So, you've a big family get-together coming up. Everyone's been ordered to get their glad rags on and turn up at a plush hotel for a weekend of revelry.
You need this like a bullet in the head, but you fall in line and obediently book the room.
"One room?" screeches the Wolverine.
A family room doesn't afford the kind of privacy to which she, as a teenager, is legally entitled!
Erm, she's not legally entitled to privacy, you point out.
The Wolverine snorts and slams out of the room.
Later the two of you go shopping together, and you chance upon a highly recommended and revolutionary new body-shaper which will definitely hold in that new squidgy bit around your middle.
You ask the Wolverine for her opinion and she gives it the thumbs-up and even, to your surprise, advises you to choose a smaller size than you would normally select. Maybe you're imagining that spare tyre, you think hopefully.
The following week is the Wolverine's transition year work experience week. She has finally found a hair salon prepared to allow her to make coffee for the clients and sweep up discarded bits of hair. The Wolverine is delighted, and, you notice, completely fails to consult you on what to wear.
However on the first morning you see her slipping into the spare room, where, as it happens, you put the box with your body-shaping granny knickers.
You watch as she slithers quickly back out of the room and up the stairs, with what appears to be your new elastic under-garment crumpled in her hand.
You call out. She stops, frozen. You request to know what's in her hand. Nothing. You ask again. Silence. You suggest that she may, perchance, have your new body-shaper in her possession.
She grudgingly admits that she does. You take a deep breath and request that it be returned to you. Like, pronto.
She stamps back down the stairs and gives it to you. "Sorry," she says, not sounding it at all.
You ask what happened to the body-shaper you bought her less than a month ago. She sighs. She sewed it into her old one, she says.
She sewed an old one and a new one together and now she can't wear them.
You don't understand, you say.
Don't bother trying, she says.
You look at one another in mutual incomprehension. Taking something that belongs to somebody else without asking is stealing, you observe quietly.
Later you meet the owner of the hairdressing salon, who compliments you on your beautiful daughter.
"What a wonderful girl," she tells you, smiling. "You must feel so lucky."
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