Call Me Mother

Having been coerced, cajoled (and something else beginning with ‘c’) into shopping for shoes and trainers with my offspring, I donned two jumpers, my coat, scarf, gloves, boots – it is January – and my hat.  My hat is woollen.  My hat is warm.  Unfortunately, it is also shapeless and unflattering.  But that doesn’t matter, does it?

We conquered shop number 2 (shop number 1 was hopeless) and left, the triumphant purchasers of 2 pairs of boots.  Shop 3 beckoned and we responded with a purposeful march and an air of impending victory.  My air fizzled somewhat with my son’s announcement that the assistant in the previous establishment – obviously not as bright as he’d seemed – had bidden him farewell with the words, “Tell your nan, ‘Thanks’ and we’ll see you again soon.” 

I admit that my face may have been a little puckered and my tone a touch hysterical, as I grabbed the nearest customer – a 6’4”-ish youth – and demanded, “Do I look like his nan?  There is only one correct answer.”  In great trepidation, the young man (he was certainly no gentleman) whimpered, “Yes” before exiting the building at speed!  In a twinkling of an eye, the hat vanished.  I completed the expedition frozen-headed, but with dignity restored; despite, I might add, taunts of “Nan!” from my heirs.  I blame their father – I often do.

I am certain it is only the remotest of remote possibilities that said shop assistant’s error was not a consequence of my hideous hat.  However, just in case – and only just in case, you understand – there was another tiny reason (and no, I am not protesting too much), attaining double figures and leaving school before giving birth is not an aberration; unbelievably, it even used to be recommended!