I cannot believe I have spent the best part of the morning discussing exactly what type of underwear I wear.

Not only that, but discussing it with the man who came to fix the washing machine. But there you go.

He arrived to take a look at the machine, which had packed up half way though a cycle, before even having the consideration to at least empty itself of water and allow me to take out the Rugrats plimsolls which, as their regular shoes were being mended, they needed to wear to school that day.

So, having sent them to school in bare feet (another cause for concern for the eldest's teacher who is becoming increasingly concerned that am unfit mother) declared it an emergency and awaited his arrival.

This coincided with end of conversation, over coffee, with friend Sara about origin of untrue rumour that husband Thomas was secret transvestite.

Briefly, rumour began after eldest Rugrat asked why man in article was wearing girl's clothes, I explained, she told rest of her classmates that Scottish men, Greek soldiers and most of the males in the rest of the world, whose traditional costume involves some sort of skirt, were transvestites.

Teacher then asked me if there was a problem at home, I told Tony the urban housecleaner she suspected husband, Thomas, just as he appeared from under the bonnet of his car, asking if he could borrow pair of my tights to mend fan belt.

Washing machine man then declared that cause of mechanical failure was blockage of pipe caused by handful of tiny curved, four inch, wires which he claimed were the underwire of underwired bras.

"She doesn't wear underwired bras," said Sara, somewhat triumphantly, divulging information that should only really be divulged between friends and not casually given away to any old Tom, Dick or Raymond (for this was indeed his name) who came to fix the washing machine.

"I may have done in the past," I said defensively.

"Not since you bought that washing machine," said Sara, displaying an unhealthy grasp of the minutiae of our lives which enabled her to remember exactly when we bought this particular household appliance and a subsequent conversation about female upholstery in which I had apparently revealed a dislike of underwired bras (as they dig into your skin).

Raymond looked at me with an expression which implied that someone of my age, with children to boot, definitely should wear an underwired bra and asked if maybe it was one of my daughters.

"The oldest is only five," said Sara, with more than a hint of triumph again.

"Perhaps your husband?" said Raymond, before continuing on a story about man who trains other transvestites how to dress and whose washing machine was totally full of bits of wire and bone from women's underwear.

Fortunately we were saved by the doorbell. My father had decided to pop in, on return from shopping trip during which he intended to buy a pair of shoes the backs of which you can tread down "like the ones your mother has but for men...." he explained to the assembled crowd.

"Unfortunately," he added, removing for an instant the finger of suspicion from Thomas.

"They don't actually make them for men. So I bought the largest pair of ladies shoes they had instead......"