Before we were rendered housebound social pariahs by THE POX we have been spending a lot of time in charity shops. Funky old furniture for lower than low prices doesn’t find itself y’know and at any opportunity, armed with a crumpled £10 note, we rummage for our treasure in another mans junk.
In one cramped shop I crouch awkwardly in the gap between the shelves and our buggy to sift the wheat from the chaff when Beans exclaims, with delight and at the top of her voice ‘BAYBEE!’. Are there babies sweetheart? I ask, with my head buried in a box of assorted crockery.
‘Baybee baybee baybee BAYBEE!’ she shouts, stretching her little arms almost out of their sockets to reach the shelf behind me.
I come up for air, ready to pacify her wails with the said dolly that she is shouting at to buy me more time bargain hunting. I turn to the shelf that has her attention. I jump out of my skin and feel beads of sweat prickling on my lip. Yes, baby! I say through gritted teeth while clutching the handle of the buggy so hard that my knuckles turn white as I swing round and head out of the shop as fast as my quaking legs will carry me.
Surely this is deserving of some caption magic?