can ask you about your child.

But that’s where this conversation must stop. Because as soon as we start talking about our adult lives I’m convinced you’re going to think that I’m – how else can I put it? On the pull.

Naturally I’m not. I know this upside down world of playgroups and sleep deprivation has left me paranoid and broken.

So next time you cross that line just give me a tin hat and a Tommy gun and send me off to the front.

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