The Sales

Daughter and I have hatched a plot to nip into town for a browse around the sales. We know that the Male Contingent have a horror of any environment which contains pavements, so we plan to go in on our own. We shall have a leisurely time wandering around, possibly stopping for a hot chocolate and generally enjoying ourselves without anyone trailing behind us saying, "Do you have to look at another jumper/notepad/hair bobble. Why can't you buy the first one you see?" We have a vague agenda which encompasses, amongst other things, going to the Apple Store to buy accessories for The iPad. (It is to be diplomatically referred to as "The" iPad so that no one can take offence at anyone else claiming ownership, even though, technically, it is mine.) We are on the point of slipping out of the door unnoticed, leaving Small Boy and Husband to their own agenda of gardening and chicken-care, when Husband whirls round and asks, "Where are you going?" "Just into town," I say as nonchalantly as possible. "Just to, you know, look around the sales." Of all the responses I am expecting, I am not ready for this: "Great idea! Let's all go. We could look at sofas." I gawp, horrorstruck and speechless, as I watch my carefully planned Mother-and-Daughter morning slip from my grasp. Then I catch sight of Small Boy whose face is turning pink. It's OK, I think with relief, he's sure to wail and gnash his teeth at the idea of shopping. He would rather spend a precious morning of his holidays sticking drawing pins in his ears and learning the periodic table by heart while eating the leftover sprouts for breakfast. But no. Wrong again. "Oh yeah! I want to come!" cries Small Boy doing a victory dance around the table. "I love sofa shops!" "Oh no," Daughter groans. "Don't do that thing you did in the curtain shop, please." Small Boy went through a worrying phase a few years back of going into raptures over velour and chenille fabric samples - he would rub his face in them and make purring noises. "Yes, don't do that," I add. Twenty minutes later we find ourselves being dropped off by Husband with specific instructions. "Right," he says jamming on the brakes and shooting me a steely look. It is one I've seen many times before and know never bodes well. "I don't want to be all day about this. You've got twenty minutes to go to the Apple Store while I do some jobs and then I'll meet you in the sofa shop at ten past eleven. Don't be late." Small Boy decides he wants to come to the Apple Store too, so I find myself running through town, dragging both children behind me. "Why are we running?" shouts Daughter. "So I can have more time in the store!" I shout back. "My legs hurt!" shouts Small Boy. "You should have gone with Dad," I return. We arrive in the Apple Store to find they don't sell the kind of cover I want for my - sorry THE - iPad, and so sprint to Carphone Warehouse. I am on the point of choosing a cover when my mobile rings. It is Husband. "Where are you?" "I'm in the Carphone Warehouse. Why?" "That's just what I was going to ask you." "What?!" "Why are you in the Carphone Warehouse? You said you were going to the Apple Store." I am starting to feel very huffy. Not only have I been given a timetable, I must now explain a detour in my plans within the confines of that timetable. "If you let me get on instead of phoning me, I should still make it to meet you at ten past eleven!" I hiss. I pay for the cover and note we now only have five minutes to do the 1000 metre dash to the sofa shop. "Mu-um! I can't run that fast!" "Slow down!" "I don't want to be late for y'father," "You sound like Grandma when you say that." "Grrrr!" We arrive in the sofa shop on the dot of 11:10. A smiley lady immediately walks over to ask if she can help. I start to explain that my husband will be somewhere in the shop, waiting for us. "No, he's not," says Daughter. "I've already looked everywhere and he's not here yet." I grit my teeth and try to return Smiley Lady's smile. "Never mind. Let's try some sofas while we are waiting." "I know what I like already," says a muffled voice. I glance round just in time to find Small Boy wrapping himself in fabric samples, a beatific, glazed expression on his face. I glumly watch him purr and giggle and I sigh as my last chance of a half-hour to myself browsing in the clothes shops vanishes. At least someone is having fun, I think as I reach for my mobile and call Husband's number . . .