Free Shopaholic to the Rescue by Sophie Kinsella Page B

sort it out. He’s good at that kind of thing.)

    I’ve already “bought” a bottle of tonic and a Toblerone from Minnie, and now I’m pointing at an orange juice.
    “Please may I have an orange juice?” I say, brushing on mascara at the same time. I put out my hand for the bottle, but Minnie holds on to it firmly.
    “You can’t have one,” she says sternly. “Must wait . We don’t have any money .”
    I blink at her in surprise. Who’s she copying?
    Oh.
    Oh God. Actually, I think it’s me.
    Which makes me seem like a really mean, horrible mummy, but, honestly, it’s the only way I can deal with her when we’re out shopping.
    Minnie’s speech has really come along recently. Which is wonderful, obviously. Every parent wants to hear their child articulate their innermost thoughts. The only teeny issue is, it turns out quite a lot of Minnie’s innermost thoughts are about what she wants.
    She doesn’t yell “Miiiiiiine” anymore, which used to be her catchphrase. Instead, she says, “I like it.” We’ll walk around the supermarket and all she keeps saying is, “I like it, I like it, Mummy,” more and more earnestly, as though she’s trying to convert me to some new religion.
    It’s not even as though she likes sensible things. She grabs for mops and freezer bags and packets of staples. Last time we went out shopping, she kept telling me, “I like it, pleeeeease,” and I kept nodding and putting the things back on the shelves, out of reach, until she suddenly flipped and yelled, “I want to buuuuuy something!” in such desperate tones that all the nearby customers started laughing. Then she stopped and beamed around, and they all laughed even more.

    (I do sometimes wonder if that’s what I was like when I was her age. I must ask Mum.)
    (Actually, on second thought, I’m not sure I want to know.)
    So my new tactic when we go shopping is to tell Minnie that we don’t have any money. Which she kind of understands. Except then she accosts total strangers and says, “We don’t have any money, ” in a sorrowful voice, which can be embarrassing.
    Now she’s addressing Speaky, her dolly, in stentorian tones. “Put. It. Back. ” She confiscates a packet of peanuts from Speaky and eyes the doll fiercely. “Is. Not. Yours .”
    Oh God. Is that what I sound like?
    “Talk kindly to Speaky,” I suggest. “Like this.”
    I take Speaky and cradle her in my arms, whereupon Minnie grabs her possessively from me. “Speaky is crying,” she tells me. “Speaky need…a sweetie?”
    She has a sudden mischievous glint in her eye, and I can’t help wanting to laugh.
    “We haven’t got any sweeties,” I tell her, totally straight-faced.
    “This is a sweetie?” She picks up the Toblerone uncertainly.
    “No, that’s a grown-up boring box,” I tell her. “No sweetie.”
    Minnie stares at the Toblerone, and I can see her little brain working hard. She’s never actually eaten a Toblerone, so it was a pretty good guess on her part.

    “It’s not a sweetie,” I reiterate matter-of-factly. “We’ll buy a sweetie another day. Now it’s putting-away time.”
    I can see Minnie’s conviction wavering. She might think she knows everything, but at the end of the day, she’s only two and a half.
    “Thank you!” I take it neatly from her grasp. “Now, can you count the bottles?”
    This was a genius move, as Minnie adores counting, even if she always misses out “four.” We’ve managed to get all the bottles back in the minibar and are just moving on to light snacks and refreshments, when the door opens and Mum appears, with Janice in tow. Both are flushed in the face, Janice is wearing a plastic tiara, and Mum is clutching a cup full of coins.
    “Hello!” I say. “Did you have a good cocktail?”
    “I won over thirty dollars!” Mum says with a kind of grim triumph. “ That’ll show your father.”
    Mum makes no sense. How will that show Dad anything? But there’s no point questioning her