For most people, the initials WWF conjure up images of big-eyed pandas or natterjack toads, something cuddly, appealing, or at least worth preserving.

For teenage boys it means American wrestlers. World Wrestling Federation, neither cuddly nor particularly appealing. The only resemblance being that wrestlers, like toads, tend not to have necks - their heads merge straight with their gleaming, glistening muscle bound shoulders.

When the boys were little, they had models of He Man. Remember him? He had bulging thighs bigger than his waist, shoulders like barn doors and arms the size of a modest oak tree. How unrealistic, I laughed, all those years ago. Then I saw the wrestlers. They are He Man brought to life - right down to the orange plastic sheen on their skin.

It is a craze that comes and goes, but Smaller Son has never lost his passion for it. Videos litter his room. In a moment of festive weakness one Christmas, I bought him a talking photograph of Stone Cold Steve Austin. Despite my best efforts, it has not yet broken or worn out.

What the lad REALLY wanted, he said ,was a life-size stand-up model of one of the wrestlers to live in the corner of his room.

"NO way Sunshine" I said, dismissing the idea totally.

Then, last week, his father and I were in Norwich. Nice place Norwich, lots of interesting old buildings, narrow streets, fascinating shops. And in the window of one I saw it - a full-size stand up model of a wrestler.

Absence making my heart grow fonder towards my little boy. (It was the first time he'd been left at home entirely by himself, his big brother having gone off on his work placement). I dithered and weakened, thought better of it and walked on.

"It's a silly idea." I said, "I've always said I would never buy anything like that. In any case we'd have to carry it round..."

A few minutes later we found we'd gone round in a circle and were back outside the shop again. Fate, I decided, weakened totally, went in and lavished £19.99 on Stone Cold Steve Austin.

Which is why his father spent an afternoon wandering round Norwich with a six foot wrestler folded in half and tucked under his arm. At times it caught the breeze and threatened to fly over the rooftops taking father with it. It attracted a few strange looks, especially when propped up on the train seat next to him.

For the rest of the holiday Stone Cold lay, stone cold, on the back seat of the car, flexing his muscles and gazing upwards as we tootled off to Cromer, Blickling Hall and Felbrigg. Small boys cast admiring glances. Old ladies, outside a posh restaurant, looked bemused.

Remembering his father's expression as he wandered the streets of Norwich with Stone Cold under his arm, I just prayed that after all that effort, Smaller Son would like it.

Luckily he did. Loved it. Even cleaned his room in his honour to make space for him. And now whenever I go upstairs my heart misses a beat as I think there's a six foot semi-naked man looking round the bedroom door.

Now that has to be worth £19.99 of anyone's money...

Published: Friday, September 14, 2001