When I picked the kids up from school this evening, I was in a pretty foul mood.

I had just had a long conversation with Darling Wifey during which "dawning realisation" happened: a job I volunteered for at work turns out to be one that will involve a couple of weeks of all-nighters. Not a fun thing to discover.

So the poor kids, who charged across the school grounds shrieking "Daddy!" when they saw me, were rewarded for their playfulness with a snarl and Radio 4 at full volume.

However, by the time I had listened to the news of Boredom Frown being stabbed in the back by yet more of his own Party Faithful, I was feeling a lot more cheerful. It also occurred to me that picking up the kids and singing Sponge Bob Square Pants in the car on the way home was one of the high points of my life - so I cheered up and started chatting nicely with them.

Darling Wifey phoned again, asking me to pop into the supermarket on the way home and, wracked with guilt for my Grumpy parenting, I told the kids I would buy them treats. Little Madam chose two books, Little Nutter found two train DVDs in a bargain bucket, and Tiny Flirt nearly wet himself with excitement when I said he could have a chart DVD. What followed was an almost embarrassing outpouring of daddy-adoration that lasted until the moment we walked in through the front door.

Since then, our home has been creepily silent. The kids just vanished and haven’t bothered us since.

Guilt is good.