I KEEP forgetting to take my own bags to the supermarket to avoid the 5p charge.

I say forgetting, I suppose I mean refusing. Modern living is emasculating enough without plodding around with a couple of bags for life under your arm.

I know I should but I can't bring myself to do it. I am prepared to pay that extra 5p if it means I feel just a little bit younger, impulsive, more exciting. Of course, I won't actually pay any more than 5p because what I can't fit into one bag I will carry under my arms, in my pockets, down my pants, anywhere but in a bag made of hessian.

And I can fit an awful lot into a 5p bag, I can tell you. If you look across the checkouts at the supermarket post bag tax you will see lots of men stacking, cramming and wedging like it's the only drug-free Olympic sport.

Eventually the 5p bag starts to split and expert packers seamlessly move from cramming to balancing. If it all goes wrong you may only get a few steps before everything falls on the floor and you have to spend 10p on two bags, but at least you still feel like a man as you stuff a budget tin of baked beans into your coat pocket.

In other news, the middle boy has got himself a girlfriend, much to the amusement of everyone in the house.

I thought about not writing about his success as it might embarrass him. However, he remains the number one suspect in the Great Missing Single Malt Whisky Mystery so until the riddle of how the bottle magically disappeared out of the cupboard last New Year's Eve is solved, his life will remain mine to write about as I see fit.

For him the relationship is clearly very exciting. For us it is also a reason for joy, not least because he has tidied his room without asking for the first time ever.

Had I whistled the correct whistle, I do believe the contents of several discarded pizza boxes had evolved sufficiently to run down the stairs, jump in the boot and help me pick up the shopping after it spilt out of the 5p bag.