Just like every superhero has their fortress of solitude, I have my own refuge and sanctuary. I pick up my book and return to where I left off, skimming the earlier paragraphs to reacquaint myself with the plot and characters or flick through the paper or the latest edition of my music magazine.
My mates have a great name for this place: Manland. We joke about it in our own code, with knowing winks and nods as our wives shake their heads in mock agitation and derision.
While this is a place for contemplation and solitude, a respite from the roles of husband, father, automatic cash machine and operator of the dishwasher, it is not without its visitors.
“Come on Dad, you’ve been in there for ages; I need to use the bathroom.”