Me and the boy are braving Oxford Street on the first Saturday in December. My task is to help the boy secure a new winter coat and we venture into a shop to try our luck. Within seconds he has immediately discounted most of the stock and has narrowed his search down to two.
Both of these look very stylish and both are in keeping with his current look of indie-guitar-band boy with long hair. A few seconds later he has the coat of his choice and I am handing over the money to buy it.
The whole operation takes less than five minutes. We leave the shop. I stare at him. He looks uneasy.
'Why are you staring at me? I've told you before NOT to stare at me...'
'I'm just stunned.'
'Why?'
'You did the whole coat-buying thing with ruthless efficency. And you also chose something that looks really good. I'd have spent ages and still probably bought something that made me look like a kiddy-fiddler.'
'That's because I'm stylish and you're not.'
'I am stylish. I'm down with the kids...'
He stares. I realise I am being pitied by a 16-year-old boy.
'Just a tip... It's saying things like "I'm down with the kids" that makes you not.'
We walk on in silence. The little shit is probably right...
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