I have become someone who sorts and pairs socks. Usually it’s the kids’ socks as I’m not too fussed where my own are concerned. I’ll wear odd socks, holey socks, the kids cast off socks – well Ben’s and Chloe’s, Timmy’s at a stretch – literally.

All unwanted socks are shoved my way so I have a drawerful of Mickey Mouse, Simpsons, glittery pink, stripey football, and fluorescent, which I wear randomly, getting caught out with the very worst combination when I want to make the best impression. At the school open evening Mr Harper’s eyes desperately try to stay focussed on my face, while sliding to my ankles and I suddenly realise that the smart black trousers that I pulled out of the wardrobe archive are slightly too short and I have ‘Boys are Smelly’ in silver on a pink background, on one ankle and luminous green with red skeletons on the other.

When Chloe notices where his eyes keep drifting and why, Mr Harper is the least of my worries, especially as her school progress is brilliant, so the role reversal is complete
“I have never been soooooo embarrassed in all my life. What will he think? You completely let the side down….” I humbly listen to her tirade and mutter that I didn’t mean it and I’ll make more effort next time.

So now I’m trying to find matching pairs amidst all the odd discarded socks in my drawer, while I wonder who determined that socks had to be a matching pair and why we don’t have a pair of bras and a jean or knicker. Also, why nobody ever told me that life could amount to sorting socks and thinking such crap.