WHY do boys do wheelies? Okay, perhaps this is not exactly a riddle of the ancients or something that will keep you awake tonight, but it's worth considering nonetheless.

This question came to me like a bolt from the blue the other day as I trotted along a narrow residential street just off Fishergate. There I was ruminating thoughtfully about the situation in Iraq (I was actually humming the theme tune to Balamory and wondering if PC Plum was gay), when a young chap - probably about 13 - came cycling slowly out of a gate and on to the path in front of me.

As soon as he realised he had an audience - that would be me and a man unsuccessfully trying to push a nine-foot ladder into an eight-foot van - the young Evel Knievel immediately put on a turn of speed, lifted up his front wheel with a "whoop" of satisfaction and hurtled off down the street like a bat out of hell or, at the very least, a bat on a unicycle.

I don't know whether he was expecting a round of applause or a simple "oooh" of appreciation, but I'm afraid all I could muster was a non-committal smile and a quizzical raised eyebrow as the word "why?" popped into my otherwise cavernously empty noggin.

Why, oh why, oh why do boys do wheelies? This was closely followed, for no apparent reason other than I was on a bit of roll when it came to having thoughts (two in a day - wow!), by the supplementary question "...and why do boys like wrestling so much?"

Every day I ask my lad what he did at playtime and every day he says "wrestling". Sometimes it is Mutant Ninja Turtle wrestling, sometimes it's Star Wars wrestling, but more often than not it is Jurassic Park wrestling.

From what I can gather, the theme is actually irrelevant. Whether he is Donatello, Luke Skywalker or a Euoplocephalus (it looks a bit like a big angry turtle in a suit of armour, apparently), the game is the same. He and his chum grab each other, have a scuffle, fall over in the grass and roll about in the dirt until the bell goes.

I think the winner is the one with the most grass stains on his trousers at the end of the day. If I'm right, then I'm proud to report that my lad is the all-in wrestling champion of Huntington. There is the chance, however, that the winner is the one who manages to make it through a bout without banging his head on a tree. In which case, he isn't, and has the lumps and bumps to prove it.

Boys are strange alien beings. But, like ET, they are also irresistibly loveable. No one understands what on earth makes them tick (like a bomb, rather than a clock), but they tend to be easy to please. Give them something with wheels, some bricks, anything that makes any sort of noise or, if nothing else is available, something high to jump off and they're happy.

Girls are different. And not necessarily in a good way. The other day I was charged with buying two birthday presents for a couple of my lad's classmates who are about to turn six.

Buying for the boy was a breeze. Construction aisle; box filled with intricate bits and bobs to create various goggle-eyed monsters; Bob The Builder card (with badge); job done.

Then I entered the Twilight Zone of the girls' toys aisle. After I had dismissed the skin inflaming make-up and the tatty plastic jewellery, all I was left with were surly-looking dolls wearing clompy shoes and tarty skirts that cost the earth.

What the heck do girls play with these days? Or are they too busy putting on their lippy and earrings for a night out with Bolshie Barbie to play anything anymore?

Give me boys and their wheelies any day. I may not understand them, but at least they make me smile.

Updated: 11:39 Monday, September 13, 2004