IF there’s one thing my teenage sons have always hated, even more than being forced to get up before lunchtime, having their headphones removed from their ears or being made to change their socks and underpants, it’s shopping. Particularly shopping with their mum.

So when 15-year-old Albert came home from school one day with the sole of one of his shoes flapping, where the glue and stitching had come undone, and a hole beginning to appear where his big toe was trying to grow through, he insisted it was ‘fine’.

“Albert I need to take you to the shops, you can’t continue going into school like that,” I told him. But he wasn’t having any of it. He was far too busy, he said.

Of course, I couldn’t buy him a pair myself. Apart from the fact his feet seem to be growing bigger by the day, anything I choose would definitely be wrong. And so the rows continued every day for about a week, with me insisting he needed new shoes and him insisting he didn’t.

But then he arrived home last Friday with the complete sole, which had come off that afternoon, in his hand, the top of the bottomless shoe still on his foot.

“This will be fine,” he insisted. “It’s not long until the summer holidays.”

“You can’t walk around like that until July 19,” I wailed. Eventually even he had to agree, it was time to go to the shops.

I was determined to make the most of this: “Let’s take the opportunity to get you some summer clothes,” I said, luring him into my retail trap. “And we’ll have a trying on session before we go,”

If there’s anything my boys hate more than shopping, it’s our ‘trying on sessions’, where they must put on and model the clothes they wore last summer or winter for me, so I can see what they’ve grown out of.

I have learnt through experience that I have to see the clothes on, otherwise they emerge from their rooms and tell me everything is ‘fine’, which, of course, it rarely is.

Albert’s knuckles fell to the ground: “Not a trying on session!” he groaned. Eventually, though, he was forced to agree he had grown out of all his summer shorts and his swimming trunks.

“I’ll just wear my football kit on holiday,” he said.

I couldn’t help wondering how different my life might have been if I had had girls. Friends with daughters tell me about the fun they have on shopping trips, where they have lunch out together and help each other decide what to buy.

When I admired one friend’s lovely new top the other day, she told me her daughters chose it for her: “They love taking me shopping and picking out outfits for me,” she said.

Should I ever dare to ask my boys’ opinion on what I’m wearing, they tend to look at me in disgust or, if they’re in a good mood, grunt ‘fine’ while continuing to stare at whatever screen they happen to be on.

Since I was insisting on driving Albert to the shops to spend my money buying things just for him, I was particularly unpopular last Saturday morning.

“This is why you annoy me so much. Why do you always make me try things on?” he complained, announcing that every pair of shoes and shorts were ‘fine’, even when they looked a poor fit to me.

Each time he went in and came out of the changing rooms, he gave me what can only be described as an evil stare. The attendant in M&S gave me a sympathetic smile: “Boys,” she said, shaking her head before telling me she had sons too.

When we were finally done, I said I wanted to try on a few summer tops myself. Unsurprisingly, Albert bolted: “I’ll wait for you outside,” he said.

He called me three times while I was in the changing rooms: “What’s keeping you?” he asked. I gave up.

Thankfully, we only have to do this about twice a year and, as one friend with shopaholic daughters reminded me: “Just think of all the money your boys are saving you.”

At least enough to pay for some of those summer tops I almost got to try on.