On getting told off as an adult
Come on, we've all been there.
We've all more-or-less grown up and left the days of being told off like a naughty schoolkid long behind.
The burning sensation rising to your cheeks as you glow red with shame naught but a distant memory.
Your trousers round your ankles as you await a well deserved thrashing from a strict headmistress the preserve of the lucky few who know the right addresses in certain parts of central London.
So, I expect you know what's coming next. And you'd be right: Woe.
Humiliating, public, brass-plated-and-screwed-to-your-front-door woe. I am 43 years of age.
I'll cut to the chase. I was told off by the store manager for playing with the doorbells in the Weymouth branch of B&Q.
You know how it is when you're a kid. A whole wall of delicious doorbells to try, leading up to the mother of them all - the one that pulls the little bell on a spring for posh houses.
These days they've got all that, but also the new fangled ones that play about thirty different tunes.
And there I was, the one day in my life I was actually in a DIY store buying a doorbell, thoroughly testing each and every tune – James May-style – when a man in a shiny suit and a name badge approached me.
"Excuse me, sir. Would you mind not doing that?"
That familiar burning sensation rose to my cheeks as I glowed red with shame.
I rung the little bell on a spring, just for luck.
"No, really, sir. Do you mind?"
Yes. Yes, I minded, and played The Yellow Rose of Texas on a bell designed to sound like Rolf Harris playing the stylophone just to see if he'd go the same colour as his orange jacket.
Just wait until we need to buy a new toilet.