The Yummy Mummy clique and me

I wheel the pushchair into Cafe Nero, park it next to the cold drinks cabinet and lift out my two year old daughter. I quickly survey the room to check out their whereabouts: four of them sit round a table on the comfy sofas in the corner; another three are in the queue, lining up for their second lattes of the morning. These are the Yummy Mummies – the parental mafia that dominate this cafe, several playgroups, the duck pond and every swing, slide and roundabout within a one-mile radius. If you live round my way, spend time looking after your kid during the week and are not inside the Yummy Mummies' circle of trust, then you're screwed.

I approach the queue cautiously, trying to act casual and relaxed but sensing butterflies inside my stomach. I haven't felt like this since I was 14 years old, trying to get in with the cool fifth years who hung around behind the gym block smoking fags.

If you are not inside the Yummy Mummies' circle of trust, then you're screwed

I fuss over my daughter, who is trying to stuff a low-fat carrot and ginger muffin into her gob with the plastic wrapper still on. As I try to wrestle the cake away from her, I catch a Yummy Mummy's eye and shoot her an affable glance that says something along the lines of "Kids, huh? Whaddaya gonna do?" She sneers a bit. Her kids never stuff plastic wrapped breakfast goods into their mouths. Sensing I'm losing my chance to strike up a conversation, I suddenly blurt the words out loud: "Kids huh, whaddaya gonna do?"

She turns to me, looking bemused.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" she asks.

She is sophisticated, self-assured and slightly shrill. Like a sexy primary school teacher.

"Erm, I said, 'Kids…'" I stutter. Then I just mumble something that even I don't understand and look back at my daughter, hoping that she might help me think of something more engaging to say. But all she does is inexplicably shout the word 'cat' at me. The Yummy Mummy looks at me sympathetically and wanders back to the comfy sofas with her cappuccino.

One day, another dad comes into Cafe Nero. At last, a friend! Oh, he'll try and get in with the Yummy Mummies of course. Who wouldn't? But they will shun him and make him feel small, just like they did to me. And then he will be forced to join me on the rubbish corner table near the loos, where we will help to make sense of each other's rejection.

"Giles! How are you!" I hear one of the Yummy Mummies exclaim with excitement. Giles is tanned and rugged and wearing expensive smart-casual clothing. I am scruffy and pale and dressed in a hoody and five-year-old trainers. A bit like someone who might mug you to finance a heroin binge. Perhaps this is the problem.

The Yummy Mummy leaps to her feat, bounds over and gives Giles a hug. He kisses her cheek. Another one of the Mummies offers to buy him a cappuccino. Some of their kids gather round him and pull excitably at his trousers for attention. "It's so nice to have a bit of male company for a change!" I hear someone say. The words are like a dagger through my heart.

"Cat!" shouts my daughter, awakening me from my self-pitying day dream.

"What do I need them for when I've got you?" I ask. She smiles her gorgeous smile, then flings a watery cup of babychino all over my lap, making me look like I've wet myself. It's time I faced facts: the Yummy Mummies and I were never meant to be.

Sam Delaney’s new book: Night of the Living Dad – Confessions of a Shabby Father is published on August 6 by John Murray (£12.99)