In which we cringe in a variety of shops…

In which we cringe in a variety of shops…

Few thing in the world are less relaxing than “popping to the shops” with small boys.

My first experience of this was when I lived in what I realise now were the relatively simple days of owning only the Big One. He had recently learned to say a few simple words (blessed, happy days when words like “Pikachu” and “evolve” and “battle” had yet to infiltrate his vocabulary). At that time, every properly formed word that dropped from his lips was a tiny delight. A sign that my baby was turning into an actual person.

More accurately, he was turning into an acutely embarrassing person. As we pottered around a supermarket one day, he decided to practice saying “Daddy”. Sweet. But Daddy wasn’t with us. There were however plenty of men in Sainsbury’s who the little Big One was more than happy to point at while bellowing “DADDY!”. By the time we hit the bread aisle (the best one after the booze aisle as all right-minded people know), he’d accused eight separate men of being his father. A few smiled benignly and shot me a conspiratorial look. The rest looked faintly horrified and scuttled away in the direction of the tinned produce, presumably lest I came after them brandishing a DNA kit.

Then he upped the fucking ante by shouting “LOOK!! DADDY DADDY DADDY” at an old lady. She didn’t look like Daddy. She did, though, look pretty pissed off. I grabbed a crusty bloomer and made for the check out.

Now, of course, such piddly little issues are water off a duck’s back. Now, within 8 seconds of entering any shop I am utterly sick of hearing my own voice snapping “stop it!” “don’t touch!” “NO! DON’T touch.” “NO!!! You’ll break it!”

Which makes you wonder why we have, on several occasions, taken the little buggers to Majestic. A place piled high with not particularly stable towers of expensive, breakable items with pretty labels that beg to be pointed at by a swinging arm. We can shoehorn the Little One into the seat of a trolley to minimise his reach. Sadly, we are unable to take similar precautions with the Big One’s fucking mouth.

Becoming weary of being told not to touch anything and that, no, we weren’t going to buy a £36 bottle of wine because of the “funny sticker” on the bottle, he sauntered off to make friends with a chap who was building a tower of Pinot Noir. “I don’t really like wine” announced the Big One. The man just looked at him. The Big One was unfazed. “I love sherry though!” he beamed “Grandma shares her sherry with me. It’s quite spicy, you know.”

The man’s slightly baffled expression was beautifully offset by the tumbleweed rolling past and the cerise glow from my face.

It’s true, though. He bloody loves sherry.