The voice down the other end of the phone was strangled.
“Do you hate me?” He asked. “Why did you send me there?”
Dear husband had just braved his first toy sale, and the results were not pretty.
“The lines…” he gulped, sounding like a wounded soldier. “ The lines…”
He faltered, unable to go on.
“The lines?” I questioned gently.
“They went around the store!” He was incredulous. “And the lay-by queue!”
I made soothing sounds down the phone.
“Just sit down and make yourself a cuppa,” I said, thinking now was not the time to remind him that for the past twelve years of parenthood it had been I who had braved the toy sale, usually with a child in tow.
“Why?” he gasped. “Why was it like that?
I had no answer.
He did not want to delve into an existential analysis of why western parents like to present their children with plastic, possible carcinogenic toys of fads that change from season to season, wrapped with unopenable twisty ties.
He merely needed to vent.
“Never mind,” I said. “At least you got what he wanted. Just think how happy he’ll be when he sees that Nerf gun. You did get the right one didn’t you?”
“Yes, I think so,” he replied, his voice slowly returning to normal. “If not I’ll just take it back and swap it over.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him about the returns queue.