Imagine the scene. I'm attending a girl's 5th birthday "disco party" with my daughter (just turned 5) and son (almost 3) in a village hall in deepest rural Cambridgeshire. Curtains are drawn, coloured lights are swirling, DJ is blasting out faves from Sugababes, Girls Aloud and Bob the Builder.
I'm swigging champers when there's a familiar tug at my sleeve. "Dad, can we have your car keys?" Without thinking, I hand them over to my daughter and carry on discussing the latest issue of the day.
A few minutes later, I hear the opening bars of "Funky Kingston" by Toots and the Maytals coming over the PA. And look up to see all the kids fleeing the dancefloor... with the exception of my pair. So I put down my glass, rush over and join in with my skanking offspring. I am a proud man.
My cover is blown. It turns out that the other parents don't play their kids music in the car, let alone DJ in a pub (my once-a-month night out). Toots' "Reggae Greats" never leaves my glovebox and is probably the most-played soundtrack to the school run.
Am I breeding a new generation of musical snobs? Should I expect a visit from social services?
It turns out the DJ was somewhat taken aback to be handed a CD by two young kids, with a request to "please play track 5", but he's apparently game for a laugh. And he doesn't see many dancing dads, either. For the record, I am a 30-something white Radio 4 listener, so you can probably guess how well I dance.