SOME bright spark at school had the inspired idea of telling the kids they could come dressed as literary characters to celebrate World Book Day.

My wife happened to mention it as she was going out of the door on her way to work, leaving me to get the kids off to school.

"Max is going to school as Gandalf today," she announced, casually.

On cue, our youngest appeared at the top of the stairs in his grey dressing gown, tied at the waist with a black belt.

"You shall not pass," he shouted, proudly holding the staff his big brother had made him out of a fallen tree branch.

"My staff's mint, isn't it Dad?" he said. "But I haven't got any white hair or a beard."

Mum hadn't mentioned anything about white hair or beards and I was busy with the cereal and beans on toast. Oh, and it's probably worth mentioning at this point that I was doing all this on crutches because I'd had a knee operation a few days earlier.

"It's all right, Dad, I'll sort it," said my resourceful 13-year-old daughter, who always rescues me on such occasions. She quickly got to work in the bathroom with a roll of cotton wool and some Sellotape. "That's the best I can do, Dad," she said.

Off we went - him with his staff, me with my crutches. Gandalf and the Hoppit.

The playground was full of Harry Potters, wizards, Big Friendly Giants, Count Draculas and Frankensteins. But there was only one Gandalf.

We'd kept the wig and whiskers in a bag for protection from the wind and rain. As soon as I took them out, they started to fall apart. The hair wouldn't stay on his head and the beard wouldn't stick to his face. It all just disintegrated into a tangled mess.

"You'll have to do without the hair and the beard," I told him as the whistle blew.

"OK, Dad," he replied. But the dejected look on his face told me it wasn't OK. It wasn't OK at all.

I had a brainwave. The old Father Christmas outfit was hidden somewhere in the garage. It had a ready-made white wig and beard!

I rang my wife at work: "Gandalf's got no hair or beard. Is it OK to use the Father Christmas costume?"

He's only eight and we're not really sure whether he still believes in Santa Claus or not. It was a gamble but my wife gave me the go-ahead.

I hobbled home, as fast as the crutches would allow, dug out the costume, limped back to school, and asked if Max could be allowed out of class for a minute.

"Look, I've got you a wig and a beard," I whispered.

"Brilliant, Dad," he said, putting them on. "Hang on a minute - aren't these from a Father Christmas costume?"

"No, no, don't be daft," I assured him, pushing him back into the classroom.

Outside, another Dad called Ken was hotfooting it into the playground. "Just delivering Gandalf's wig and beard," I explained. "How about you?"

"Witch's hat for Sarah," he gasped. Sarah's not even a child - she's Ken's wife, who happens to be one of the teachers.

That night, I asked Max how World Book Day had gone at school.

"Well, it was OK," he said. "But I broke my staff in half having a wizard fight with Anna Stevens who went as Harry Potter."

"And were the hair and the beard OK?" I enquired.

"Nah, Dad. They were too tickly so I didn't bother wearing 'em."

Why do I bother?

www.thisisthenortheast.co.uk/dadatlarge/