... let me tell you about it.
Vagabond, for those just joining us, is a shop supplying all the needs of wargamers young and old, from models and paints to trading cards and scenarios for said wargames. The paints come with wonderful names like Ratskin Flesh, Screamer Pink and Incubi Darkness. Every now and again when Honourable Son needs something, he writes it on a piece of paper, and I go to Vagabond and hand over the piece of paper, and they glance at it and go and get boxes with horrifying things on them and I hand over my card and pay and leave. Scarily, they seem to be able to read his writing. One time in the school holidays I was given a list of paints with names I couldn't decipher - possibly just as well - and the nice young man frowned, looked at me and said something that might have been "They don't use Bleached Bone white in the new coda; it's supposed to be Maggot Shit white" or possibly not. We stared at each other for a few seconds, then I fished out my mobile, selected Honourable Son from my contacts and meekly handed the phone over. They spoke Vulcan for a short while, or possibly Klingon, and then the nice young man disconnected and gave me my phone back. He went off and came back with several tiny paint pots and a Thing I don't even want to think about and I paid and departed.
Me and the nice young men at Vagabond understand each other perfectly.
So, Honourable Son's birthday is coming up and today I Googlemapped the store (it's moved), printed the map and stuck on the post-it note on which Honourable Son had scrawled what is probably StormRaven. I did have verbal confirmation from him that this is what he wanted.I set off for Queen Street at lunchtime, found the shop, marched in and cheerfully asked for a StormRaven.
The two nice young men glanced meaningfully at each other. One of them stuck out his hand and I meekly handed over my map. He unfolded it, found the post-it note, then looked back at the other one and nodded. The other nice young man disappeared and came back with a box. It has a seriously ugly gunship thing on the cover, bearing no relation at all to any raven I have ever seen. He put the box together with my note into a bag, I paid and left.
Nice young men clearly know better than to believe me, obviously. Wonder what would have happened if I had gone in without my note? Oh wait, I know the answer to that one.
I'd have had to hand over my phone.
Stormraven. On no account hand one over to an unaccompanied mother.
