That aside, is there some law, engraved in stone which decrees that whenever my spawn decides to dress; the first, second and usually third thing she tries on are always the worst nightmares ever designed and why did we manhandle her into the most expensive clothes shop in Christendom just to force her to accept this revolting dross!
But the law obviously ingrained into her genes is the one requiring her to file them over every horizontal surface of the entire house. And even when it would be safer to explore previously uncharted stretches of the Amazon than venture into the quagmire that is her bedroom, or indeed the rest of the house when she's around; should I have the unmitigated gall to complain, my beloved wife rushes to her assistance (usually from beneath a head high pile of underwear) to say "Leave her alone. You're always...blah blah...etc etc.
However, today she added a new ingredient to the mix.
"Daddy" - notice the two letters appended to my paternal title? That slight tonal inflection usually precedes an admission of guilt or a request.
"I know you don't really hate me." Her face simply oozed childlike sincerity.
"Of course not darling. You're my life."
"Well in that case,"
I gritted my teeth.
"When are you going to buy me a new Mini? They're only twenty five thousand pounds."
Now I don't know about the rest of you but I always keep that much cash just lying around in my sock draw.