I must admit, I was quite surprised, both at the attack of hyperventilation and the lightning speed at which she got ready.
Me: 'What's the big deal? You don't like the Spice Girls.'
Her: Mum. Think. Who's in the Spice Girls?
Me: (Casting my mind back ten years and desperately trying to remember their names...)
Me: 'Posh? The woman you once said you wanted to shoot in the face?'
Her: 'If Posh is at the party, who else will be at the party?'
Me: (Light dawning) 'Ah...Beckham.'
Her: Yes, Mum. Beckham.'
Me: 'Would that be the same Beckham, who, when he went to Real Madrid, you described as a dirty low-life traitor, whose name you never wanted to hear in this house again?'
Her: 'But, Mum, it's Beckham...you know...'
Yes, kiddo, I know. I knew when you told me that you'd never watch him play again as long as you lived, and that if you never saw him again, it would be too soon and that you certainly didn't idolise him anymore, you were lying through your beautifully white teeth.
I also know that a student loan is meant to pay for books and stationary and transport costs, rather than £80 trips to the hairdressers which make you look more like Paris Hilton than you already do. But that's another story.