I can only apologise to the legions of undercoverdad readers for the unscheduled absence of your favourite diary.
An incident so traumatic, so earth-shattering has occured that it rocked me to my very core and made me question my right to continue bringing you news from the school frontline.
There is no way to disguise this, no way to dress it up, so I may as well just tell it straight.
I came last in the dad’s race at Suerpkid’s school sports day.
Yes, that’s right. There was nobody behind me. I was the slowest.
Still, at least we can say it went better than last year.
Last year I failed to complete the dad’s race.
Actually, on reflection, I’m not sure if coming last can be classified as better than failure to complete.
At least you leave room for doubt when failing to complete.
Who knows whether I was about to surge to the front last year, leaving breathless rivals trailing in my slipstream and awestruck mothers gasping in admiration.
No-one will ever be able to prove that wasn’t about to happen when I pulled up lame, ruined by the sheer explosive power of my textbook burst from the blocks.
This year there was no room for doubt.
The evidence was there in front of the packed stadium, the massed ranks of pupils, staff and parents. And Superkid.
All I had to do was perform to a moderate level over a course which measured no more than 80 yards and all parties could have gone home happy.
Alas, no.
It became clear straight from the gun that I was treading water and heading nowhere. Evidently my high-altitude training had not been tailored to the specific needs of my event.
As I passed the pivotal 20-yard marker, I was short of oxygen and my thighs were experiencing lactic acid build-up more in keeping with an ultra-marathon runner traversing the Gobi desert.
But at least I was keeping one felllow struggler behind me. If I could monitor him in my wing mirrors I could avoid complete shame and the blanket mockery which would inevitably follow in the morning papers.
I held my challenger off as we chugged past halfway, then disaster struck.
The chain-smoking hedge fund manager in pinstriped suit, patent leather winkle pickers and gaudy red braces drew alongside and then, emboldened by his progress, went storming past.
My fate was sealed.
And I could hardly claim I had not taken the challenge seriously.
Not when I stumbled over the line clad in bright green lycra racing suit and matching track spikes.