Male nanny? Not me

I am 27 years old, unmarried, and don't have any children. Nor do I plan to for a while, but when I heard the going rate for a nanny is about £70 a day I figured it was easy money.

And so, armed with only a packet of chocolate buttons and a sense of humour, I was given charge of my colleague's daughter, aged 18 months, and son, three, for the day.

My first job is to get them both dressed, but Layla has other plans: it's tantrum time. I decide that's probably because it's the first time she's met me, so before mum leaves the house she helps put Layla's clothes on and I deal with Sam.

Easier said than done. At this point Sam is lying flat on top of a plastic seesaw, and when I try to put his trousers on he throws them at me. I tell him the day's plans involve going to Zoomaround - a newly opened kids' indoor play park nearby. "Zoomaround," he repeats after me, and allows me to pull his trousers up, fasten the popper and put his T-shirt on. Layla's stopped crying but Sam is still missing footwear.

"If you put your shoes and socks on, I'll buy you some chocolate on the way," I beg, but Sam knows my game. He sits down on the wooden floor, grins, and allows me to pop his socks on, but no sooner have I pulled the second one up his ankle, the first one's off again and has flown into the next room. Patiently I try again, but to no avail. We continue this hilarious game for five minutes until he's bored with it and I begin to wonder whether I was a little naive to think this nannying lark was a pushover.

Downstairs, finally, with Layla safely strapped in the buggy and her little red shoes fastened, Sam's decided he's not moving from the "buggy board" - a little platform fixed to the back to accommodate an extra passenger - so I can't get it down the three large steps onto the street. After much pleading - and about an hour after I arrived - we're on our way. Suddenly there's absolute calm. The sun is shining, there's a refreshing breeze and my two charges are transfixed by trees blowing in the wind, a butcher chopping meat in his shop, two children walking into the sweet shop and ... cakes in the bakery window. Time to stop.

After a 15-minute walk I arrive at Zoomaround with two toddlers covered in sticky icing and bits of half-chewed bun. "Oh, my God," says the girl on reception, "look at you two." Zoomaround is like heaven for kids. And male nannies. No sooner had I liberated Layla from the buggy, the two of them had gone. Into a world of adventure, little cars, ball pools, soft-ball-firing cannons and coloured, cushioned bricks of all shapes and sizes. Bliss.

I'm exhausted and it's only midday. An hour into their Zoomaround fun, Sam's wet himself but hey, I've come prepared. A new pair of pants and trousers later and he's back firing soft balls at my head from the cannon. It's time to round 'em up and take them home for some lunch. Walking back to the flat involves me pushing Layla in the buggy with one hand and carrying Sam in the other (he doesn't want to ride on the buggy board this time).

With aching arms we arrive back home. I put some pasta on the hob and watch helplessly as the contents of a drink I prepared for Layla empties down her dress - I forgot to screw the lid on. I leave the pasta to cool down a bit, pour on some sauce, spoon it out, and Sam informs me he's not hungry. He wants to sleep, which is fine by me. Layla, meanwhile, decides it's time to talk. And talk. And talk. Only she refuses to remove her dummy and I can't understand a word she's saying, but she's enjoying herself. Sam, meanwhile, is crashed out in the armchair.

After lunch I attempt a nappy change. There is a God - it's not messy. Now, I've seen as many ads for Pampers as the next man but I soon realise that this in no way qualifies me to change a nappy. After turning the fresh one round about seven times, I opt for one way, stick the tabs down at the side and hope for the best. It looks a little baggy and uncomfortable but Layla won't notice when she's asleep. (On her return her mum informs me that it is, in fact, the wrong way round. "Pattern at the front, Alex.")

Tucked into her cot, Layla can't keep her eyes open as I read from her favourite book, Dr Seuss's rather repetitive Foot Book. After 10 minutes I'm nearly nodding off myself. With both Sam and Layla asleep, I sink into the sofa to catch up on a bit of Bob the Builder. Peace at last. A couple of hours later, mum's home and Sam's awake, and the blanket that was covering him is now flying across the room. Avoiding the softtoy missiles being aimed at my head, it's time for me to go. I'm exhausted. I think I still will have kids one day, but I won't be considering a career as a male nanny.