IN all of his eight years, Max has never said he loves me. I say I love him nearly every day but all I ever get back is the same dismissive reply: "Yeah, whatever."

Max is the little 'un and regulars will know he's always been a Mummy's Boy.

He tells Mum he loves her several times a day. He showers her with kisses and smothers her with cuddles.

She was rooting through her old 45s the other day and started playing "You Are My Love" by Liverpool Express. Max came into the room and started slow dancing with her, his eyes closed as tightly as the arms wrapped around her.

There are other things he loves - tomato ketchup, his PlayStation, and The Simpsons being prominent examples - but Mum is definitely at the top of his list.

I know he loves me too, deep down. He just won't say it. I get hugs but they're not the hugs of blind devotion Mum gets. They're brief hugs, as if I'm hot and he might get burnt if he holds me for too long.

I've been trying extra hard to win him over. At the weekend, I even agreed to sleep downstairs with him because he'd made a den and he wanted to spend the night inside it.

Making dens, of course, is a major part of any little boy's life and he'd built a cracker out of cushions and sheets stretched between a chair and the settee. He could crawl right inside and be in his own little world with his torch.

I had been forewarned: "Max is going to ask you if you'll sleep downstairs with him at the weekend because he wants to sleep in his den but he's too scared to be on his own," Mum said when I got in from work at the start of the week.

You might think that, being the love of his life, she'd sacrifice her warm, comfy bed to sleep downstairs with him. But, apparently, this wasn't even a fleeting consideration.

As soon as he heard my voice, he was there, pulling my tie and jumping up and down: "Daddy, Daddy, can we sleep downstairs at the weekend - just me and you? I've made a den."

Just me and him. It was an opportunity too good to miss. A chance for some male bonding. I think I was looking forward to it just as much as him.

We didn't actually snuggle down together in the den. It would have been a step too far and, anyway, there wasn't enough room.

"You're too bulky, Dad. You'll cave the sides in," he said, thoughtfully.

I had to sleep on the settee, with my head at the end near the entrance to the den so he could hear me breathing. We chatted in the dark, bonding, until he nodded off with the words: "This is great, isn't it, Dad."

The next morning, I made him breakfast. I made it with love - beans on toast. I put it down on the dining room table, ruffled his hair, and turned to go back to the kitchen.

It was then that I heard the three magic words: "I love you."

They were followed by four more: "I really love you."

My heart skipped a beat. After all those years, I'd finally made it. I turned round, a tear squeezed from my eye by the enormity of the moment, and there he was...hugging the tomato ketchup bottle.

"I really, really love you," he said, and gave the bottle a kiss.

Yeah, whatever.

THE THINGS THEY SAY

THERE was a lovely, warm welcome at Cleveland Ladies Luncheon Club, which meets at Judges, near Yarm.

Julie Foley told how she had taken her son Adam to McDonald's, where they sat at an eight-sided table.

"Mummy, look at the table," said Adam, "it's a, it's a..."

Adam couldn't quite remember the shape, so his Mum tried to help: "Think of a creature with eight legs," she said.

"It's a spider!" shouted Adam.

SHEILA Williams, the club's charming speaker-finder, recalled the time her grandson Sam was asked by his Mum: "So who's the tallest in your class?"

"The teacher, of course," replied Sam.

CHRISTMAS was approaching in 1967 and Pauline Nichol was working at Harewood Primary School, Thornaby.

Another member of staff, called Mrs Smith, had asked her husband to play Father Christmas. He came along, rang his bell, handed out presents and then the children were allowed out for playtime.

Suddenly, a little boy ran into the staff room shouting: "Mrs Nichol, Mrs Nichol, Father Christmas has just pinched Mrs Smith's car."

l Don't forget the latest book in the series, Dad At Large Three - Whose Paper Round Is It Anyway? is on sale from The Northern Echo's offices. It costs £5 and raises money for the Butterwick Children's Hospice. As a special Christmas offer, Dad At Large Two - To Vasectomy And Beyond, is priced at £2.

Published: 17/11/2005