WOULD you like to hold him, Fin?" The six-week-old flashed his mum a look that said: "Are you kidding? Nine months, a painful labour and you fob me off on this bozo?" He burst out crying.

WOULD you like to hold him, Fin?" The six-week-old flashed his mum a look that said: "Are you kidding? Nine months, a painful labour and you fob me off on this bozo?" He burst out crying.

Unbeknown to him, I'm a complete a natural. Maybe they sense a kindred spirit, but the first time I held a baby was like the first time Tiger Woods held a golf club: perfect synergy. Sure enough, the crying ceased instantly.

Unfortunately, what she'd done was the equivalent of passing the ball to that infuriating boy at school who, while blessed with a talent, hogs it terribly. Off I set, baby tucked under my arm, evading hopeful aunts like Gavin Hastings running rings round the All-Blacks.

When I eventually returned him to his father - 10 more minutes and it was kidnapping - the little guy resumed his crying.

Daddy's going to have to raise his game now.

I'd never previously thought much about My Gift, but today I felt a serious pang.

It sounds preposterous, but I think I'm broody!

A rather megalomaniacal friend of mine once mused "in theory, given the requisite amount of women and tightly scheduled days, couldn't I spawn an army in the course of a lifetime?"

I wouldn't dare imagine myself in the same league as walking cornettos of manliness such as Genghis Khan (fathered 1000, apparently), but surely it wouldn't be jumping the virility gun too much to hope I could maybe muster up just one little 'un?

I can see it already: me and the little guy out kicking the ball, playing conkers, tobogganing'. He's not the outdoor type?

No problem! I've been dying for an excuse to dip back into Roald Dahl and Enid Blyton (where I'll return to that word tobogganing).

Unfortunately, a vital ingredient is missing here.

So, here it is, a roll-call to all broody women: take me!

You want a career? No worries, it's my destiny to be a house-man.

Up at the crack of dawn doing the sandwiches, a wee bit of writing for house-keeping money, then wee Fin and I will wander aimlessly round the Kelvingrove.

You can be back at work before our kiddo lands in the midwife's arms.

Obviously I'll have to view the gene pool as a pic'n'mix, cancelling all my weaknesses with your strengths.

So you'll have to be at least organised (can't have the little guy bumbling through life like I do), and with a sterling pair of knees (mine have always given me jip).

It's an Evening Times competition if ever there was one!

It'll be like Pet Idol, only better (if that's possible), with Big Brother-style auditions.

I can't offer you the riches (or even the house), but I can guarantee you the tabloid inches. Well, at least the length of this column.