On the naughty step

A few weeks ago we had the pleasure of visiting the Temple of Consumerism. Lakeside shopping centre. This is, as I'm sure you will know, not as posh as Bluewater or even Westside, but it certainly makes up for quantity what it lacks in quality. I wish I could remember why we went there, but I just can't. I'm confident though that whatever we went for we must have got. For the simple reason that like Harrods, anything that can be bought, can be bought there. One of the things though that we didn't buy was a set of towels that I saw and rather fancied in House of Fraser. Not that I have some sort of strange fetish for towels, it's just that we need new towels because the ones we have are old verging on the vintage if not ancient. And we don't have many of them. So when we have guests, we're rooting round for something they can dry their hands on (lord help us if they stay over, shower and then need to dry their other bits). The boy didn't like these towels, so inspite of pleading like a five year old who's just gone into the sweet shop, I was told firmly they were awful and we couldn't have them. I sulked for ages, dragging my feet along as we walked round and round in ever decreasing circles. I didn't want to go there in the first place.

At this point I will go off on a little detour and admit that we do still have a beach towel acquired by Grandma in Cyprus with Green Shield stamps when I was half the size the boy is now; like the Turin Shroud it rarely comes out, and I'm hopeful that if we keep it long enough I may be able to do a turn on Antiques Roadshow, feigning surprise and modesty when it is revealed to be a priceless classic worth many quidzillions.

In the boy's absence over the last week, I became a little bored at the weekend and ended up wandering around Habitat, spying some towels remarkably similar to the HoF ones. But different, obviously. So like a naughty school boy I purchased them, hoping upon hope that all would be ok and I would get away with it.

At home I immediately put them on the towel rail, thinking that they might just sneak in unnoticed. I know you're supposed to wash them first, but that's so boring and I didn't want to get them wet. You'll be telling me next to wash my fruit before eating it next.

Sure enough, I was out when the boy sauntered through the front door and made his way to the bathroom. I got a message left on my mobile, "Not convinced by the towels. I told you not to get them, so I'm very annoyed."

My "Aren't I clever? Look what I've done and I'm so damned smart I've got away with it" feeling evaporated, knowing for certain I would be spending some long time sat on the naughty step.