I BLAME their father. Like most things, it's all his fault. He and heredity have a lot to answer for - including Senior Son's latest phone call.

The boys' father hates shopping. He just doesn't have the shopping gene. He's brilliant at presents but for everything else, he's dreadful. Absolutely hopeless. Years ago, when I was working and he was on strike, he used to do the supermarket shop. Not only did I have to make a list, I also had to draw a plan of Sainsbury's and a suggested route. It was like mounting an expedition to the edge of the known world. It was a five minute bus ride from my flat and he'd be gone all day.

Shopping for himself is even worse.

I should have realised what I was getting into even before we were married. He'd gone into town to buy himself some black shoes. They were to wear at my father's funeral - that's why he was let loose on the shops alone, as I was busy comforting my mother.

He'd been gone about an hour when the phone rang and there he was, in the middle of town, asking in a pathetic sort of a voice, "What size shoes do I take?"

Honestly. He'd lived with his feet for more than 30 years - you think he'd know how big they were.

The boys were different. They were born to shop. From the time they could toddle, they loved shopping. They zoomed round supermarkets picking up best buys, comparing prices and quality. They chose their own clothes and by the time they were old enough to catch buses into town on their own they pretty well did all their own shopping. Their techniques, however, were very different.

Smaller Son would dash into town, try something on. And if it fitted that was fine and he dashed home again, job done. Senior Son liked to be sure. So he would go round all the shops, try everything on and then about six hours later, would go back to the first shop.

Still, at least I didn't have to go with them.

The only time I accompanied them, or did the shopping for them, was when it came to school uniform - sensible shoes, shirts, socks and underwear, the sort of things that, frankly, they wouldn't bother with.

And this, though I didn't realise it, was my big mistake.

Because they only shopped for fun things, they had no idea of the more serious side of life.

Which is why Senior Son has just phoned. Although he has bought himself many shirts in his time, they've all been of the fashion sort that are measured in M, L or XL. But he needed new shirts for work. And he was wandering round Marks & Spencers' in Manchester like a lost soul which was when he rang.

"Mu-um" he said, on his mobile from the middle of menswear. "What size shirts do I wear?"

Talk about deja-vu. Like father, like son. What hope can there be?

Published: 25/01/02