Pre-fatherhood, my wife would be waiting at the door, naked, but for a French maid's outfit. She would shower me with kisses before chasing me to the bedroom, smacking my backside all the way up the stairs with her feather duster*.

When she was pregnant, I would open the door to domestic bliss: A peck on the cheek from a glowing wife; a winter soup bubbling in the kitchen; silence and contented smiles.

After the birth, I'd open the front door to a wild-eyed woman still in her pyjamas. She would deposit a screaming baby in my arms before listing the defects of the male populace in no particular order – each, however, bellowed with commendable venom.

Bliss returned once the baby had formed itself into a bundle of love on fully-functioning legs.

Doors would be opened to a toddler scooting across the floor shouting "daddy, daddy" before falling into my arms. A smiling wife would follow with an equally heartwarming greeting: "Welcome home daddy." A sweet moment in time not even the follow-up words: "and he needs his nappy changed," could spoil.

There then came the fallow period. My entry into the home would be greeted with no discernible reaction. A lumbering oaf in a suit is no match for the Nintendo DS or Cartoon Network on the box. I was Bruce Willis in The Sixth Sense, except, in this case only my wife can see me. She sees dead people. She hands them brooms and asks if they can sweep the kitchen while she goes on Facebook.

The greeting, however, changed this week. On stepping through the door I was summarily executed.

Both our boys have gone gun crazy. I open the door and our eight-year-old commando rolls across the hallway unloading the contents of an imaginary Kalashnikov into my chest. His younger brother takes me out from the top of the stairs.

It can be disconcerting. I emerged from the bathroom the other day and felt two fingers in the back of my head. "Boosh," our Bradley shouted. I'd been whacked.

I remembered the debate we had some time ago about banning weapons from the house. I thought about it as I put our Isaac's collection of plastic guns back in his ammo box.

The release of the computer war game Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2 has only heightened the gun debate in our house. It's a thorny issue. Can toy war guns make children violent? Will playing computer war games make today's children pro-war when they reach adulthood?

As I wrestled with this dilemma, an old video of Culture Club's pro-peace anthem The War Song appeared on my TV screen.

There was Boy George, in a smock, large hat and beads swaying from side to side singing the words "War war is stupid, and people are stupid, and love means nothing in some strange quarters…"

In a moment of clarity I picked up Isaac's toy ray gun and fired two bolts through Mr George's forehead. It felt good.


* My recollection of the time before children may be a bit hazy. There may have been less nakedness, bedroom activity and French maid outfits, but more feather dusters … used primarily to remove dust from ornaments.

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It seems the Prime Minister's letter writing outrage is set to rumble on.

Turns out the pen Gordon Brown used to write his message of sympathy to a dead soldier's grieving mum was made by Stabilo … a German company!

Wait until the Sun hears about that one. The PM may as well have plonked a stormtrooper helmet on his head and goose-stepped through the family's living room roaring lines from Mein Kampf.

The sooner we get back to some proper news on the front pages the better. I mean, what was Simon Cowell doing letting the Jedward twins get through on X Factor?