HAVING my clothes stolen by my children is something I’ve had to get used to – but I draw the line at my Mr Men Socks...

It’s one of the strange thing about being a dad – your kids think you’re the most uncool creature on the planet and yet they still nick your stuff.

Over the years, I’ve lost several jumpers and a couple of shirts to my daughter who insists they look naff on a middle-aged man but suddenly become trendy when worn by a young woman.

My boxer shorts have frequently got lost in the sinister black holes of my three sons’ bedrooms, as have various pairs of my tracksuit bottoms.

My eldest son – now living independently – even rang not so long ago to ask if he could nip round and borrow my dickie-bow tie because he was off to a posh do.

I’ve accepted it all with good grace, even if it has meant going jumper-less on winter days, scrambling around for boxer shorts before work, and having to go out and buy a new dickie-bow tie in a last-minute panic before an after-dinner speaking engagement.

But the Mr Men socks are a step too far. I got them for Christmas – a packet of seven from Marks and Spencer.

Now, I’ve had millions of socks for Christmas over the years – socks are all dads really get – but these were different. What I like about them is that they can pass for normal black socks to the casual onlooker but the bit that goes inside the shoe is a distinctive, funky colour. This means they’re really easy to match up.

You see, us dads need life making simple for us and having socks that you automatically know go together is a major breakthrough. When you go to the sock-box and see two socks with a light blue instep and toes (Mr Bump), you’ve immediately saved yourself lots of time.

For the first couple of months after Christmas, my Mr Men socks were a godsend. They were always there when I wanted them: good quality and easy to spot.

But lately, they’ve been going walkabout and our youngest, Max, 16, has been caught red-footed as the guilty party.

There he was at the weekend, watching telly, in a pair of MY Mr Men socks. And they weren’t even a pair. He had an orange one on his right foot and a green one on his left foot. It was ridiculous – anyone knows Mr Tickle and Mr Nosey don’t go together!

“Hey, they’re my socks,” I shouted.

“No, they’re mine,” he grunted.

“I got them for Christmas,” I went on.

“No, I got them for Christmas,” he muttered.

“You got them for me, didn’t you?”

I said, turning to my wife.

“I can’t remember,” she replied, unhelpfully.

I went upstairs, peered into Max’s bedroom and spotted a red Mr Noisy and a yellow Mr Happy poking out from the bomb-site.

The chances of ever seeing my complete set of Mr Men socks again are remote, so just call me Mr Grumpy.

The things they say

More tales from a recent visit to Spennymoor Women’s Institute...

JULIE Wilson remembered the time at Tudhoe Nursery School when the children were being told about the special baby that had been born at Christmas.

His name was baby Jesus and his mammy was called Mary and his daddy was called Joseph.

A little boy started waving his hand excitedly and shouted: “Miss, Miss, I know him – he’s got the garden next to me grandad Billy’s allotment!”

CAROL Gregg was taking son David back to Hull University.

David liked to work out so he was a fit lad but he’d broken his ankle.

That left his mum having to hump all the boxes up three flghts of stairs to his room.

After a particularly hard climb and feeling absolutely shattered, she said to David: “What on earth have you got in that box?”

“My weights,” came the reply.

  • Follow me on Twitter @echopeterbarron