MUMS, as they know all too well, are unequivocally the superior sex. So when they go away, they do so in the confident expectation that us dads can't cope without them.

That's why there were notes all over the house as usual when my wife and another dozen mums from our village went off on their annual get away from the kids and husbands weekend break.

There were instructions on what time the four children had to be collected from school; when to take them to parties, ballet, tennis, swimming and trampolining; what to feed them at various times of the day; what to dress them in; how they mustn't forget to brush their teeth; and how to operate the washing machine, tumble dryer and dishwasher.

The tone was invariably condescending to the point where the notes might easily have been addressed "Dear Stupid".

I couldn't see why it was such a big deal. I'd already arranged for my Mum to come over for the weekend so I wasn't the slightest bit worried.

Anyway, the day before they left on this epic jaunt of wine drinking, massages, beauty treatments, lounging around, and discussing the inadequacies of men, the phone rang.

It was my wife's sister, who was about to make her debut on the Great Escape to the Oasis holiday village on the edge of The Lakes. She explained that she wanted to make a carrot cake as her contribution to the communal feast the escapees traditionally take with them.

"Do you have a seven inch, square cake tin?" she asked.

My wife didn't have a cake tin of that particular size but Delia's recipe insisted on exactly those dimensions so she suggested that Auntie Hazel asked another female fugitive, called Sarah.

Sadly, Sarah wasn't in but her husband Ken - appreciating that this was a matter of life or death - looked in the cupboard for a seven-inch, square cake tin.

He couldn't see one but thought it best to pass on his wife's mobile telephone number in case he was looking in the wrong place.

Sarah, who was at one of those coffee mornings mums frequent, confirmed the grave news that she did not have a seven-inch, square cake tin.

But hang on - she had a brainwave.

Although devoid of a seven-inch square one, she did have an assortment of round ones in various sizes and hubby Ken - an engineer and quite a clever chap by all accounts - would be able to do a conversion calculation.

Sarah rang poor Ken, who had to stop what he was doing, get his calculator out and come up with a formula to save the day.

With Sarah hanging on while the coffee was being poured, heroic Ken announced that a seven-inch, square cake tin equated exactly to a round eight-inch cake tin. Crumbs!

She couldn't wait to relay the exciting news to Auntie Hazel that, while being sorry to have let her down over a square seven-incher, she had a round eight-incher which would fit the bill perfectly without breaching Delia's deliciously detailed directions.

"Hazel, what you need is an eight-incher," she shouted excitedly but innocently down the phone. The good ladies of the coffee morning were in no position to argue.

The Oasis trip was saved. If it hadn't been for Ken and his ingenious formula, the whole thing might have had to be called off - proof that us dads are neither stupid nor dispensable.

A short while after this telephone torture, Auntie Hazel - having taken delivery of her round eight-incher - was doing some last-minute shopping when she saw a quite stupendous carrot cake in Marks & Spencer, decided she couldn't possibly make a better one, and bought it.

If I'd been Ken, Auntie Hazel would have gone to Oasis wearing an eight-inch, round cake tin as a tightly-fitting hat.

THE THINGS THEY SAY

The Dad At Large Roadshow found itself at a group meeting hosted by Hart Station WI at West View Methodist Church in Hartlepool...

JUNE Hards, of Low Grange WI at Billingham, recalled how her daughter Helen, then aged nine, was arguing with her brother Neil, aged six.

"That's a lie, that's a lie," said Helen.

"No it's not," insisted Neil, and this went on for some time.

In the end, Helen grabbed a Bible and said: "Well swear on the Bible then."

Neil slapped his hand on the good book and shouted: "Bugger!"

IRENE Hood was organising a charity concert and asked a friend called Peter to play Father Christmas.

"What do they call you?" Santa asked a little lad.

"George," came the reply.

"And what do you want for Christmas?"

The boy gave him a long stare then kicked him in the shin, saying: "I don't want nothing because you didn't bring me my big red car last year."

Peter made it plain he didn't want to be Santa any more.

P.S. Talking of Christmas, you know you're a sad old dad when the kids buy you a Kylie Minogue advent calendar. Suddenly, I'm almost excited as they are...

* The second Dad At Large book (£5) is on sale at Ottakars in Darlington and Northern Echo offices. It makes a great stocking filler for the dad in your life.