'I never realised you were so old,' the hairdresser had just finished visiting the boys. Not having three hands, I had long ago decided that it was better to have a hairdresser visit us rather than us chance my luck crossing the road to a barber's shop. She had been reading the local press with more than a little interest. What should I do? Apologise?

'Great skin. You could be...' the cameraman's eyes were boring into my face. The pause was a long one. It was like waiting for the judge's verdict. '39.' A slight disappointment. Not quite 20 years younger than I was. I offered my thanks. What could I say?

When I did my part in making my family happen, I was 52. I neither felt it nor, I am told, looked it. I knew that I could be as fit and active a dad as anyone half my age. Without this knowledge, I would never have dreamt of making it happen. Nevertheless, I was an 'older father'. Looking at the other dads at the school gates, I don't think I stand out as odd. I saw the extra years as an advantage. Plenty of experience. Time to have had the corners knocked off. A non problem. Nevertheless, it was my age that had persuaded me to take the surogacy route and I should not disregard it.

Recollecting in tranquillity, I went back through the stages to see where I had come from to reach the point of wanting to have a family and what had made me become so convinced that I could better rely on my own gut instincts than conventional wisdom. You are what you were. The past had shaped my thinking. Not until the newspaper articles much later did I think of my background as particularly unusual.

As I did not generally have the time, let alone the inclination, to indulge in introspection, I found the experience illuminating - although the outcome was prosaic. I saw myself as a succession of functions. Son, educator, carer... It seemed quite natural to add ‘father’.

The educator part was also an oddity. I had not intended to become involved with children’s education. Far from it. The idea never entered my head. I had imagined a career in business with a multinational company. In those days, leaving university with an English degree was a passport to all sorts of jobs. I was spoiled for choice and decided to wait a while to see what I felt was right.

In the meantime, having enjoyed working on the Christmas post as an undergrad, I became a postman. Riding my GPO bike across the Berkshire countryside in the mellow late summer of 1968 gave me time to reflect. The various householders on whose doors I knocked with recorded deliveries chatted to me. Some of them wondered why this young man with a conspicuously RP voice was doing this job. ‘Have you any...’ (pause to find a word that wouldn’t hurt my feelings) ‘abilities?’

‘Qualifications, you mean? Oh yes, I have a degree and can translate English into Anglo-Saxon.’

Maybe with skills so recherché, they thought it a wonder that I had found a job at the Post Office.

I decided to put my name down for supply teaching so that my academic background would not be completely wasted. It was all so simple. No checks. No references required. I phoned the local office and they rang me back. ‘We’ve not had this sort of enquiry before, but a private school has rung up to see if we have someone on our books who can teach French. We see you did it at "A" Level.’

‘As long as you can keep a few pages ahead of the boys, you’ll do fine.’ Like Professor Jimmy Edwards's character in the old TV series 'Whack-O!', the headmaster, Robby, swirled his gown in a cloud of chalk dust and seated himself expansively.

Thus began what I anticipated would be a two-week temporary teaching post at Crookham Court School near Thatcham. I would remain there for the next twenty years. It was Llanabba Castle and Decline and Fall come to life. I loved it.

The microcosm of reality that is the world of the small private school took hold. As one of the few non-residents, I could take a detached view. They were all there. The adulterous French teacher, the manic Maths master, the lustful, the alcoholic, the derelict, the frustrated and, in due course, like Paul Pennyfeather I found my own Margot. Robby's daughter, Angela, and I were just about the only young people in several miles.

'You go to one horizon and then see the next.' Angela expressed her feelings far more openly than I did. That our horizons were the same and that our journey could have been one made together was a conclusion I came to far too late. If only. But there are no 'ifs' in history. I have had to accept that what might have been and should have been, was not. I hope another wonderful woman will come into my life one day. If I have the opportunity again, I shall seize it with both hands - feet as well.