>> Tuesday, 14 July 2009
Boy #1 and I went out to do a spot of shopping today. On leaving the supermarket, he kept glancing in a certain direction. Interested, I followed his gaze, to where a very attractive and polished blonde teenage lovely was sitting on a step, clearly waiting for her friends.
We were rushing to beat the rain, but as we neared this gazelle-like creature, all long legs, silky straightened hair and short skirts (the hussy), my son's pace slowed to a crawl.
I tried to bustle him on, but it wasn't working.
He stopped as we got level with her. Oh god, I thought. What the hell's he going to say? Is he going to try and chat her up? Ask her for her phone number? (You're laughing, I expect, and I know he's only 5 years old, but he's always had a thing for blondes, the traitor).
I needn't have worried.
"Aaaaah," he said, sympathetically, as he looked down at her sitting on the step outside Waitrose. "You poor thing. Don't you have a home?"