SOME people really do have more money than sense. So much in fact that I wouldn't be surprised if I saw them shuffling round the supermarket surreptitiously dropping ten pound notes out of their trouser leg in a homage to The Great Escape (or was it Colditz?) and in a bid to offload some of their surplus cash.

They wouldn't dream of giving their dosh to charity. I mean, how is a starving child supposed to learn to fend for themselves if do-gooders keep throwing money at them?

Anyway, cash is so pass. No one actually has horrible, filthy money anymore, when they can have a nice, shiny piece of plastic instead. And what, I ask you, is a starving child going to do with an M&S charge card?

I believe they get free water from a tap in the next village or something; they don't need to trail all the way into town to get their bottled Evian - which weighs a tonne I might add - and they certainly don't need to stand in a queue of frosty-haired old ladies with one small tin of tuna each just to get their card swiped.

I'm not saying life is easy for them, but starving children just don't understand the sheer hell some western, white adults have to go through on a daily basis.

There was one poor devil on the television the other day - I think it was a cutting edge current affairs programme, or maybe it was GMTV - who had so much money she had to spend more than £40,000 a year on clothes for her children.

I can tell you, there was barely a dry eye on the sofa after she had told her harrowing story. Eammon "Mobile" Holmes could hardly bring himself to eat another croissant he was so choked.

The woman, who looked normal at first glance with no hint of the mad moo within, explained she was forced to shop every day in a bid to fritter away as much of her obscene mountain of money as she could.

She tried desperately to ease her financial burden by spending £400 on a silk dress for her five-year-old daughter or nearer to a £1,000 on two winter coats for her seven-year-old son. But that mountain just kept on growing, looming over her poor, bedevilled family like the debt of a third world country.

"I suppose some people would consider us lucky," she whined. "But it's not about the money, it's about doing what's best for your children."

While she was whinging and mincing for the cameras, the children she was so concerned about were sitting unnervingly still next to her on the sofa like a pair of robotic Stepford siblings.

Then the truth dawned on me: they couldn't move. The poor little girl was in an enormous silk party dress with all manner of bows and frills, making it impossible for her to so much as breathe without making an unearthly rustling racket. And the little lad was buttoned up so tightly in his shirt and tie (overcoat nonchalantly draped over the back of the sofa) that I seriously considered calling for a paramedic to be put on standby in case he turned blue and passed out while mommy dearest waffled on.

Maybe I am being obtuse, but I don't understand how dressing up your children like Barbara Cartland and William Hague could be considered what's best for them.

Kids need to run around in circles until they fall down, roll down the muddiest hills they can find and splosh through every puddle within a ten-mile radius. And they need to be able to do this without worrying about their clothes.

Keep the frilly frocks and dad's ties for the dressing-up box. And if you really must spend £40,000 a year on something daft to make yourself feel better, may I suggest a lobotomy?

Updated: 11:48 Monday, April 26, 2004