I’m used to furry animals in my house. At last count, including my children, I have 37 mouths to feed. The mouths belong to children, dogs, guinea pigs and rabbits. In no particular order, all competing for food.

Actually make that 38.

Maisy has arrived. Maisy is a black cat. Well, a kitten to be more precise.

She was shy at first but, boy, has she settled in. The dogs, Gizmo and Murphy, treated her with disdain at first.

‘There’s no way she will muscle in on the food stakes’ you could almost see them discussing.

How wrong they were.

Last night, I cooked myself a nice lamb chop. I ate it down to the bone. As usual, Gizmo and Murphy sat patiently, their own chops salivating.

After I finished, I left it on the plate and sat back to let my meal go down. Usually I break the bone up and throw it out the back door for them to take it to bury or chew or do whatever they do with bones.

Except it was different last night.

Maisy had somehow negotiated a way onto the table and was contentedly helping herself to it.

Gizmo and Murphy treated her with more respect today.

I think she might be recruited by one of them.

Having three daughters means I rarely get the chance to kick a ball about or engage in more ‘rough and tumble’ stuff. It’s all Barbie and Littlest Pet Shop.

When I take them over the park I mustn’t push them too high on the swings or too fast on the roundabout.

But today was different. C and L, my two nephews came to visit.

‘Can we go over the park, Uncle Mark’ they asked more or less as soon as they arrived.

I was already stood by the front door with my trainers on and a football tucked under my arm.

‘Come on! Let’s go!’ I said excitedly. They broke into a run as we neared the park gate and I joined them. And what a joy it was to kick the ball high into the air as we entered – I felt like the captain of Arsenal coming out of the tunnel onto the pitch at the start of a game.

There we were, the three of us, in our own little football world kicking a ball about.

After a while they wanted to have a go on the swings and roundabout.

‘Higher, Uncle Mark!’ they shouted. ‘Faster!’

I was in heaven. L even come off the roundabout and did one of those little wobbly walks because he was so dizzy. I’d never been responsible for making anyone do that before.

Then they wanted to go back onto the swings.

‘Uncle Mark! Uncle Mark! See if you can hit us on the head with the ball!’ shouted L.

‘It doesn’t get any better than this,’ I thought.

So I took aim and kicked the ball. I missed but it hit the metal frame and bounced straight back in my face. Giving me a bloody nose.

‘Are you alright Uncle Mark?’ said C.

‘Hmmpphh, I’m fide,’ I managed.

‘I think we’d better get you home,’ replied C, taking my hand.

I wonder if they want to play Littlest Pet Shop when they next come round?

I had to go to one of those boring, happy-clappy Work Conferences earlier this week. They’re supposed to boost morale and remind you what a great job you have.

It’s no expense spared – lovely menu in a lovely venue. But all I was looking forward to was the piss up in the evening. It was free alcohol after all.

All day we had ‘equality’ and ‘diversity’ shoved down our throats but I still don’t understand it. Apparently, we’re all the same but we’re all different. Or something like that.

After the Q and A session at the end (no questions unsurprisingly) we all breathed a collective sigh of relief, gathered our things and headed for the pub.

Among us was K, a registered blind person and his Guide Dog. The pub we were going to was a few streets away from the Conference Centre but we found it ok. The first drink was knocked back with gusto followed by the loosening of ties and loosening of lips. I was standing at the bar with a couple of mates.

‘What a load of bollocks today.’

‘It’s PC gone mad.’

‘I know. But it’s a sign of the times we’re living in. Why should anyone have more rights than anyone else?’

‘Shh, K’s over there. He might hear.’

For a while the group fell silent but it didn’t take long for the conversation to return to political correctness, equality and diversity.

I didn’t notice the time slipping by. I was quite happily supping. All of a sudden, it was a quarter to eleven and most people had gone. I wasn’t sure where I was or how to get back. I couldn’t see anyone I knew.

Except K

I wandered over.

‘Alright K,’ I said as I bent down to stroke his dog. ‘I don’t suppose you know the way back to the Conference Centre?’ I asked, half of my tongue in my cheek.

‘Yeah. Sure.’ he replied. ‘ Go out of the door behind and walk up the 26 steps. When you exit the door turn 90 degrees to your left. Walk forward 120 paces and you should come to a road. Cross over and after another 50 paces turn left again. Keep walking for three minutes at the same speed and then stop,’ he continued.

He couldn’t see me, of course, but I was stood there, open mouthed.

‘Turn to the right and cross over the road and the Conference Centre should be 70 or so paces further down,’ he finished.

‘Cheers K, ‘ I said, taking his hand and shaking it.

See, if you’re lost or don’t know where you are, sometimes you should ask a blind man for directions.