Some Children are our Future

Always enter your local Tesco Metro with a game plan. Try not to get distracted by the copious BOGOF offers. Most Metros are small and crowded, with people from other lives colliding into one another for the last of the freshly-baked goods, and the shelves don’t hold enough pasta packets to feed a family of three.

Grab ketchup, gum and wine. Head for the tills. The lady with the bad back is on shift again. Her smile is a heavenly beam that penetrates her grimace. Head for the exit. Job done.

I catch a mother standing in an aisle with hands on her hips, staring down her son who looks about ten or eleven-years old. He’s holding a cardboard box with a red logo emblazoned across its top that looks like a designer brand without being one.

“Mum?” He thrusts it closer to her chin.

“Liam, no.” Her voice is tired, firm and patient. I think you have to be a parent to be able to strike that balance. “I have to start dinner.”

“Mum.” Liam announces the word like a statement. He’s not talking to her. He’s about to introduce a foreign dignitary. “I really require this football.” He doesn’t crack a smile. She tries not to.

Distracted, I leave. If I were that mother, my pride for my son would forever flicker like candlelight. I wonder what she’ll say: being that confident will get you far today, my son. Being that assured could leave you successfully lonely.