While attempting to pay for Jeremy’s socks in a menswear shop, I pulled my wallet out of my bag with a bit more enthusiasm than strictly necessary (it looked like it was tangled in a nest of wipes, muslins and Sophie the Giraffe). The sheer force dislodged a spare pair of Amy’s knickers from the depths of my bag, and sent them scudding across the counter until they finally came to rest on the computer terminal. The red-faced (male, just-made-through-puberty) shop assistant pushed them back across the counter to me as I gibbered on about them belonging to my daughter. Judging by the look on his face, combined with the fact that the only daughter in evidence was a three-month-old, I don’t think he was buying it. So now I just look like a crazy lady who a) attempts to seduce shop boys by flinging knickers at them, and b) wears pink knickers with owls on the front that are obviously too small.

Could have been worse, I guess…they could have been a pair of Dora the Explorer knickers.

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