Scaryduck, The Boy, and the Rite of Passage

The day after Boxing Day, I am with The Boy in Reading town centre, a large wedge of Christmas cash burning a hole in his pocket.

We pop into Game, where - with a chinful of bum-fluff - he is not asked his age as he buys Battlefield 3. Then, he drops the bombshell:

"Dad, I need to buy some shoes."

"Wait... you have to buy WHAT?"

"Shoes. Is there a sports shop near here?"

Thank fuckery for that - I thought he wanted to buy sensible shoes.

"And another thing dad. Can you wait outside? This is one Test of Actual Manhood I want to take alone."

I wait outside, whilst inside the dread portal of Sports Direct, my boy is becoming a man as he searches out a pair of velcro trainers that can also pass for shoes. My boy. Doing man shopping. I am so proud.

But I wait.

And I wait.

And he returns.

There are no shoes.

"Son, I am disappoint."

"Yeah, I saw a pair I liked. But mum can buy them for me tomorrow."

TERRIBLE.

We went to Sainsbury's and bought a pint of milk and a potato.