WHAT a difference a chromosome makes. When it comes to choosing clothes, five-year-old boys and girls couldn't be more different if one popped from a pod on Mars and the other erupted from an egg on Venus.

It was a non-uniform day at my lad's school on Friday to raise money for Children in Need. For the more than reasonable sum of 50p, the kids got to wear their own clobber and, luxury of luxuries, tuck into Pudsey Bear buns made by the catering staff.

The girls all looked lovely. One was wearing fashionable boot-cut jeans with shiny patent leather boots and an intricate hair-do that involved a myriad of slides, clips and fluffy bobbles.

Another, my lad's bestest friend in the whole world ever, had dressed herself in pink from head-to-toe: a snazzy pink sweatshirt with embroidered hearts and flowers; pink tracksuit bottoms with a contrasting seam stripe; and last, but definitely not least, a pair of sparkly pink Barbie trainers that light up in the dark.

Needless to say, the boys had not made quite so much of an effort. Some had brushed their hair, but they were in the minority and had probably been hunted down by their mums, strapped to a chair and forced to brush their mad, sticky-up spikes on pain of losing their favourite dinosaur.

My own scruffy little devil was part of the mad-haired majority. Not only had his bonce not been brushed, it was also lightly splattered with strawberry yoghurt (the second course of his customary three-course breakfast).

His clothes were equally unappealing.

His first attempt at dressing himself that morning had been aborted when he decided to wear a pair of tracksuit bottoms I had set aside for charity. They were worn thin to the point of transparency and were so short you could almost see the Hoobs waving on his underpants.

With much harumphing and more than a few "but mu-u-u-ms", he trailed back upstairs again.

Minutes later he appeared again with a clatter of doors and a scramble of cats. This time he was wearing half-mast jeans with holes in both knees, stripy socks and a sweatshirt covered in moggy fluff.

As I was now slowly losing the will to live, I decided to take Paul McCartney's advice and let it be. If he wanted to look like a child in need of a wash and brush up on Children in Need day, so be it.

If the truth be told, I quite admire boys' complete lack of interest in what they wear. You can send them out into the world in a sack, bin bags trousers and Postman Pat slippers and they wouldn't care a jot.

While girls are fussing and fretting about which of their embroidered, ankle-length denim skirts goes with their lacy gipsy top and sparkly sandals, boys are doing what boys do best: living life to the full.

Thoughts of T-shirts, trousers and trainers pale in comparison to thoughts of dinosaurs, diggers and darting about in the garden.

They might look like they have been dragged through a hedge backwards, but they also look like they have thoroughly enjoyed the experience. God bless their scruffy little socks.

- IN ANOTHER time and another place, I think my grandma and the Queen could have been best buddies.

Both have a penchant for head-scarves, both like a bit of sparkle on their frocks and both, it has now been revealed, have a formidable collection of Tupperware.

Next time she's in the North, perhaps Brenda could call in on Madge. The door is always open (burglars take note), the kettle is always on and there are always butterfly buns in the tin.

Or rather, in Tupperware box number 25361 (medium rectangular stacker in turquoise with a matching lipped lid).

Updated: 09:03 Tuesday, November 25, 2003