I hate whining kids in Tesco. But the girl in front is begging quietly, pulling mother's sleeve.
"Let's buy this sledge, Mom! Pleeeeeeease?"
I turn to look at what she wanted. An old-school wooden toboggan. Zink plated runners, rope with the handle. £49,99.
I'm overcome with an acute nostalgia.
Smooth ride down the bright white slopes. Winter-kissed cheeks. Fairytale.
"Too expensive, sweetie."
I hand out 50 quid on a whim.
"Please. It's Christmas, and my kids have grown up. I insist."
Both mother and the girl look startled, but they accept.
I lied. I don't have kids. But I was one, once.
"Let's buy this sledge, Mom! Pleeeeeeease?"
I turn to look at what she wanted. An old-school wooden toboggan. Zink plated runners, rope with the handle. £49,99.
I'm overcome with an acute nostalgia.
Smooth ride down the bright white slopes. Winter-kissed cheeks. Fairytale.
"Too expensive, sweetie."
I hand out 50 quid on a whim.
"Please. It's Christmas, and my kids have grown up. I insist."
Both mother and the girl look startled, but they accept.
I lied. I don't have kids. But I was one, once.
