WARNING TO PATRONISERS...

As one of six children, I’ve had my fill of being patronised. Older and younger siblings alike, they’re all good at it. So when I went on holiday, I had the vain hope that I might escape it for a few short days.

At least, this was the hope.

My plan for a frustration-free week in the New Forest kinda went to pot when I was forced to, on behalf of my sister, pay for a very conspicuous, fluffy-tailed, pink unicorn about the size of a dog at the Beaulieu Motor Museum. I’m not quite sure why there was a Barbie-pink mythical creature on sale in the gift-shop of a car showroom; maybe that’s their new ‘green’ method of transport?

Anyhow, I arrived at the till, having received many a knowing glance from the impossibly good-looking German boys who were visiting, begging silently that the student with manicured nails serving me would have some sense and put the darn thing in a plastic bag. Of course, that was wishful thinking – futile, in fact. She smiled at me, blissfully unaware of my angst at being, in the rest of the customers’ eyes, the fifteen year-old with a unicorn fetish.

“It’s not for me,” I told her hurriedly, thrusting the twenty-pound note at her desperately. “It’s for my sister.”

“Are you sure?” She grinned naughtily at me, using a tone not unlike that of a dog-trainer to his charge. “You’re not fooling anyone…”

If it hadn’t been for the fact that I was perfectly well aware that my mother would have kicked my sorry ass all the way back to the car, I would have said exactly what went through my mind at that moment.

“I assure you, it’s for my sister. The Kalashnikov concealed under my hoody, on the other hand, is very much mine. Can I have a bag with that?”