I’ve been so far fortunate to have had a physically affectionate relationship with my son. In the space of thirteen years, I have tossed him in the air, balanced him on my feet, blown raspberries on his belly, tickled him in all the right places and, of course, we’ve wrestled. Wow – does that kid love to wrestle: on sofas, on beds, on the floor and in the pool. But as he’s grown bigger and stronger, plus his enthusiasm to imitate his WWE heroes, I’ve had to take care that someone doesn’t get hurt (me!). I needed a wrestling weapon, something to immobilise him altogether. Drawing on years of knowledge of his weak spots, I devised ‘The Daddy Drill’. This is simply two of my fingers placed on a spot either on his collarbone or his hip. With the right amount of pressure, my son loses all ability to function. His knees buckle. He laughs. And he begs me to stop. Perfect. But as well as our rough and tumble, I also appreciate the more tender physical moments we share. A few years ago, when he was around ten, he sometimes spontaneously grabbed and held my hand as we walked. I savoured those occasions, knowing that they would soon pass. And they did. His current habit that I’m enjoying, knowing it too will be a phase, is to lean on me while we are both on the sofa watching TV. Sometimes I’ll put my arm around him. I know that it is only a matter of time before he will tower over me, making me feel like a frail old man, my dominance but a memory. And no doubt our physicality will be forced to fade. Even so, I do hope that, at the very least, we will still be able to still enjoy a hug – an expression of affection shared without awkwardness. I would like that.