Placemats

My sister is in love with the man on her placemat.

I hold to the view that at three, she is hardly qualified to really be aware of the romantic nature of love, but oh yes, she assures me that she is.

‘I love The Man, he’s my fwend.’ She actually gave him a kiss the other day, before feeding him scraps of mashed potato.

I’m actually quite disappointed in her choice. If she was going to fall in love with someone, she could have chosen a nice, handsome young man of great fortune wherewith she could set up his mansion and bestow generous donations upon her big sister.

But no.

No, she had to give her poor innocent heart to a butcher, of portly proportions in a green striped apron, a white moustache and a bald head, who looks at least over fifty.

Not that I have anything against butchers, although they slaughter poor helpless animals including sweet baby lambs to make themselves a profit. Well, I suppose we all have to live.

But what I do resent is that my sister had to devote herself to one.

The fact that there are several other placemats that she could have attached herself to, which include a good-looking dark-haired gentleman in a toy shop, a young man looking at the toffees in the window of the sweet shop, and – best of all – a blue-eyed boy with a bicycle, delivering to the bakers, makes the whole situation that little bit more depressing.

So, this butcher guy stands in the doorway of his shop, looking thoughtfully out at the world, resting on a sign that proclaims: ‘Belgravian Game Pies, Camp Pies, and Patès’. Did I mention he’s also missing a hand, where the paint got scratched? And his chin is slightly scuffled, due to the vigour of my sister’s solicitous ministrations of potato, rice, bits of meat and veg, and whatever else is on the day’s menu.

A butcher.

Well, at least she’ll be well fed.