Recently in this column, it was her mother who was on the receiving end of HANNAH GIBBONS' caustic wit. Now, it is her father's turn - be very afraid.

IT came just before Christmas in the post. My father's little miracle, his dream for the past four-ish years was resolved in just one letter.

"Guess what I've got into?"

"I don't know - Mensa?"

"No, the golf club! Isn't that fantastic?"

I read the letter congratulating him on his achievement, if that's the right word, until I got to the part about costs, which must have been a typo because surely there were too many figures in that number. When questioned, he squirmed a little and in response said: "But I'll go every weekend..."

"No you won't, and the guilt of not going will kill you. It's just not worth it."

He knows that, we all know that, but bless him, we must indulge his quest to become a middle-aged man, which has been creeping up for a while now.

So I charitably remained quiet while he solemnly read the "gold club etiquette" rules, asking only, "Is there a handshake?"

"Ur no... I don't think so... I'm not sure." He was looking worried. I sneaked a peek at the clothing regulations. Strictly no jeans, no trainers, no fake Burberry (probably), no tracksuits, no socks tucked into tracksuits (tragically, for both him and me, my dad's favourite fashion statement). No smiling, no larking, categorically no fun.

"Can I come?" I asked.

"No."

"Is it because I'm female?"

"No, it's because you're taking the..."

Well, this all happened a good couple of months ago. And how many times has he played golf with his members' badge hanging of his stick bag? Precisely the amount that I predicted. When questioned, he gives the embarrassingly teenage response of "not having any clubs yet". When I suggest the ones in the corner, which he has used for many a faithful year, he tells me that they're "not the right ones".

Lordy, my father, pillar of sensibilities and worldliness, is scared that the other little boys will pick on him because his putter isn't up to scratch, or his "plus fours" (what on earth are these?) aren't regulatory.

I'd like to tell you that this is where the lunacy ends, in regards to my dad's behaviour. But I can't, because it's fair to say that he does have a bit of a secret other life, which has always been somewhat of an anomaly in the household.

I admit that one can never realistically hope for an evening in with the whole ensemble - I barely notice the difference between one absent sister and the other, and anyway, we know what they're doing, athletics, or netball, or drinking. It's fairly straightforward, they get interrogated in the friendliest manner by an interested mother once they get back, and we all have a pretty good idea of what each other's evening has been like.

But with dad, well, what a mystery! His little world of golf, tennis, badminton with t'lads seems impenetrable, and remote, and plain blokey. Yet, while this list of extra curriculars may make him sound like a bit of an absentee father, in reality these pursuits only abstract him from a smidgeon of quality time with his family. But don't we feel it!

Yes we know it's "badders" night and we know that means the trackies with socks tucked in, but do any of us really know what this means? Have any of us ever taken the time to question him about his pastimes, his passions, his life outside the family unit? Of course not, because, frankly, we don't care. It's all a little tedious to hear about this and that "great shot", and if there's no gossip, which invariably there isn't, I'd rather hear nothing about his hobbies and continue to view them through a veil of mystique.

But currently, we've a little breather from the hobbies, due to him not having the right clothes, the right sticks, and possibly not enough grey hair yet. Sadly, we know it's only a matter of time before he comes home wanting to sing club songs or what-have-you, and we'll have to start ignoring him again.

Updated: 15:20 Wednesday, February 08, 2006