Mini Shopaholic
Page 2
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Show off.
‘Absolutely,’ I say in dignified tones. ‘I couldn’t agree more.’
‘Some parents would just buy their kid that pony for a quiet life. No discipline. It’s disgusting.’
‘Terrible,’ I agree, and make a surreptitious swipe for the pony, which Minnie adeptly dodges. Damn.
‘The biggest mistake is giving in to them.’ The woman is regarding Minnie with a pebble-like gaze. ‘That’s what starts the rot.’
‘Well, I never give in to my daughter,’ I say briskly. ‘You’re not getting the pony, Minnie, and that’s final.’
‘Poneeee!’ Minnie’s wails turn to heart-rending sobs. She is such a drama queen. (She gets it from my mum.)
‘Good luck, then.’ The woman moves off. ‘Happy Christmas.’
‘Minnie, stop it!’ I hiss furiously as soon as she’s disappeared. ‘You’re embarrassing both of us! What do you want a stupid pony for, anyway?’
‘Poneeee!’ She’s cuddling the pony to her as though it’s her long-lost faithful pet that was sold at market five hundred miles away and has just stumbled back to the farm, footsore and whickering for her.
‘It’s just a silly toy,’ I say impatiently. ‘What’s so special about it, anyway?’
And for the first time I look properly at the pony.
Wow. Actually … it is pretty fab. It’s made of painted white wood with little glittery stars all over, and has the sweetest hand-painted face. And it has little red trundly wheels.
‘You really don’t need a pony, Minnie,’ I say – but with slightly less conviction than before. I’ve just noticed the saddle. Is that genuine leather? And it has a proper bridle with buckles and the mane is made of real horse hair. And it comes with a grooming set!
For forty quid this isn’t bad value at all. I push one of the little red wheels, and it spins round perfectly. And now I think about it, Minnie doesn’t actually have a toy pony. It’s quite an obvious gap in her toy cupboard.
I mean, not that I’m going to give in.
‘It winds up, too,’ comes a voice behind me, and I turn to see an elderly sales assistant approaching us. ‘There’s a key in the base. Look!’
She winds the key, and both Minnie and I watch, mesmerized, as the pony starts rising and falling in a carousel motion, while tinkly music plays.
Oh my God, I love this pony.
‘It’s on special Christmas offer at forty pounds,’ the assistant adds. ‘Normally, this would retail for seventy. They’re handmade in Sweden.’
Nearly 50 per cent off. I knew it was good value. Didn’t I say it was good value?
‘You like it, don’t you, dear?’ The assistant smiles at Minnie, who beams back, her stroppiness vanished. In fact, I don’t want to boast, but she looks pretty adorable with her red coat and dark pigtails and dimpled cheeks. ‘So, would you like to buy one?’
‘I … um …’ I clear my throat.
Come on, Becky. Say no. Be a good parent. Walk away.
My hand steals out and strokes the mane again.
But it’s so gorgeous. Look at its dear little face. And a pony isn’t like some stupid craze, is it? You’d never get tired of a pony. It’s a classic. It’s, like, the Chanel jacket of toys.
And it’s Christmas. And it’s on special offer. And who knows, Minnie might turn out to have a gift for riding, it suddenly occurs to me. A toy pony might be just the spur she needs. I have a sudden vision of her aged twenty, wearing a red jacket, standing by a gorgeous horse at the Olympics, saying to the TV cameras, ‘It all began one Christmas, when I received the gift that changed my life …’
My mind is going round and round like a computer processing DNA results, trying to find a match. There has to be a way in which I can simultaneously: 1. Not give in to Minnie’s tantrum, 2. Be a good parent and 3. Buy the pony. I need some clever blue-sky solution like Luke is always paying business consultants scads of money to come up with …
And then the answer comes to me. A totally genius idea which I can’t believe I’ve never had before. I haul out my phone and text Luke:
Luke! Have just had a really good thought. I think Minnie should get pocket money.
Immediately a reply pings back: Wtf? Why?
So she can buy things, of course! I start to type – then think again. I delete the text and carefully type instead:
Children need to learn about finance from early age. Read it in article. Empowers them and gives responsibility.
A moment later Luke texts: Can’t we just buy her the FT?
