The Fairytale Toy Shop

My cousin has just given birth to two baby boys, so congratulations are in order to Rachel and Paul. My parents, like the good doting relatives they are, duly went off to buy the newborns a selection of toys, so they will have something to bash each other with once they’re old enough to understand malice. I met my parents on the way back from said shopping trip and noticed that the only bags they were carrying were from Fortnum & Mason. Fortnum & Mason! For those of you who have never heard of this place, it’s where the Queen goes shopping when she feels like showing off. It’s the place where the window displays draw bigger crowds than Fulham’s home matches, and the shop assistants have been dressed by Cinderella’s Fairy Godmother. I accidentally stumbled in there last Christmas when the doorman mistook me for a rich person.

“How much are these crackers?” I asked the formally-attired octogenarian at the counter.
“£50 each sir.”
“£50!? What’s inside them? Bottled unicorn farts?”
“No sir, unicorn farts are on the third floor.”
“This is ridiculous - you look like you're 300 years old. Go and sit down before you fall over and break a hip.”
“Very good sir.”

How my parents have moved up in the world - when I was a toddler, I had no such luxuries. We couldn’t afford grass, so my mother would sit me outside on the dirt all day, where I would eat stones and mud and play with my friends, the worms. If I was good, I would be allowed to watch an entire washing machine cycle before going to bed. Don't get me wrong, I had some cracking toys as I grew up; specifically Zoids and Transformers (but I'll blog about that another day). I just wanted to use this opportunity to moan because I never had toys from the place where the Queen gets her bubble bath. There, I've thrown my rattle out of the pram.