I took Amelia and Harry to a children’s birthday party yesterday. It was held at a local open farm.

Once the kids had tired of stroking the rabbits and feeding the lambs, we all went inside, where they had one of those indoor playgrounds, and our little party of a dozen 5 to 8 year-olds spent the next two hours running around like loonies.

One of the biggest attractions was the big red slide: a quite daunting, polished wooden contraption about ten metres high, that gave a near vertical drop at the top but mellowed out to a gentle curve at the bottom.

Amelia surprised me by dropping down this thing, not just the once, but a dozen times. “Come on, Daddy, slide down with me”, she said, grabbing my hand and dragging me up the steps toward the top.  I’ve always enjoyed the thrill rides of rollercoasters and stuff, so I went with her.

But when I got to the top, I changed my mind. Logic told me it was obviously quite safe: hell, there were kids as young as Amelia throwing themselves down this thing, but something in my head clicked and I just didn’t want to do it. I wimped out and took Harry on the shallower blue slide, instead.

I’m getting old.