Just call me Madam

Mum's the word

“You alright, Mum?” enquired the shop assistant.

Not knowing HRH was to be in the hardware store today I looked around expectantly.

No, not The Queen.

Dear Lord, the shop assistant was talking to me.

(Who knew one could be called something way worse than ‘Madam’ post tight arse days?)

And on what visual clues had Le Shop Assistant made her assumption? I wasn’t lactating a flood of milk through a man’s checked shirt (I’ve done that), nor did I have a child suctioned to my breast like a toilet plunger (I did that before discovering formula milk), and nor was I being accompanied by any member of The Gibberish Generation.

No. It was one of those high hair, high make-up, high dressy-up days – with high heels and all.

Still to answer my enquirer, I pencil an entry to my mental page of ‘Questions To Which We Are Not Expected To Have An Answer To Without Expecting To Go To Jail’, and ink in a less ladylike one to my ‘WTF?’ page.

Back in the real world I toyed with stating the obvious – ‘I’m not your Mum,’ but that might have served only to confuse and embarrass The Nubile Young Thing. Instead I opt for a fixed smile and a heart clasp before wending my way.

Yep, people, some days the only sensible thing to do is to keep…mum.

HMS HerMelness Speaks

 

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