My friend was angry. No, that's an understatement, she was mega-furious. "Selfish pigs!" she exclaimed vehemently.

We were standing in our local Co-op grocery store last Wednesday evening, surrounded by rows of empty shelves.

Well, not all empty. Looking around it was obvious we could still purchase packets of detergent and cornflakes, jars of pickled onions and tartare sauce and tubes of toothpaste and fruit gums.

But there wasn't any bread and there wasn't any milk. My friend wanted both but unfortunately the store had been hit by rampaging hordes of panic buyers, spurred into action by news of possible shortages caused by the fuel blockades.

I muttered something along the lines of people nowadays thinking only of themselves. "It's disgraceful," I said. "Why don't you come round to my place? I've still got half a bottle of milk and a few slices of bread - you're welcome to share them."

My friend beamed: "How generous," she said. "You're a saint!"

Oh, how fortunate The Mother was not around to enlighten her.

"Half a carton of milk and a few slices of bread?" she would have murmured, looking at me with a bemused expression.

"But what about the six loaves and the dozen bread rolls you've packed in your freezer? And what about the eight two-pint cartons of milk hidden in your cupboard under the kitchen sink?"

She might even had added that it was hardly surprising the Co-op had run out of basic necessities as I had been quietly but efficiently squirrelling supplies away since the previous weekend.

And I in turn would have hissed in her ear: "But I offered to go halves with you."

It wouldn't have worked, of course. Once The Mother gets the bit between her teeth she's unstoppable.

She would simply have told my friend the tale of how I hoarded candles - still got 'em - and tins of soup and baked beans during the 1984 miners' strike.

She would also have pointed out the plastic rainwater butt in my back garden, acquired when a sewage workers dispute threatened to escalate into a national stoppage around the same time.

"Panic buying?" The Mother would say disapprovingly, looking in my direction. "If it was a sport, Vanora would win a gold in the Olympics."

Fortunately, when my friend and I arrived at my house it was a Mother-Free Zone, so she went away happy with her bread and milk and my secret remained safe.

The following day, however, the day the fuel blockades were lifted, The Mother and I were hauling cans of dog food - you can never stockpile enough dog food, can you? - from the Co-op to her house when we met my friend and her husband.

"Thanks for breakfast!" he said. "I've been told the toast and milk were down to you." Then he added cheerily: "Any chance you could rustle up some petrol as well?"

"Come on, you know I haven't got a car," I laughed. "You haven't got an army to feed either but that doesn't stop you acting as if you had," The Mother's voice cut in.

"You should see inside her freezer. She's crammed enough bread in there to last till Christmas and then there's 16 pints of milk . . ."

My friend looked straight at me. "Oink, oink," she said.