‘I’m not paying £39.50 for that,’ I said to my son. We were in a shop in Liverpool Street station, me clutching his infant sister in my arms, he an unjustifiably expensive gold-painted ornamental star he’d picked off the wall. His mum was in the womenswear section, trying on more clothes than previously agreed, and I was keeping him occupied by suggesting he pick out something from the bits and bobs aisle, preferably in the £2 range. Unfortunately, my son has the same taste in decor as whoever does the Christmas displays in Foxton’s, and my brusque refusal offended him more than I’d foreseen.
He threw the star down and stormed off behind me. By the time I turned round, he was gone. I dashed to the entrance to make sure he hadn’t left the shop. Turning on my heels, I went through the rest of the shop, aisle by aisle, as annoyance became worry and worry became panic. I became brusquer and brisker by the second, until other shoppers saw the blood-drained maniac barrelling through them brandishing a six-month-old baby, and approached.
