This is a true story. If you have children you will probably relate to this father.

I love mustard. As ham sandwiches go, it was perfection: a thick slab of ham on a fresh bun with crisp lettuce and plenty of expensive, light brown, gourmet mustard.

The corners of my jaw aching in anticipation, I carried it to the table in our backyard, picked it up with both hands but was stopped by my wife suddenly at my side.

'Here, hold Johnny (our six-week-old son) while I get my sandwich,' she said.

I had him balanced between my left elbow and shoulder and was reaching again for the ham sandwich when I noticed a streak of mustard on my fingers.

I love mustard. I had no napkin. I licked it off. It was not mustard.

No man ever put a baby down faster. It was the first and only time I have sprinted with my tongue protruding out.

With a washcloth in each hand, I did the sort of routine shoeshine boys do; only I did it on my tongue.

Later, after she stopped crying from laughing so hard, my wife said, 'Now you know why they call that fancy mustard 'Poupon.'