MY wife and I had gone to look for a new car – so how we ended up in the lingerie shop is anyone’s guess.

Our daughter was 17 last week and is planning to spend her birthday money on driving lessons, so we thought it might be worth downsizing Mum’s car to save on insurance.

We traipsed round the car showroom, looking at different models and working out the sums, and then went away to think about it.

“I just want to call in at the lingerie shop,” said my wife, even though we’d agreed there’d be no shopping so I’d be back in time for the footy.

My wife’s sister had given her a birthday gift voucher for a shop enticingly called Boudoir and it needed to be spent there and then.

“I need you to come in and help me choose something,” she said.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m as susceptible to the lure of the suspender belt as the next red-blooded dad. Even at 47, I remain a passionate believer in keeping the flame of romance burning – but that doesn’t mean I have to go in the shop.

“I’ll wait in the car and listen to the match,” I said.

“No, no, come in and look,” she insisted.

She had that defiant look in her eyes so I sneaked in, making sure the street was clear before I got out of the car.

We were greeted by the very enthusiastic female owner, accompanied by two female assistants young enough to be my daughters.

I felt decidedly uncomfortable as my wife went through row after row of silky, lacy, frilly things, and chatted about them to the owner.

It just felt wrong for me to be there – I had that same nervous, guilty feeling I had when we used to pinch apples from a neighbour’s garden when we were kids.

“What do you think of this?” my wife asked, holding up something red and slinky.

“Yep, fine,” I mumbled, hardly looking up.

“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” smiled the owner, looking at me.

“Yep, fine,” I repeated, starting to perspire around the neck.

The pressure became too much, so I went to sit on a chair away from the window, pretending to read a magazine, while my wife continued browsing.

“Do you like these?” she shouted across the shop, holding up something else so flimsy that the sunlight shone through.

“Yep, fine,” I mumbled again, desperately hoping no one I knew – or even someone I didn’t know – would come in.

All I wanted was to get the hell out of there with my reputation intact and be home in time for the second half.

And, if it was too late for that, we had the perfectly acceptable secondbest option of going up to our own boudoir to try on whatever she’d bought.

After what seemed like ages, I heard her finally reach a decision: “Oh, it’s so hard to choose – I’ll just take this,” she said.

“Lovely,” replied the owner.

I kept my head down as we left and, with the pressure mercifully lifted, I won’t pretend that I wasn’t a bit excited as we headed home.

There were ten minutes of the match left and, when the final whistle blew, I took the bull by the horns.

“Shall we go up and try on your new lingerie?” I suggested with a glint in my eye.

“Oh, I couldn’t decide on anything to wear,” she said, dismissively, “so I got a nice scented candle in a tin. It’s citrus – smells lovely.”

A candle? All that for a flaming candle?

So much for keeping the flame of romance burning.

THE THINGS THEY SAY CHILDREN have a wonderful gift for embarrassing parents.

My mate Nigel was in the cinema with his son Jack, aged three, who decided he wanted some popcorn.

“Cockporn! Cockporn!” he shouted at the top of his voice.

It’s not the kind of thing you expect to hear in the middle of Monsters Vs Aliens.

AT the North Riding area meeting of the Yorkshire Countrywomen’s Association, in Northallerton, Ruth Brown remembered the time she was teaching at Hipswell Primary School.

The little ones had been learning about Easter, when Matthew, aged seven, put his hand up to say: “Miss, Miss, I know what happened on the first Good Friday.”

“What did happen?” she asked.

“Jesus got crystalised,” came the reply.