The kids hold the cards when the new man calls

AFTER an extended gap year from dating, I draw my self-imposed man ban to a close, ending my sabbatical by bringing the new chap home to meet the kids.

As you do. The only thing is that my children are now a few years older than the last time I did this, and therefore far more capable of making it all go horribly wrong with a few well-chosen words, a carefully pitched remark, a not-so throwaway comment.

“Right,” I brief them, before the new chap arrives. ” I like this man, and want to make a good impression. You have five minutes. Come in, be charming, then when I say, ‘Goodnight darlings, sweet dreams’, you vanish without trace. Got that?” They nod, grinning. I remind them of the bit in Little Miss Sunshine when the dad says, “Quick, pretend to be normal”, and tell them that this is what I require. They smirk and nudge each other and imitate me in their smarmiest voices. The new chap arrives at the door and is immediately mauled by the dogs, which is unfortunate as he is a cat person. The 12-year-old yanks them away and shoves them in another room. “He’s not as old as the rest of them, is he,” she stage whispers to me, heaving the Rottweiler off the new chap’s chest. “He’s got hair! The others never had any hair.”

I do my best to block her and the dogs out of my consciousness as I usher the new chap into my carefully prepared sitting room — cat furballs, dog-chewed shoes, dust bunnies and stiff old socks have all been removed, the fire has been lit and the children are on a timer. Before he came, they have been torturing me with all the things they could say to him that would guarantee his first visit to be his last.

“Can we call him Number Five if we forget his name?” says the nine year old innocently, alluding to the new chap’s position in my post-marital relationship chronology. Ha ha, I say, making strangling gestures in his direction.

“Well I think it’s revolting,” says the 12-year-old emphatically. “At your age. God.” I deliver a hasty lecture on the universal right to the pursuit of happiness but I can see I am wasting my breath — she is still of the opinion that all males are stupid and smelly.

“You don’t care about us anymore because you’re too busy texting your boyfriend,” she continues. Then she bursts into evil laughter when I look aghast at her. “Gotcha,” she cackles. Oh boy. This is exhausting and he hasn’t even rang the doorbell yet. I am forced to issue a mixture of bribes and threats to ensure the children behave appropriately. In the end, the nine-year-old talks at the new chap intensely and without pausing for breath about football, while the 12-year-old largely ignores him. I judge the encounter a resounding success.