When is it right to strike a man? At what point should one be prepared to sacrifice one's liberty or life in pursuit of a higher moral code? This question was asked of me on Saturday afternoon at a shoe shop in Wokingham as I attempted to buy my daughter a new pair of Wellington boots. With mother and daughter in tow, we entered the theatre of war - the children's shoe section. Ava pointed to the pink Wellington boots with the hearts on (she's a girl) and I sat her down to try them on for size - job almost done. Then came our foot-soldier of mediocrity - he'd been trying on a pair of comfort shoes specially designed for the men of Wokingham, doing circuits of the shop to see if they were bland enough. He told my five-year-old daughter to move so he could have his place back. She got out of his way, but in the confusion, knocked his polythene bag over. I picked it up and apologized, but then hostilities began. He opened the bag and removed a paperback book - and inspected it. "Your daughter's damaged my book."
With an almost imperceptible click, I took against the man. He was bulbous and dull with clipped grey hair on every surface except his shining pate. He seemed to require that I punished her on the spot, and if I didn't, I was just another one of the bad fathers the Daily Mail flagellates middle England to orgasm with. As my mother invisiblized herself with embarrassment and Ava looked on disinterestedly, I inspected the damaged book. A slight fold to the bottom third of the cover, the kind you might get if you opened it to read - it was a Bernard Cornwell military adventure novel.
The awkwardness of the situation was apparent. To become aggressively engaged in front of children is appalling, to be humiliated in front of your mother isn't an option either, but even the Coward of the County eventually "stopped and blocked the door". There were few options. Smack the child or the man? He was shorter than me, but heavily built, a Geoff Wode to my Withnail. I looked about to see our audience. Another couple whose child was being fitted for shoes - the father watched poker faced; and some elderly types. So children present. With all civilized avenues exhausted, I took out my wallet - which thankfully had some notes in it, and offered to pay for the book - if he could produce the receipt. He asked why I needed it.
"So I can swap it for something good. No receipt no deal". Apparently his wife had the receipt and she was in the shop next door. "Get it then please." He left the shop in his socks and returned a moment later. "Change please," I said, waving a ten pound note. He was thirty pence short.
It's not often that I wish my mother was a vast violent chav matriarch who'd wade in when da family woz dissed, but this was one of those occasions. Instead, she morphed into a size five hush puppy and hid in a display while Ava watched nonchalantly. Having visited his wife once again, three pounds and five pence was handed to me (he said I could keep the fourpence surplus) and the exchange was complete.
This is where I "perhaps" went too far - according to mother. I ripped the book apart in front of him Oliver Hardy style, and placed the pieces on the chair. He watched mesmerized, then fled to the counter. As he was now well away from the children, I decided to speak to him properly - man to man I believe they call it. I used words that Wokingham has probably never heard before - proper rude words not yet softened by overuse, intended to cause maximum damage. I also informed him that had it not been for the presence of my family, I would have ripped his fat head off.
Of course, I realized later that if my daughter had not been present, the situation would never have arisen - and felt a bit foolish. He'd be salivating over Bernard Cornwell, holding the book with special gloves and turning the pages with tweezers -and I'd be less irritatingly full of myself. There was one last Larry David moment - I was ordered to leave the shop by the brave Saturday girl operating the till, whose only knowledge of the event was seeing a deranged man insulting a customer as he attempted to purchase sensible shoes.
As my shamed mother and oblivious daughter made to leave the shop, the other dad finally sprang to my defence. Other dad said I should have shoved the book in his face, and he was not at all cross that his child had witnessed potential unpleasantness. I apologized to all the customers and the Moore family departed - minus Wellington boots.
Epilogue. After trying all Wokingham's other shoe shops - with no luck, the Moore family returned somewhat nervously to the original shop and purchased size twelve pink Wellingtons with hearts on them. The shop assistants were pleasant, Ava was delighted, I strutted like a champ, but mum still said I'd made too much out of it.
