I Told a Grown Man to Zip His Coat Up. He Wasn’t Mine.

I’ve reached a worrying stage of motherhood. Apparently, I can no longer distinguish between my own children and members of the general public who happen to be standing within shouting distance.

I discovered this yesterday while walking through town in the sort of Welsh drizzle that somehow manages to get inside your handbag.

I’d just reminded my daughter to fasten her coat when I spotted a man standing outside a shop with his jacket wide open.

“Do your coat up, you’ll be soaked!” I called.

He turned around. I looked at him. He looked at me.

He was a complete stranger. A fully grown man, probably in his forties, with a beard, car keys and presumably the legal right to decide whether he wanted to get wet.

For one horrifying second, I considered explaining myself. Instead, I smiled and said, “Sorry, automatic.”

He laughed, zipped up his coat and said, “Thanks, Mum.”

I nearly walked into a bollard.

The trouble is, I don’t remember developing this voice. Nobody handed me a certificate or explained that becoming a mother would eventually turn me into an unpaid public safety officer.

It just appeared one day, along with the ability to detect suspicious silence from three rooms away and the peculiar instinct to ask people whether they’ve been to the toilet before leaving the house.

And now it’s spreading.

Last week, my other half was carrying two mugs of tea into the living room when I told him to use both hands. He stopped, looked at the mugs, looked at me and said, “I’ve been drinking tea independently for quite some time, you know.”

Fair point. Although he did once spill an entire mug down the side of the sofa, so I feel there’s an unresolved disciplinary matter there.

The children have started noticing it too. My son caught me telling the toaster to behave itself after it launched a slice of bread onto the worktop. My daughter asked whether I was going to put it on the naughty step.

I told her not to be ridiculous, although I did briefly consider unplugging it until it had thought about what it had done.

The really strange thing is that I can spend an entire afternoon explaining to my children that they should think for themselves, make their own decisions and develop independence, then immediately tell a perfectly capable adult to put a jumper on because he looks cold.

I used to think turning thirty would make me sophisticated. Perhaps I’d develop an appreciation for expensive wine, understand mortgages properly or become one of those women who always has matching underwear.

Instead, I’m thirty-one, carrying emergency tissues in my handbag and worrying about the outerwear choices of strangers.

At this rate, I’ll be standing outside the supermarket checking whether everyone has remembered their shopping bags.

And the worst part? I’ll probably be disappointed if they haven’t.

Come on, have you ever caught yourself using your parenting voice on another adult, a complete stranger or even an innocent household appliance? Please tell me I’m not the only one who’s accidentally started supervising the general public.