THAT'S another thing they don't tell you about - Work Placements.

This is actually a pretty good wheeze. As a term or a year out of a university course, they give students a taste of the real world and send them out to work for their living. This means that (a) they have to get up in the mornings and (b) if they ever get round to applying for a proper job they'll actually know something about it.

It also means they have to have some proper clothes. Help.

Since he left school, Senior Son's wardrobe, like that of most students, has consisted of assorted frayed and faded jeans, baggy T-shirts, shapeless sweatshirts and a few glow-in-the-dark shirts for clubbing. On rare occasions of a formal nature - funerals, restaurant dinners - we have been able to squash him into something of his father's.

Anyway, panic set in when he took a phone call one day. "I have to go for an interview." he said "What shall I wear?"

At the time he'd spent the day down the river and was standing resplendent in a 1999 Arsenal shirt, baggy shorts that flapped around his football-sized knees and a pair of weed-covered trainers which had come apart at the sides.

He honestly had no idea of how to make himself look presentable.

"Trousers?", I suggested gently. "Shoes? Shirt? Tie?"

He hasn't worn a tie since the glorious day of his last exam more than two years ago. "Tie?" he said blankly, struggling to grasp the concept.

I sent him off to town and, amazingly, he managed to come back with a complete outfit, including a tie and even remembered shoes and a belt. Then it dawned on me. He'd have to look presentable not just for the interview, but when he was working. One shirt and a pair of trousers weren't going to go very far. This is a lad who could get filthy in a totally sterile room. What hopes in a working day?

So I bought him another pair of trousers. Then another - all guaranteed to not need ironing, to keep their shape, to look perpetually wonderful. I bought a few shirts, thought again and bought a few more. Then remembered what he was like and went back for yet more. By which time I had bought up virtually all the very large, dark-coloured, button down, non-iron shirts that Darlington had to offer.

He set off last week, the car loaded to the roof, including two bin bags full of the frayed jeans and sweatshirts and a proper suitcase neatly packed with proper clothes for work.

As I waved him off, I felt proud of myself as a mother. I had equipped my baby for the year ahead, helped him impress his new employers and made his life easier.

The rosy glow lasted until his first phone call.

"Guess what?" he said. "I might not need all those new clothes after all. At work they said I'll probably have to wear a uniform."

Large, non-iron shirts, anyone?