"Your son needs some new trousers," I informed Himself last week. Small Boy had arrived for his holiday visit with nothing but a few pairs of shorts, one pair made of that thin shiny fabric basketballers wear. It has been about 9C in the mornings here lately.
"Doesn't he have some in his drawer here?"
"Yes, but they're all too short for him now and he's refusing to wear them. Take him down to the shopping centre sometime."
I must admit I was surprised when I didn't get too much argument. Himself notoriously loathes all shopping centres and our nearest major shopping centre in particular. It's one of the larger mall complexes and for some reason it never has enough car parks, sin number one in Himself's eyes. It is also deliberately convoluted in order to make you walk past as many shops as possible and past the thousands of determined women shoppers, who, according to Himself, always have their elbows extended.
So I was naturally quietly delighted when he agreed to take on the task. Normally he would handball this sort of thing to me but the week with Small Boy had been a little fraught due to Himself's constant work and even he could see that Small Boy was in need of some serious dad time. You see, no matter how good your relationship with your step mother is, when you're a boy, there's no-one like dad.
Later that day he phoned me, "We've been shopping," he said.
"Great, what kind of trousers did you get?"
"Well, we didn't actually get any trousers."
"What do you mean you didn't get any trousers???"
"Well, we got some wheels for his scooter instead."
You think I make this stuff up don't you?