It's a dad's life: I woke with a slight hangover. My head was banging, which I presumed was the pulse of my brain against the interior of my skull but, after some consideration, appeared in reality to be a rhythmic beating from the outside in, writes Adam Brophy.

I cracked an eye and lo, there was elder child, rocking back and forth on her heels, swinging her baby golf driver (plastic, fortunately) with no little enthusiasm against the exposed part of my temple. I think she was singing a Cardigans pop song, something like "love me, love me, say that you love me", as she went about her work. The irony didn't escape me.

I wanted to tell her to stop but had to wait for my mouth to juice up a little first, so instead just pulled the duvet higher over my head and hoped she would bore of her task. Fat chance.

"Da-ad, I know you're awa-ake, I saw your eye open," she sang. And the tempo and ferocity of the assault doubled.

"Okay, okay, okay, what do you want?" I managed, and knew the game was up, the full-on nature of a Saturday had already smashed into my mellow, smiling memories of the previous night's conversation and laughter with that blessed of species, adults. It was time to set up the Solpadeine intravenously and resume the role of kiddie slave, chef and entertainer.

This sort of situation happens rarely, simply because the aftermath is too much to bear, particularly if missus is in the same boat, and she was on this occasion. We had met up with old friends for dinner, two guys I shared a house with (before marking the start of the slow decline and leaving my lad-pad to set up home with my delectable darling) and their respective partners. We all know each other from way back, we stay in touch by phone and e-mail nearly daily, and are kept informed of what's going on in each other's lives, but we hardly ever manage to meet up, all together. That's partly because we're lazy and disorganised, but mainly due to the fact that we now have eight kids in our lives, with another arriving in July.

Yes, when we went our separate ways we went procreating crazy.

I had an observer moment while we were eating that night. The women looked fantastic, fresh-faced and fit. We boys looked like we slept on the street.

All three of us wore grubby tops and jeans and had the screwed up faces of inconsolable lemon-suckers. Our "facilities management expert" buddy hadn't managed to change out of his work T-shirt - he organises other people for a living but sometimes forgets to dress himself. I'm sure he will turn up without his pants some night; his last two football training sessions have been in his boxers because he can't quite get to grips with bringing his shorts. We're a mess, there's no denying it.

We were never particularly debonair to begin with, but how do our women manage to look like they've stepped out of an Urban Outfitters catalogue while we seem to have come off a Farmer's Journal shoot?

We all attended (well, were enrolled in) college in the early 1990s when it was considered a matter of pride to look dirty, but now it is one of sloth and resignation. For some reason, as fathers, we are grime magnets, our attire attracting handprints and baby bile, and being seen as the obvious place for a child to wipe her nose.

So this is what it has boiled down to. In five years we have gone from struggling to decide which bar and club to frequent on a Friday night, to struggling to come up with a clean shirt to wear out to dinner occasionally.

Having said that, I think we were all happy to separate at the end of an enjoyable night and return home to our inquisitors.

Being thumped awake with a stick after four hours' sleep and a couple of glasses of chianti too many may not be ideal, but it still beats sharing a house with my best friends.