"What's up?" asked Tony, the gorgeous urban housecleaner, who was collecting his children from school after a day of alleged cleaning at friend Sara's house.

But, bearing in mind the amount of time she spends getting ready for his visits, we wonder ...

"Oh nothing much," I said, trying to turn expression of vaguely concerned confusion into one of flirty friendliness.

"Been giving you a hard time has she?" he asked, nodding in direction of daughter's classroom, to make self aware that he had seen me being asked to stay behind and have word with teacher and subsequently leave, looking vaguely concerned and confused.

"Well," I replied, deciding I might as well confide. "It's not serious, in that the Rugrat hasn't been caught dealing drugs or anything like that, but she seems to have given her teacher the impression that husband is a transvestite."

"And is he?" asked Tony, giving me a look of such blatant curiosity (which suggested he though that suddenly this rather dull friend of Sara's had an interesting secret which instantly made her much more interesting and somehow sexy, all at the same time) that I wondered whether to go along with the Thomas is a transvestite theory, in order to keep up the interest in self from Tony.

But I decided against it, answering: "Not that I'm aware of."

"So, you haven't noticed any of your underwear straying or your make up going missing?" he continued, obviously keen to hear an affirmative response.

"Make up yes," I told him, as he jumped immediately to the wrong conclusion.

"But it tends to be the Rugrats who borrow that, with the intention (but not the result) of turning themselves into beautiful princesses."

I went on to explain that eldest Rugrat had taken an interest in my work and read an article about Eddie Izzard and therefore had to have the concept of transvestism explained to her.

She had then disrupted her classes lesson, on other cultures, by trying to convince classmates that Scotsmen in kilts, Arabs in djellabas and African tribesmen in sarongs were all transvestites and teacher believed her knowledge of the subject must be linked to someone at home i.e. Thomas.

Tony, for the first time ever, decided to walk home "our way" and seemed keen to continue the first line of enquiry.

"So it's got nothing to do with Thomas?" he asked.

"Nothing at all, as far as I know," I answered, as we turned the corner into our street to find Thomas bent over the engine of car, which he'd returned home from work to collect, before setting off for some business conference in Southampton where he would be spending the night.

"All set?" I asked him, at the same time registering that his backside (which was just about all we could see of him in his adopted position of "I'm a man who knows a thing about or two about the engines of cars") showed no signs of visible girls panty-line, and hoping that Tony registered the same.

"Just about," he replied, standing up and wiping oil from his hands on old skinny rib of own, which I no longer wanted and he'd requisitioned for car maintenance but which I could see Tony staring at with suspicion.

"There seems to be a bit of a problem with the fan belt though," he continued. "Can I take a pair of your tights with me, just in case?"