‘So where do you need to go?’ says Nanny Sue, looking around. ‘It was socks, wasn’t it?’
‘I … um …’
I can’t quite think straight. Mulberry is straight ahead and I’ve just seen the most amazing bag in the window. ‘Um …’ I force myself to focus. ‘Yes. Socks.’
Children’s socks. Not Valentino. Not Jimmy Choo. Not Mulberry. Oh God, I wonder how much that bag is …
Stop it. Don’t look. I’m not buying anything for myself. I’m not even thinking about it.
‘Mine! Miiiine dolly!’ Minnie’s voice jerks me back to the present. She’s standing outside Gucci, pointing to a mannequin.
‘It’s not a dolly, darling, it’s a mannequin! Come on.’ Firmly I take her hand and lead her towards the mall guide. ‘We’re going to get you some socks.’
We head towards the Kids’ Zone, which is where all the children’s stores are clustered. There’s a clown greeting customers, and stalls laden with toys, and the whole area feels like a fairground.
‘Book!’ Minnie has immediately made a beeline for one of the stalls and grabbed a big pink book with fairies on the front. ‘Mine book.’
Ha! I glance smugly at Nanny Sue. My daughter went for the educational book, not the trashy plastic!
‘Of course you can buy a book, Minnie,’ I say loudly. ‘We’ll take it out of your pocket money. I’m teaching Minnie financial planning,’ I add to Nanny Sue. ‘I write down all her pocket-money expenditure.’
I take out my little pink Smythson notebook with ‘Minnie’s Pocket Money’ on the front. (I had it printed especially. It was quite expensive, but then, it’s an investment in my daughter’s financial responsibility.)
‘Man!’ Minnie has grabbed a puppet in addition to the book. ‘Mine man! Miiiine!’
‘Er …’ I look doubtfully at the puppet. It is quite sweet, and we don’t have any puppets. ‘Well, OK. As long as you get it out of your pocket money. Do you understand, darling?’ I speak super-clearly. ‘It has to come out of your pocket money.’
‘Goodness!’ says Nanny Sue as we head to the till. ‘How much pocket money does Minnie get?’
‘Fifty pence a week,’ I reply, reaching for my purse. ‘But we have a system where she can have an advance and pay it back. It teaches her budgeting.’
‘I don’t understand,’ persists Nanny Sue. ‘In what sense is she budgeting?’
Honestly. She’s quite slow, for a so-called expert.
‘Because it all goes in the book.’ I scribble down the cost of the book and the puppet, slap the notebook shut and beam at Minnie. ‘Let’s find you some socks, darling.’
God, I love Funky Kid. They change their décor each season, and today the whole place is done up like a barn, with wooden beams and bales of fake straw. It has fantastic clothes for kids, like quirky knitted cardigans with hoods, and padded coats with appliqué patches. I find some adorable socks with cherries and bananas round the hems, half price at £4.99, and put two pairs of each into my basket.
‘There,’ says Nanny Sue briskly. ‘Well done. Shall we go to the check-out?’
I don’t reply. I’ve been distracted by a rail of little pinafores. I remember these from the catalogue. They’re mint-green needlecord, with a white cross-stitch border. They’re absolutely gorgeous, and they’re 70 per cent off! I quickly look through the rails – but there aren’t any in age 2–3. Of course there aren’t. They’ve been snapped up. Damn.
‘Excuse me?’ I ask a passing sales assistant. ‘Do you have any of these in size 2–3?’
At once she makes a face. ‘Sorry. I don’t think we’ve got any in that size. It’s so popular.’
‘Does Minnie need a pinafore?’ enquires Nanny Sue, coming up behind me.
I’m getting a bit sick of Nanny Sue and her pointless questions.
‘They’re tremendously good value,’ I say smoothly. ‘I always think as a responsible parent you should look for bargains, don’t you agree, Nanny Sue? In fact …’ A sudden inspiration has come to me. ‘I think I’ll stock up for next year.’
I grab a pinafore in age 3-4. Perfect! Why didn’t I think of that before? I take a red pinafore too, and head towards a rack of pale-pink raincoats with flower hoods. They don’t have any small sizes at all – but I find a size 7–8. I mean, Minnie will need a coat when she’s seven, won’t she?