Contributor: Hannah Garrard

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Mrs. Barton-Hoff sashayed into the jeweler’s, slinging her clutch purse and her small son, Mungo, onto the chaise lounge. She flexed her fingers in preparation for a BIG PURCHASE. “Good afternoon Mrs. Barton-Hoff” oozed the jeweler, already counting his commission.

“I’m after the new season’s Dolce diamonds,” bellowed Mrs. Barton-Hoff, her thick calves striding towards the twinkling cabinet display. She placed her palms ceremoniously onto the cold glass, and made as if to inhale the light that spun off the diamond-encrusted contents.

“I need a wee,” said her son in a small voice from the chaise lounge.

“Mungo! Don’t be so disgusting!” Mrs. Barton-Hoff spat, her trance broken. She returned to the cabinet to admire the earrings on her reflection in the glass.

“I’ll try the studs first.”

“As you wish madam,” radiated the jeweler.

“Mummy I must have a wee,” whimpered Mungo- Mrs. Barton-Hoff’s only, and last, child.

“Shut up, Mungo! It’s mummy’s time now!”

Mungo got up and started to make those half automatic bucking motions with his hips that signaled a full bladder. He was old enough to know when he needed to go, but not yet old enough to hold it in for very long. He looked around for a potty, but he couldn’t see one in the big, boring shop with all the glass boxes and shiny things that he wasn’t allowed to touch.

Just then Mrs. Harrison-Ford swept in, accompanied by her three-year-old daughter, Melody. This isn’t a bloody crèche thought the jeweler, wondering where all the nannies were.

“I’m after the new line in Dolce,” barked Mrs. Harrison-Ford, nose first. She placed Melody along with her clutch purse neatly onto the chaise lounge where she sat, cherub like in her white frock and bows.

She spotted Mrs. Barton-Hoff with her fingers in the diamonds she was after, and marched right over to the cabinet at the far end of the shop. The two women stood like sows jostling for space at the dinner trough.

Meanwhile, Melody was watching Mungo dancing. That looks fun she thought to herself. Better than this boring shop with all the glass boxes and shiny things I’m not allowed to touch. She hopped off the chaise lounge and went to join Mungo in his fun dancing game.

“I was here first!” boomed Mrs. Barton-Hoff at Mrs. Harrison-Ford.

“I called ahead!” Mrs. Harrison-Ford spluttered back. The jeweler felt his Adam’s apple tighten.

“Perhaps madam would like to try the Chanel?” he proffered, sending appeasing glances. It was tough work being a jeweler sometimes, requiring diplomacy, tact, and flattery.

Mungo and Melody continued to buck and dance.

“Keep out the way it’s going to come out!”  Mungo warned Melody. If he weed himself his mummy would smack his bottom again; he didn’t want a repeat of the supermarket incident, that had left him sobbing by the sun dried tomatoes all by himself, his mother too disgusted by his wetness to claim him as her own. Mungo had an idea and bucked his way to the chaise lounge with Melody hot on his tail.

The squabbling at the counter was getting acerbic.

“MUTTON DRESSED AS LAMB!”

“LADY GAGA DRESSED AS LADY DIANA!”

Mungo snatched his mummy’s black clutch purse that was sitting on the chaise lounge and snapped it open, placing it on the floor in front of him. He pulled down his pants and pointed himself at it. Melody stopped dancing.

Mrs. Barton-Hoff was pulling at Mrs. Harrison-Fords hair.

A half-sob of relief left Mungo as he watched his fanfare of wee fill up his mother’s clutch purse. But it was almost full and he still had more. Melody (who was a smart girl and had figured out the rules to the new game), came to the rescue with her mummy’s clutch purse.

Mrs Harrison-Ford had snatched the pair of diamond Dolces from Ms. Barton-Hoff’s ears and was fumbling to place them in her own.

Just in time. Mungo redirected his aim and sent another fanfare of wee up into Mrs. Harrison-Ford’s clutch purse, finishing with an inch to spare. “Thanks for saving me!” Mungo said to his new friend as he shook the last spots. Mungo and Melody snapped the purses shut and replaced them on the chaise lounge.

“Now ladies,” interjected the Jeweler over the din his customers were making. “I will sell the diamonds to the fist credit card I see.”

Both women raced towards the chaise lounge, batting their small children out of the way and scrambled for their purses. They emptied their contents onto the counter, and all over the diamond Dolce display.

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Hannah is from the UK but now lives in South Korea amongst the neon signage. From her apartment she can see the ocean, and a rusty cruise ship that makes tired laps around the peninsular. You can follow her travels and her writing at:
www.lookingformyhat.blogspot.com

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Author: Hannah Garrard