It began innocuously enough. After a visit to our local newsagent's, my five-year-old son Ruskin emerged with his first ever World Cup sticker album. Collecting the 596 Panini stickers that make up the album seemed like a good way to get in the World Cup spirit - not least because we live in Berlin, where the final will take place on July 9.
But completing the album is proving difficult. I suspect this may be deliberate. Initially, Ruskin did pretty well, assembling most of the Ukraine team in record time, getting sticker number 2 - the ridiculous World Cup lion mascot and daft talking ball - and the Saudi Arabia team badge.
Since then, though, it's been a slog. Why is it impossible to get the England team sticker? Why can't we get sticker number 10, Leipzig, the only World Cup stadium venue this summer in east Germany? And why have we had Clint Dempsey - a floppy-haired USA midfielder, who looks like an art student - seven times?
It was also tricky to explain to Ruskin that although Wayne Rooney was in the album, he was unlikely to play much part in England's fortunes in Germany, having broken his foot. Several other players also appear to have been overtaken by events. On the Germany page, Oliver Kahn - the Bayern Munich keeper - beams serenely from the goalkeeper's sticker spot.
Unfortunately, though, in real life, Germany's coach Jürgen Klinsmann decided to dump Kahn at the last minute. He picked Jens Lehmann, Arsenal's Champions League hero, as goalkeeper instead. Lehmann will take part in the World Cup opening match between Germany and Costa Rica on June 9 - but does not feature in Panini-land.
More mortifying than all this, was my recent freelance attempt to boost Ruskin's collection by buying five packs of stickers on my own. 'They are for my son,' I told the shop assistant at Berlin's Karstadt department store solemnly, handing over two euros 50 cents in change. 'A lot of middle-aged men say that,' she replied, fixing me with a pitying look.
We are now stuck at around the 400-sticker mark. Attempts to swap with other small boys in the neighbourhood have so far not worked. When we buy more stickers, we get more Clint Dempseys. And at school, Ruskin gives all his swaps away - returning empty-handed. ('I gave them all to Julian, dad,' he says chirpily.)
On Saturday, acting on a rumour, we turned up at Berlin's 60s-built Europa shopping centre, in search of other small boys who might offload some of our surplus Australia stickers. Sadly, the fabled swap meeting had taken place three weeks earlier, it turned out. Berlin's tourist information centre could not help.
It's clear that Panini has carefully employed a professional mathematician or accurist to calculate just how many stickers people are prepared to buy - before they jump howling in the air with rage, and chuck the two-thirds-filled album in the bin. We are close to this point. But we are not close enough. If anyone has a spare England team sticker out there, Ruskin would like to hear from you.
