Please excuse me. I have a deep overwhelming need to have a rant of epic David Lean proportion. I have just spent one hour of my precious time looking for a new black cardigan from Zara that unless I am suffering from undiagnosed Alzheimer's I swear I left neatly folded in my wardrobe last night. It's gone.

I have turned over every drawer looking for it with an urgency last seen when I tried to catch a bag of chocolate buttons thrown into the audience at a pantomime when I was five.
I finally stormed into my daughter India's room at 11am and without a preamble of any description started shouting at her sleeping corpse.

'HAVE. YOU. TAKEN. MY. BLACK. SWEATER?' I screamed, totally devoid of any maternal niceties.
India was not thrilled to have her Sunday morning interrupted by a furious, half-dressed storm-trooper.
'Go away,' she mumbled pulling the bedcovers up over her head.
'I'm not going anywhere until I get an answer,' I replied.
'Where is it? Confess now or else I'm going to search the room.'
'I might have it,' she said nonchalantly and without a vestige of remorse.
'Where? Hand it over,' I barked.
'I think I put it in the wash.'
'Why would you put a brand new sweater that doesn't belong to you in the wash?' I yelped barely able to control my temper.
'Mum, I'm tired,' she replied turning over and shutting her eyes.
'You are never going to bed again unless you get up right now and find my black sweater,' I threatened switching on the overhead light.

Switching on the overhead light in a teenagers bedroom before midday is possibly the most provocative thing a parent can do to their child. It's akin to setting off a crate of fireworks.
India leapt out of bed like a puff-adder. It was war.
'Mum - get a grip,' she snarled shuffling through the debris of discarded and semi-dirty clothes that festooned her floor. 'It's here.'
'Why is it here, though?' I shouted snatching it away.
'I borrowed it. Surely that's obvious,' she shrugged.
'WITHOUT ASKING,' I yelled. 'I rest my case. That's it. This is a sweater too far. You are never to borrow anything of mine ever again without first getting permission. My wardrobe is no longer your Pandora's box of tricks. What's mine is no longer yours. And that,' I said turning sharply on my heels, 'is my final word on the subject. I hate this open sesame attitude you have all adopted towards my things. You take my stuff, never return it and what's more don't seem to have any conscience about it. No remorse. I've had it. Enough.'

The next day I was cooking supper (wearing my black sweater ) when Archie strolled into the kitchen.
'Bye Mum,' he said.
'Bye darling,' I replied looking up from marinating the chicken to find my 20-year-old son squeezed into my favourite long-sleeved t-shirt. It's red, faded and has Southampton Life Guards stamped across the front. I could feel my blood begin to boil.

'Where did you get that t-shirt?' I asked.
' My room.'
'It's mine.'
'But it was in my room.'
I took a deep breath. 'Archie….if you walked into your bedroom and found your best friend's girlfriend asleep in your bed would you just assume she was yours for the taking?'
'Don't be stupid. Of course not.'
'Then answer me this. Just because you happen to find a t-shirt that patently (a) belongs to a woman (b) is not yours and (c) doesn't fit, why do you fail to make the connection that in all probability it doesn't actually belong to you?'
'I dunno. It was there. What am I supposed to do? And anyway,' he continued as he grabbed his duffle bag 'I thought you taught us to be generous. And that charity began at home.'

I took a deep breath. I counted to ten.
'I did. And it does.' I replied. 'Just not in my wardrobe.'

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