It is the most responsibility I have ever been given, and at first it frightened me.

'I'm going to have to renounce Satan!' I said, in a panic, to my wife, who has in an extraordinary coincidence been made godmother to the very same child. 'That's what they make you do! I'm going to have to stand up in a church and renounce him!'

'That's OK,' said my wife. 'You've never been a massive fan of his.'

'That's true,' I said. 'I think he's silly. But what if he takes umbrage? You can't expect to renounce Satan and not have him take umbrage! He is notoriously grumpy!'

'You could cross your fingers,' said my wife, and that made me feel a lot better.

But I bravely went through with it, and so far, life as a godfather has been relatively painless. According to Wikipedia, I am now supposed to be responsible for ensuring that my goddaughter's religious education is carried out, but as yet she seems uninterested in learning psalms, and prefers instead to shout. I have taken the decision to allow this to continue, mainly because I prefer to shout too, and it is important that if shouting is how she intends to live her life, she has a good role model to learn from.

And then I made a mistake.

'We'll pop round to yours on Sunday!' said the e-mail.

'Great! I'll bake a cake!' I cheerily replied, hitting Send before I could truly consider whether my words would be taken in the jokey manner in which they were intended.

Moments later, a new e-mail arrived.

'I've just told Poppy that her godfather is going to bake a cake!' it read. 'She is incredibly excited. How lovely of you to make such an effort for her!'

I thought about replying, and saying, Woah there, chicken-lips, there's been a terrible misunderstanding, but within a minute I'd received a photo of an almost unbearably happy child, her eyes all lit up like she'd swallowed a torch and inexplicably coughed it up into her head.

'She's been jumping around since she heard the news!' read the message.

I broke into a sweat. I can't cook. I'm awful. And then I remember: Fairy Cakes! Of course! They're supposed to be easy, aren't they? And kids love them!

'No,' says my wife, that evening. 'You can't make Fairy Cakes. You need to make a proper cake. For this is the world you have entered now.'