Minding Mini Damsels.

The first was a little lady of around 2-2½ standing alone and forlorn at the top of Sainsbury’s supermarket. She was breaking her heart, poor mite. The tears were flowing, the nose was running, and the chest was heaving pitifully. It was clear she was lost, but I couldn’t tell what she was trying to say because it was too garbled in her distressed state. I persuaded her to come with me in order to find whoever she was looking for.

And so she did. When we got to the far end of the aisle and turned the corner I spied a middle aged woman – presumably granny – hurrying along the bottom lane and evidently looking for something. Reconciliation was effected and all was well.

And then I noticed the interesting part. Granny’s first words to the now quieting victim were: ‘Let’s get that nose wiped first.’ I imagine the mother’s first action would have been to give the child a reassuring hug, so maybe mothers hug and grannies wipe noses. Is that how it works? The female of the species continues to delight and intrigue.

The second mini maiden to flatter me with her attention was a little older at around 4. I was standing outside enjoying a quick rolly and idly watching the comings and goings through the big front windows. I noticed the child sitting on a packing shelf while her mother was scanning her shopping through a self-service till, and then the child noticed me and did a double take followed by a smile and wave. Couldn’t resist that, could I, and so I smiled and waved back.

And thus began a game which lasted 5-7 minutes. She kept shifting her position, then smiling and waving, and I had to keep smiling and waving back. Eventually her mother finished the scanning and my right arm received the relief it was beginning to crave. ‘That was fun,’ I said when they came out of the shop and walked past me. ‘Thank you.’ The mother didn’t appear to notice me.

And then I was struck by a thought. Maybe little Miss Wavealot was rehearsing for the day in about fourteen years time when she will be consumed by the irresistible urge to entrap passing sailors on shore leave. Maybe I should make every effort to find a black velvet band in case I see her again. For who knows what state the world will be in by then, and black velvet bands will be the new gold dust. I’ll be dead of course, or at least too far gone to notice.