I’ve just collected the twins from their Duke of Edinburgh training, wearing embarrassing trousers.
(I should perhaps make it clear that they’re not training to become the Duke of Edinburgh – although I’m sure they’d make a fine job of it.)*
I stayed in the car. It could have been worse. I could have got out and walked up and down in my embarrassing trousers and actually spoken to people, if I’d felt like it. But it seems I’m still a terrible mother. They were kind enough to observe, however, that if I like my embarrassing trousers, I’m perfectly entitled to wear them – but in my own time.
That seems fair, don’t you think?
* if being the Duke of Edinburgh consists – as it seems to me – of not carrying any money and saying things out loud that would have been far better kept inside your head.