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An inevitable part of fatherhood is striving to ensure that your children’s future is a bright one. Today I realised that, without a very substantial change in how the world presently works, my girls have looming out of the future at them fear and upset that they will find it almost impossible to avoid.

I am ashamed to say that this comes as news to me. I know that is easily said, but I really am, at this very moment, gripped with shame.

The lack of input on this blog is a function of the amount of time that I have been spending over the last two years or so on Twitter, initially as @moobs but now using my real name. I follow an account called @everydaysexism which is linked to a site which allows women to submit the own experiences of the sort of sexism they regularly encounter. Today they have focused on casual public sexual harassment. If you want to read the material, search on twitter using the hashtag #shoutingback. At 9 am this morning, had you asked me if women encountered harassment on the street I would have readily acknowledged that they did. Of course, I would have said, some women might, if unlucky, find themselves in uncomfortable situations from time to time. I had no idea.

Half an hour of browsing through the tweets made four things very plain: First, it is a universal experience. The overwhelming weight of testimony was moving, terrifying and eye-opening. Second, it is a frequent thing. Women described harassment as a day to day experience. Third, its nature was of the utmost seriousness. It was not a creepy wink from a passerby but frightening abuse from men in vehicles; men invading personal space at bus stops at night; 13 year old girls being molested on trains; drunken men angry at rejection … Fourth, the effect was profound – many of those tweeting talked about living with fear constantly. Experience had taught them to see men as dangerous. This plain-speaking blog summarises the message in many of the tweets.

Shame on me that I could have got to my age, surrounded by women I love and have been ignorant of this. Shame on me. This is not the world I want for my daughters. It is not the world I want for anyone. I will do my part. I will not let harassment go unchallenged.

At about 7:30 I heard a key turn in our front door – Nanny G is back! The kids went thumping downstairs screeching with joy and even the dog pawed at the bedroom door trying to get to see her. It is amazing what one day of Daddy Day Care can do.

With school due to restart, the kids have been hyper all day. In Sophia’s case this has meant enhancing her bossiness:

“Dad, I have a deal for you”

“Really? What is it?”

“You stop eating sugar on your cereal because it’s bad for you.”

“That sounds more like an instruction than an offer.”

“Yes, because we are princesses of the house. And of the whole world.”

“Er, Ok.”

“Now please stop talking.”

With our nanny still in mid-air on her way back from Australia and my wife off to court, I was left to look after the kids. I always dread days like today. Not, I should make clear, because I dislike spending the time with the kids. It is because, for some reason, the days always consist of me staggering from one micro-crisis to another. Ladies and Gentlemen, my day:

P’s alarm skills are weak. She fails to switch it off properly 7 times. I get up.

As I rise, the dog retches melodramatically and regurgitates a single, pristine black olive. There is poetry there.

Pack gear for gym. Discover awe-inspiringly unpleasant dog turd on the soles of my new running shoes. I clean them.

Creepy man stands motionless just one foot away from me for 10 mins in the gym changing room. We are alone.

Turns out creepy man was hoping I’d fail to notice I’d left my iPod on the bench. He was right. It’s now gone.

Collect kids from morning activity. Return home. Dog has found box of chocolates and is trying to poison itself. Since this is attempt number three, I put it down as a cry for help.

Take dog for walk. It finds chicken bones. Another suicide attempt? I intervene.

Dog finds and munches more chicken bones. Has our park become a chicken graveyard?

Try to put girls’ hair into buns for ballet. I fail.

Arrive at ballet. Sophia has trodden on a dog turd. I clean her shoe. A theme emerges.

As I wait for Sara’s class to begin, a solicitor calls me with an urgent question. As I reply, Sara somehow manages to fall over opening the door to the loo and bumps her head. I hang up.

There’s more (so much more) but I find I’m crying too hard to type. I am brought down by minor inconveniences like a tree felled by very very annoying ants.