Some years ago, when I was a customer-weary eighteen year old check-out-chick working a busy Saturday afternoon shift with a plastered on smile, I heard a gasp behind me. Then another. Turning around mid-scan of a sticky, iced Boston Bun I saw a little girl, no more than about four or five years old staring up at me. The top of her blonde locks were in line with my knees.
Still turned away from the customer at my till, I added my handprint to the top of their Boston Bun, squishing it into a plastic bag with the full weight of my palm. The girl looked me up and down. Her eyes were wide and her mouth open. She took a breath before gasping again. Tugging on her mother’s sleeve, she shouted, ‘Mum, look. Look Mum! She’s not standing on anything!’
*Some, may in fact be a few or possibly many.