IT'S nearly six months since I was burdened with the blame for breaking my son's ankle. You might recall that I'd taken the boys sledging, persuaded Christopher, 13, to try an exciting part of the hill with a ridge half-way down, and then dismissed him as a drama queen when he fell off and squealed about the pain in his ankle.

It turned out to be a particularly nasty break which required screws having to be inserted under general anaesthetic. Thankfully, he's fully recovered, although it seems to give him trouble whenever he's asked to do something other than sit in front of the PlayStation.

Well, he might be back on his feet, but his poor old dad has become the victim of what many might describe as a dose of poetic justice.

I was playing tennis, imagining I was Roger Federer, bent down for a low volley and felt something go in my right knee. By the next day, the knee was three times the size of the other one and a trip to a physiotherapist confirmed that I'd torn a cartilage.

"It's your age - just wear and tear," I was told. At 42, my body is falling to bits - my Wimbledon dream is all but over.

Ironically, the operation will be carried out by the same surgeon who screwed my son's ankle back together. It is described as "a minor operation" but that's what they said about my vasectomy.

This time, I'll be under general anaesthetic. There was talk that I could have an epidural instead but that's what they use during childbirth and I'm likely to need something much stronger.

I knew general anaesthetic was the right choice when seven-year-old Max asked: "Dad, will they have to chop your leg off with a chain saw?"

I was at the hospital last week for a pre-op consultation and took ten-year-old Jack with me for company.

While we were waiting to see the surgeon, we were chatting to a nurse about our last visit to the hospital: the infamous sledging incident.

"It was all my Dad's fault," Jack told the nurse, thoughtfully.

"Ah well, at least your brother's OK now - these things happen," she said, sympathetically.

It was then that I noticed a dirty smudge on Jack's forehead.

"Didn't you have a wash this morning?" I said, licking my forefinger and attacking the smudge.

Jack - as he tends to do - over-reacted, trying to fight me off and blathering on about something or other.

"Come here," I said, holding his head in an armlock and giving the smudge another vigorous rub, keen to show the nurse I wasn't going to stand for any nonsense from a boy not known for his love of soap and water.

Jack broke free, tears welling up in his eyes, and finally managed to get his message across: "It's not a smudge, dad," he whimpered, "I was sleep-walking last night and I walked into the corner of a door - it really hurt."

The smudge was a bruise. No wonder it wouldn't come off.

The nurse looked at me but didn't say a word. She didn't need to - I knew what she was thinking: "You break one son's leg and then you make his brother's head wound worse - what kind of father are you?"

I can't even get down on my knees and beg for forgiveness - it hurts too much.

THE THINGS THEY SAY

More from the roadshow's recent visit to Langdon Ladies, who meet at Coulby Newham Community Centre in Middlesbrough...

AUDREY Lester recalled how son Matthew was telling her all the things he wanted for his sixth birthday.

"Oh I don't think we'll have enough money for everything," she said.

"Don't worry, Mam," said Matthew, "I'll put it on my Christmas list and it won't cost you a penny."

MARGARET Brickman was taking a scripture lesson at Brambles Farm School in Middlesbrough.

"Always remember that Jesus loves everyone," she said.

She thought the class was hanging on her every word until a little boy shouted out: "What? Even the kids in Seaton Carew?"

* Margaret has passed away now but the story was recalled by her sister Mollie Swash.

SYLVIA Beer recalled the time her daughter Elizabeth was ten and was known for having particularly skinny legs.

Elizabeth had come home in floods of tears and her mum asked her what was wrong.

"I was just standing in the doorway and a dog lifted its leg up," she wailed.

SYLVIA has never forgotten the note she received from a parent while she was teaching at Whinney Banks Infants School in Middlesbrough:

"Jimmy won't be in today because he's got diarrhoea through a hole in his shoe."