‘Absolutely,’ I say in dignified tones. ‘I couldn’t agree more.’
‘Some parents would just buy their kid that pony for a quiet life. No discipline. It’s disgusting.’
‘Terrible,’ I agree, and make a surreptitious swipe for the pony, which Minnie adeptly dodges. Damn.
‘The biggest mistake is giving in to them.’ The woman is regarding Minnie with a pebble-like gaze. ‘That’s what starts the rot.’
‘Well, I never give in to my daughter,’ I say briskly. ‘You’re not getting the pony, Minnie, and that’s final.’
‘Poneeee!’ Minnie’s wails turn to heart-rending sobs. She is such a drama queen. (She gets it from my mum.)
‘Good luck, then.’ The woman moves off. ‘Happy Christmas.’
‘Minnie, stop it!’ I hiss furiously as soon as she’s disappeared. ‘You’re embarrassing both of us! What do you want a stupid pony for, anyway?’
‘Poneeee!’ She’s cuddling the pony to her as though it’s her long-lost faithful pet that was sold at market five hundred miles away and has just stumbled back to the farm, footsore and whickering for her.
‘It’s just a silly toy,’ I say impatiently. ‘What’s so special about it, anyway?’
And for the first time I look properly at the pony.
Wow. Actually … it is pretty fab. It’s made of painted white wood with little glittery stars all over, and has the sweetest hand-painted face. And it has little red trundly wheels.
‘You really don’t need a pony, Minnie,’ I say – but with slightly less conviction than before. I’ve just noticed the saddle. Is that genuine leather? And it has a proper bridle with buckles and the mane is made of real horse hair. And it comes with a grooming set!
For forty quid this isn’t bad value at all. I push one of the little red wheels, and it spins round perfectly. And now I think about it, Minnie doesn’t actually have a toy pony. It’s quite an obvious gap in her toy cupboard.
I mean, not that I’m going to give in.
‘It winds up, too,’ comes a voice behind me, and I turn to see an elderly sales assistant approaching us. ‘There’s a key in the base. Look!’
She winds the key, and both Minnie and I watch, mesmerized, as the pony starts rising and falling in a carousel motion, while tinkly music plays.
Oh my God, I love this pony.
‘It’s on special Christmas offer at forty pounds,’ the assistant adds. ‘Normally, this would retail for seventy. They’re handmade in Sweden.’
Nearly 50 per cent off. I knew it was good value. Didn’t I say it was good value?
‘You like it, don’t you, dear?’ The assistant smiles at Minnie, who beams back, her stroppiness vanished. In fact, I don’t want to boast, but she looks pretty adorable with her red coat and dark pigtails and dimpled cheeks. ‘So, would you like to buy one?’
‘I … um …’ I clear my throat.
Come on, Becky. Say no. Be a good parent. Walk away.
My hand steals out and strokes the mane again.
But it’s so gorgeous. Look at its dear little face. And a pony isn’t like some stupid craze, is it? You’d never get tired of a pony. It’s a classic. It’s, like, the Chanel jacket of toys.
And it’s Christmas. And it’s on special offer. And who knows, Minnie might turn out to have a gift for riding, it suddenly occurs to me. A toy pony might be just the spur she needs. I have a sudden vision of her aged twenty, wearing a red jacket, standing by a gorgeous horse at the Olympics, saying to the TV cameras, ‘It all began one Christmas, when I received the gift that changed my life …’
My mind is going round and round like a computer processing DNA results, trying to find a match. There has to be a way in which I can simultaneously: 1. Not give in to Minnie’s tantrum, 2. Be a good parent and 3. Buy the pony. I need some clever blue-sky solution like Luke is always paying business consultants scads of money to come up with …
And then the answer comes to me. A totally genius idea which I can’t believe I’ve never had before. I haul out my phone and text Luke:
Luke! Have just had a really good thought. I think Minnie should get pocket money.
Immediately a reply pings back: Wtf? Why?
So she can buy things, of course! I start to type – then think again. I delete the text and carefully type instead:
Children need to learn about finance from early age. Read it in article. Empowers them and gives responsibility.
A moment later Luke texts: Can’t we just buy her the FT?
