February 24

As Dad unloaded the forty cans of Stella, the two boys started fighting. The boy sitting in the trolley was swatting his older brother. He hit him square between his cross-eyes.

    'Waaah! Dad’.

     ‘What?’ grunted the big man vacantly. Nothing was going to stop him unloading his beer.

     ‘He hit me on de head!’

     ‘Robby!’ Said with a little emphasis, a slightly raised tone.

     ‘I said, “sorry,” Dad.’

     ‘He hit me, Dad.’

     ‘You’re a naughty boy, Robby.’ Very little effort put into this statement.

     ‘But I said, “sorry,” Dad.’ Robby said this several times, as if trying to convince himself as well as his Dad.

     His Dad wasn’t listening. He was now packing the trolley with the help of his eldest son.

    ‘Careful, Jake,’ said Dad as his eldest son caught the side of a jar of pickle onions on the trolley.

    ‘Sorry, Dad.’ Jake concentrated hard, his eyelids narrowing. He carefully placed the jar into the trolley. The ignored Robby rubbed a spot on his forehead, between two red, sore-looking marks. Then he gives a weak squeal, like a sickly piglet.

    ‘Ere, have it,’ said Dad fishing a dummy out of a bag in the trolley. He thrusts it at Robby. Robby took it and put it in his mouth. At least that gave him comfort. The trolley packed, the shopping paid for, the dad and his two sons leave.