I spend a surprising amount of my life bellowing the word “SOCKS”. It’s the eternal call of the school run, of the tired mum who doesn’t want to be late for work AGAIN, aimed at the small daughter who is cheerfully running around the house half-dressed, waving a spoonful of Weetabix around.
So, this morning:
Small Daughter: Mummy, I can’t put on my socks. Can you do it?
Me: OK, because we’re running late. But tomorrow you really need to put your own socks on. Or will you still be asking me to put your socks on for you when you’re 37 years old?
SD: Of course not! I’ll get my husband to do it.