It was two years ago, almost to the day, but the memory is still strong and vivid. I could almost be there.

I am kneeling behind a coffee table in our living room. I am wearing a child’s black witch’s hat, with crayoned stars and moons taped to it. I also have on a pair of plastic Harry Potter-style specs, with no glass in the frames, and my dressing gown.

I have foolishly decided to be the entertainment at our son Charlie’s sixth birthday party.

Two years ago, and I still burn with shame at the thought of it.

Ordinary people, I hear you cry, get the experts in. There are all manner of children’s entertainers – trained, talented and CRB-checked – who are available for this kind of work. Children love ’em.

But no. I have taken on the mantle of children’s entertainer for the day, and I am going to wow a room of six-year-olds with my magic skills.

In my head I have an image of what this should look like. An image that has probably been half-recalled from some 1950s manual on family fireside entertainment.

In this monochrome image, I am performing feats of manual dexterity and prestidigitation to an audience comprised of polite, neatly-turned out small boys, who applaud at every trick and gaze in wonder upon my skills of table-top magic.

The reality is somewhat different, and I know this because my wife managed to take a few seconds of video footage before collapsing in laughter and turning off the camera.

What happens is this: I am performing my signature trick, which is making a coin pass through a glass. My audience is shouting and laughing and roaring, but not with me. At me.

Someone throws a ball of paper which dislodges my hat, right at the moment that I am banging my plastic wand on the coffee table, calling for silence and attention at the MAGIC TRICK I AM PERFORMING RIGHT HERE IN FRONT OF THEM.

Freeze the frame, and you see a man on the edge. A man whose dreams and aspirations have crumbled to dust before him.

Because no-one is taking a blind bit of notice, save for the small boy who has, against my express instructions, shuffled forward too far and is now pointing at the prop under my knees that they shouldn’t be able to see.

Even now, as I write this, I am blushing and burning with shame and barely suppressed fury.

I always wanted to be able to do magic.

Two years on, and the memories of that terrible time rise, unbidden. I push them away. Tomorrow, Charlie is having another party, for his eighth birthday.

This time, we are leaving it to the experts. Let him and his mates have fun in a purpose-built party centre with food and climbing frames and slides if that’s what they want. It’s their loss.