I am a man on a mission.
There is a favourite T-shirt missing. It is black, it is classic. I look good in it and that is not the case with many a T-shirt.
There are two usual suspect to be harangued. Its a dirty job haranguing, but when there is haranguing to be done by the Laws of the Daddydom, I will do it.
Son refers me to daughter.
Dauughter refers to son.
Dad finds evidence, by a search of assorted laundry items, otherwise what was once called the floor of a toddler bedroom, I find a T-shirt, my T-shirt, my favourite T-shirt, it is somewhat trampled by teenage daughter feet. I am not happy.
A stirrong defence is mounted by the daughter with an air of being a victim of unwanted and unnecessary accusations, that it was delivered by a Mother. How was she to know a non-descript black T-shirt was mine. Eh Voila.
Then she adds with a confident air of admission and a smile that a thought may have passed between brain cells, that it may have been her fault after all.
'Sorry I should have checked the XXXL label and I would have known it was yours.'
There was no need for that extra X.