There comes a time in every mans life when he knows he's arrived - when he's finally grown up. No, I'm not talking about getting your first car, or the first time you get laid. I'm talking of course, of that special moment in your life when you own your first barbecue.

See, most guys get their first car at 18, and lose their virginity around the same age, plus or minus five years, depending on whether you grow up in Redfern, Ipswich, Footscray etc, or on an Amish Retreat. Now most of us blokes in our thirties with the benefit of a bit of hindsight know that at 18 years of age you're still a wet-behind-the-ears grommet having bugger-all experience with the big issues in life. You're not really a man yet.

Sure, you can drink, vote, and screw but it's not until you own a barbecue that you become a real man. Some even say that the feeling of unconditional love, peace, and joy a fella gets when holding his new-born child for the first time is dwarfed only by that magic moment when he first stands over a new barbie with a beer in one hand and a pair of tongs in the other, ready to turn half a cow into char-grilled rubber.

Burning Rump, earlier today.

So on Sunday afternoon, after a harrowing weekend involving moving house up four flights of stairs into a new apartment block, Dad and I put together my first barbecue. It was a beautiful moment, shared between father and son. The sun went down as fast as the beer in my hand and I flame-grilled some steaks for the boys (chops for the girls) with a feeling of real contentment that I'd rarely felt before.

Kids? Who needs them when you have a barbecue.