It was a Sunday afternoon. I had been involved in intensive childcare since early morning. I was very tired. My three-year-old son, Alex, on the other hand, was not tired at all. He was practising his latest trick of climbing on top of the sofa and jumping on to my head. It hurt quite a bit and there was some dribble involved too. I am trying to stop, though.
So I did what any caring new-age dad with concern for the welfare and holistic education of his offspring would do under the circumstances - I reached for the remote control. Surely there must be something on which could occupy a lively young boy for a few minutes while I drifted off into semi-consciousness.
There on the Sci-Fi channel was the answer - it was Thunderbirds weekend. Thunderbirds, the epic 1960s adventure series peopled entirely by puppets, ticked all of Alex's boxes. There were rockets, there were goodies and baddies, there were rescues, there was a lot of fire and plenty of explosions.
I had turned it on hoping for a moment's respite. In an instant I was transported back to the Sunday mornings in the '70s when my brother and I (and, it has to be said, my dad) would rush into the living room in order to make sure we were there for that portentous announcement: "Thunderbirds are go".
Thunderbirds was my all-time favourite programme in those days. I completely bought into the storylines and the props and I barely noticed the strings holding up the puppets.
Watching the programmes now is a different proposition. The scenes supposedly shot at sea are obviously filmed in someone's paddling pool, the puppets move like 18-month-old children taking their first steps and the flames which engulf buildings clearly emanate from a cigarette lighter.
For a show supposedly set 100 years in the future, it is very 1960s and there are anomalies. For example, the newest prototype airliner can reach New York in one hour, but the mobile phone has yet to be invented and the dials on Thunderbird 2 resemble the dashboard of a Ford Zephyr. But even from the standpoint of a cynical middle-aged man, Thunderbirds is still fantastic. Despite the lack of any special effects, one can suspend disbelief and enjoy the stories - particularly the one about the Sun Probe which loses engine power and is about to be engulfed in a (cigarette lighter) fireball until it is rescued by a safety beam from Thunderbird 3, which then itself loses power and... well, I don't want to spoil it for you.
Anyway, Alex doesn't need to suspend disbelief. Since the very first episode he has been fixated. Where I was limited to one episode on a Sunday morning, Alex gets to watch whenever he wants, or rather whenever his older sister, Lucy, isn't watching SpongeBob Squarepants. All of his toys have been converted into Thunderbirds accessories and he has even started to call me Mr Tracy, the dad in the series.
The programme has become a real father/son bonding thing. Alex now talks about how he and I "love Thunderbirds, don't we Daddy?"
I don't quite know how to break it to him, but after six weeks, I am a little over International Rescue. In fact the endless repetition of Pit of Peril and Terror in New York is beginning to give me some sympathy with the bald guy with the funny eyes who keeps trying to blow the Thunderbirds out of the sky. I'm almost beginning to feel nostalgic about the days when all Alex would watch was Fireman Sam.
Ah well, if all else fails there is always Captain Scarlet.