DUMMIES pacify parents just as much as children. We might pretend that we only allow our kids to suck away on revolting bits of rubber and plastic to make them feel better, but our motivations are rarely entirely altruistic.

I was mooching down Coney Street the other lunchtime behind two women pushing buggies. One of them suddenly screeched to a halt, doing a perfect handbrake turn and bashing me with her bag in the process.

Her face was a picture of horror and distress, and her voice was shaky and piercing all at the same time.

"Oh my God, where is it?" she yodelled. "Where is it?"

Everyone within a 20-yard radius, myself included, started earnestly scouring the pavement. We had no idea what she was actually looking for, but her tone told us it was important.

My first thought was that her wedding ring had somehow dislodged itself from her finger and flung itself into the nearest gutter. Or perhaps a precious necklace, given to her by an aged aunt on her deathbed, had slipped from her neck and into the pocket of a passing yob.

But then she started frisking her son, rather vigorously if the truth be known, and I realised precisely what her dilemma was. His dummy was not where it should be, namely in his mouth.

"It's got to be here, it's got to be here, it's got to be here," she began muttering, as if her mantra would somehow make the dummy reappear.

The kid, it has to be said, seemed perfectly at ease. He wasn't crying, he wasn't whining, he wasn't whimpering. He was just sitting in his buggy minding his own business.

His mother, on the other hand, looked like she was trying to find the right wire to cut on a ticking bomb. I recognised the look of blind panic immediately, as it was a look I have experienced myself on numerous occasions.

You see, the problem with dummies is that it's not only kids that become addicted to them. When my daughter decided out of the blue last week that she didn't want a dummy at bedtime anymore (she cast aside her daytime dummy some months ago), I was immediately overcome with a sense of unease.

What if she started waking up in the night again? What if she changed her mind at three in the morning and I couldn't find a dummy anywhere? What if I stopped being a dummy and let her live an unpacified life?

In the end, I decided that if she could go cold turkey, so could I. I'm not saying there won't be lapses, and there may even be a few tears before bedtime, but I'm going to try to be brave.

And in case you were wondering, the Coney Street incident was eventually brought to an amicable conclusion. The dummy was in the kid's hood.

IF you think Marks & Spencer's sarnies are a bit on the pricey side, don't bother popping into Selfridge's next time you're in London.

The posh people's store has launched its own 'ultimate sandwich', a whopping 2,500-calorie monster with a weighty price to match. For just £85 - what many of us spend on our weekly 'big shop' - you can sink your gnashers through two thick slices of freshly-baked sourdough bread into foie gras, black truffles, unpasteurised brie, rocket leaves in avocado oil, red pepper and mustard confit, English plum tomatoes and rare Wagyu beef from mellow Japanese cattle (apparently they are reared on beer, classical music and daily massages, much like our own Prince Harry).

The sarnie was the brainchild of Selfridge's executive chef, Scott Macdonald who, if the super-sized proportions of his creation are anything to go by, is a close relative of Ronald.

Personally, I can think of better things to spend £85 on than a snobby sarnie. I'd splash out £2 on my lunch (Jenny's Kitchen in Walmgate does a damn fine tuna salad) and blow the rest on a nice jacket. And I'm not talking about the potato variety either.

Updated: 10:02 Monday, April 17, 2006