Considering the number of times a day I utter dark threats about taking children into the woods and leaving them there to perish (thanks to the insatiable appetite for acting out Hansel & Gretel that my 3-year-old daughter and 2-year-old son seem to possess) you'd think that I'd have some clue about how to maximise a rare visit to some real-life, rather than online, shops. Lead the lot of 'em - The Bearded One included - into the centre of Canary Wharf, shove a packet of crisps at them and run like a woman who's as caffeine-fuelled as life with 3 under 4 demands.
Today, at the very least, I was able to return a pair of (sadly frumpy) red espadrilles to Kurt Geiger where I had such a pleasant chat with the snippy assistant who regretfully informed me that he could get me the Carvela Kojaks in my size but unfortunately they were a five-minute walk away in a stockroom. Er, yes - and? Apparently more pressing was a staff rendition of that Chang Chang, Changity Chang Shoo-Bop song from the end of Grease, to which my
daughter and I were subjected as I pulled my boots back on.
To add insult to retail-starved injury, we had to hotfoot it out of there after lunch at Itsu for the grocery delivery (Asda, since you ask. I blush to admit it but it's not so bad for basics like pasta and tins and hey, if I want to occasionally shop at Net-a-Porter I have to economise somewhere) But the race home, it turns out, was in vain since the delivery guy had already been and left our front porch heaving with toilet rolls and cans of chickpeas - most of which, it turns out, I'd neither ordered nor paid for. Now why can't that ever happen with a Net-a-Porter delivery?