The honest answer is that I have absolutely no idea where the rugby tops have gone. I believe there are two in existence. Occasionally they pass through my hands as I do the washing, but not as often as a rational person would expect, given how often they are worn on sweaty teenage bodies. I have not seen either since Christmas, which suggests that they are in one of two places, places whose very names fill me with dread.
The first being the school lost property bin: a place close to purgatory.
The second being my son’s bedroom: a place closer to hell. You can see from the picture that his chair has become his wardrobe. Somewhere, on the floor of that room, under his bed, in a corner, there may well lurk some poor traumatised rugby top. Perhaps both of them, huddling together for comfort.
The only thing I know for sure is that this time I am not going to go in. This time, he’ll have to find it for himself…