IN the good old days before kids, a hangover could be suffered in silence. The head still throbbed, the limbs still ached, the light still blinded, but at least there was a quiet bedroom in which to crawl away and die quietly.

Oh how times have changed...

A pre-Christmas gathering with friends left this particular dad - normally a very conservative drinker - feeling worse than he had for quite some time. The host's home-made sloe gin was to blame. Apparently innocent, utterly lethal.

So there I was, on the morning after the night before, lying in bed and enduring a sloe death. Suddenly, less than four hours after I'd climbed under the covers, it all began:

The kids started SCREAMING, so very loudly, in the bedroom next door: "I had it first. Gerrof. Shut up. Get out of my room."

The door BANGED. It was a very loud bang indeed. More like a gunshot.

I felt a five-year-old jumping on the bed, WHINING: "Daddy, Christopher told me to get out of his room. Do you want to wrestle with me?" I shook my head, slowly, and waved him away.

Jack, aged nine, YELLED up the stairs: "Dad, mum says do you want a sausage sandwich?"

I was still taking deep breaths to keep the feeling of sickness at bay, and my tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth so it was doubtful whether a sausage would have made it through. I tried to say 'no' but the word wouldn't come out.

The telephone started RINGING, much louder than normal - my daughter's friend inviting her to a sleep-over.

The doorbell DING-DONGED - my sister-in-law dropping off some shopping for my wife: "Just delivering the groceries," she called out before SLAMMING the front door.

Suddenly, all hell let loose. The smoke alarm was BLARING. The sausages were overdone.

At the same time, I became aware of a tune - Silent Night would you believe? - being played outside the window. I realised it was coming from next door's new Christmas lights. We couldn't wish for better neighbours but how tacky is that? Christmas lights that play music before 8am. (They have a water featurette in the garden too.)

The village church bells BING-BONG-BING-BONGED to mark the passing of the hour. It sounded like Big Ben had been moved into my wardrobe.

I had a hunch I knew how Quasimodo felt when he said: "The bells, the bells." And I'm not talking about the whisky.

Then Jack started practising his trombone. He only knows one note and it sounds like a ship is coming in through the fog.

Seconds later, my wife called up the stairs: "Do you want it up there?"

I prayed she meant nothing more than the aforementioned sausage sandwich I'd tried to decline.

Despite another attempt to turn it down, it came up anyway. With tomato sauce on. I didn't want it. I didn't want anything. Only quiet.

"Can you take the kids swimming, so I can get on with wrapping the presents in peace?" asked my wife.

A typical mum's tactic: Be nice, let him have a sausage in bed, and he'll do anything he's asked.

An hour later, I was in the pool. A lifeguard WHISTLED to stop someone running, a hooter HONK-HONKED to signal the start of the wave machine, and a dive-bomber splashed FREEZING water in my face.

Never again.

Comptetition

THE first Dad At Large book has been sold out for quite some time so repeated requests for a copy have met with disappointment.

But a pristine copy has been unearthed by a colleague who was clearing out her files just before Christmas.

So we've decided to go into 2003 with a competition to win the last known copy of the first Dad At Large book, signed by Peter Barron.

Send in your "Things They Say" - funny comments made by children - and the best one received by the end of January will win the book.

Write to Dad At Large Competition, Priestgate, Darlington, County Durham, DL1 1NF or e-mail Peter Barron at peter.barronnne.co.uk.

THE THINGS YOU DO

WITH six days to go, the search for a little yellow rabbit - our five-year-old's only Christmas wish - was looking grim.

Then came the plea for help and Dad At Large readers came to the rescue.

You pointed to the right shops, you brought them in, and you even offered to knit them.

The result? Thirteen little yellow rabbits and one happy little boy. Thank you.

(And thanks to me dear old mum, I did get my Kylie calendar. The result? One very happy middle-aged dad.)

THE THINGS THEY SAY (at 4.30am on Christmas morning)

"Dad, he's been."

THE THINGS DADS SAY (at 4.30am on Christmas morning)

"Go back to bed."

THE THINGS THEY SAY (at 5am on Christmas morning)

"Dad, I can't get back to sleep. Can I tell the others he's been?"

THE THINGS DADS SAY (at 5am on Christmas morning)

"Please go back to bed."

A NEW YEAR THOUGHT

IMAGINE if all the world leaders were grandmas. Wouldn't it be a better place?

Published: 02/01/2003