On sunny afternoons, having collected the kids from school, I am sometimes coerced into making a minor detour through a nondescript North London park. The equipment is meagre and battered; there are so many stone steps and steep drops that the place resembles a game of Tomb Raider and, as nothing overlooks the playground, it is both a doggy convenience and a youth hangout.

Today, there are eight or more teenagers, mostly in hoodies, being noisy on the swings. Two women from a local action group are bravely asking the youths how the park could be improved. Then, politely, I ask one of these interviewees to move so that my five-year-old daughter can use a swing. He ignores me, so I walk up and ask again. He stands there for a moment, staring into my eyes with tedious insolence, before slowly moving back a step.

Most of the gang leave but this youth and his mate linger. The interviewers, oblivious to the rising tension, ask what improvements I would like to see as a father. Ignoring the leering elephant in the room (the park would be improved immensely if the yobs would go elsewhere), and louder than necessary (to show how down with the “yoot” I am), I express a wish that there were more facilities for older kids, so they didn’t have to hang around the playground.

As usual, my two-year-old son heads unerringly towards a steep drop and I charge after him. Suddenly, my daughter starts crying loudly. She points at the two youths, dangling inanely on the swings: “Those boys said something horrible to me!” I look at the two hoodies. They glare back. I try to reassure my daughter that she must be mistaken but she is insistent. As the youths stare at me with real malevolence, I ponder what to do, heart racing.

I have dreaded something like this since I became a dad. As a young man I got into fights but since having children I have tried to mellow, to demonstrate to my kids that violence is not the answer (and because I’m a 5ft 7in 42-year-old who never was particularly good at the whole scrapping malarkey). On the other hand, what message am I sending to my children by being pushed around? How can I tell my son to stand up for himself if I won’t stand up for him against bullies?

Life as a modern dad is full of these dilemmas. Working from home, I get to spend time with the children — and the dishwasher. As the son of a militant feminist, I was brought up thinking that this was A Good Thing. Yet recently I read a letter in The Times from a woman whose husband had lost his job; she found having him moping around the house all day very unsexy. Is there some deep part of my psyche that feels somehow emasculated?

Statistically, men are far more likely to inflict violence — and to be on the receiving end of it. Like most men, I’m probably more afraid of being thought a wimp than being hurt. I find the thought of these boys sniggering “That chicken — won’t even stand up for his own kids” as I walk away worse than being beaten or stabbed. I approach the two youths, childishly gratified to see the first element of doubt in their eyes.

“Did you just say something to my daughter?” I ask them. There’s a silence that seems to last aeons. I sense them sizing me up, seemingly making what might be a life-changing decision for us all. As I have recently written a report on the prevalence of knife crime in the capital, and several high-profile murders have taken place near by recently, I try to identify suspicious bumps in their clothing.

Finally one shrugs: “No.” To my dismay, my daughter insists that he’s lying, so I repeat the question. Both youths are still eyeing me up but I refuse to back down until they give me that elusive thing I realise I need, pathetically, as much as they do: respect. The boy again denies saying anything, but less emphatically this time. I say something like, “You really better not have done . . .” then trail off, not wanting to make threats I that might not honour.

To my relief, my son charges off. Grabbing my daughter, I run after him. When I look back the youths are still glaring from the swings. As we walk home, the realisation of what I’ve just done sets in. What if they had admitted that they had said something to my daughter? What if they had had knives? Instead of rising above the situation, I have just risked a violent scene in front of my young children.

When I contact Islington Council to complain about a lack of wardens, I am told that the park is not in Islington. I have to e-mail a photograph of the park sign, which has the council’s name on, to prove that it is. In response, they are quick to emphasise the wide array of local resources for young people.

Yet despite these resources, it seems that many teenagers would rather hang around harassing people, many of whom will probably shrug, walk away and think nothing more about it. By confronting the youths, not only have I risked physical violence but, if anything had happened, my kids would have been witnesses and possibly placed in danger themselves. So what is the right thing to do?

The Mayor of London recently advised Londoners — including his own four children — to walk away from trouble rather than get involved. But what would Boris Johnson do if someone picked on his children? I ask the Metropolitan Police Service (MPS) what I should have done. The response is predictably anodyne: “The MPS recognises the concern residents have regarding antisocial behaviour. We work closely with other agencies to tackle the problem of youth crime. If anyone witnesses possible offences by youths, we advise them to contact police.”

Here lies my difficulty: were the youths committing an offence or simply being offensive? As I didn’t hear what they supposedly said maybe I should have backed off. But that’s what people do all the time: walk away, surrender our open spaces. The more I think about my actions, the more convinced I am that I did the right thing.

Just to make sure, I consult the clinical psychologist Linda Blair, whose book The Happy Child is published next month. “By approaching those youths you were placing your needs before those of your children,” she says. “By walking away you would have been protecting them and also providing a role model for the future.

“In this sort of situation you need to breathe in, hold it, then let the air out of your mouth. Ask yourself: is my child in immediate danger? If the answer is no, walk away. If they are in danger, you will do the right thing every time to protect your DNA, to preserve your own genetic material.”

On speaking to other parents, the general consensus seems to be that it is safer to turn the other cheek. One mum-to-be I spoke to recalled an experience when she was a child: “Some older boys made fun of me and my friend when we were with my mum. I was about 7. My mum shouted at them and they gave a bit of back chat and walked off. The next time I saw those boys, though, they made fun of me and my mum. I felt so hurt and embarrassed for her. I wished she hadn’t said anything to them in the first place. It has always really stuck in my mind. I think ignoring them is best as they are sad little individuals just trying to amuse their mates.”

Blair also dismisses my crisis of masculinity as nonsense. As she points out, women are just as capable of reacting when their children are threatened. Yet deep down, some immature part of me is glad that I did something to show those youths they can’t push me around.Having said all that, I haven’t returned to the park since.

Mark Piggott’s novel Fire Horses, published by Legend Press, is out now

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