Sunday mornings are funny things.
On television, they always involve sunlight, croissants, newspapers, birds singing and people who apparently enjoy eating yoghurt.
In real life, they involve someone discovering there is no milk, somebody else sitting on the remote control, and a four-year-old asking whether sausages count as vegetables because they’re “long like cucumbers.”
At the Brand house, it was surprisingly peaceful.
Mrs Brand and Marjory Jackson were still in their pyjamas, sitting at the kitchen table with enormous mugs of coffee that suggested neither of them had slept particularly well.
Not because anything had gone wrong.
Because the previous evening had been a girls’ sleepover.
Two university friends. One bottle of wine that mysteriously became three. Several episodes of a crime drama neither of them could remember watching. An enormous takeaway. Far too much laughter.
Now they were on Coffee Number Three.
Coffee Number One had been for survival.
Coffee Number Two had been for communication.
Coffee Number Three was beginning to restore personality.
Breakfast was wonderfully relaxed.
Toast appeared wherever there happened to be space.
Alfie sat sensibly at the table reading the back of the cereal box.
Barry had wandered into the lounge with a slice of toast.
Marmaduke had somehow ended up sitting on the bottom step of the stairs eating scrambled egg with his fingers.
Nobody cared.
Mrs Brand looked around lazily.
“I think this is called relaxed parenting.”
Marjory smiled.
“I think this is called giving up.”
At precisely that moment, the front door opened.
Mr Brand returned from staying with Grandma Brand after giving her a hand with a few jobs.
He stopped in the kitchen doorway.
Two mothers.
Three coffee mugs each.
Hair that suggested brushes had become optional.
Children eating breakfast in three separate rooms.
He grinned.
“I’ve got an idea.”
Mrs Brand narrowed her eyes.
“Should we be worried?”
“No.”
Marjory looked equally suspicious.
“That wasn’t convincing.”
Mr Brand smiled wider.
“How about I take Barry and Marmaduke to buy their school shoes and new PE trainers?”
Silence.
Mrs Brand and Marjory looked at each other.
Then, without speaking, both women reached across the table.
Mrs Brand picked up Barry’s shoe measurement.
Marjory picked up Marmaduke’s.
They handed them over with astonishing speed.
“You are,” said Mrs Brand solemnly, “a wonderful husband.”
“You,” added Marjory, “are practically a national treasure.”
Mr Brand laughed.
“It’s only shoe shopping.”
The ladies exchanged the sort of look that experienced mothers reserve for people who have absolutely no idea what is about to happen.
“Oh…” said Mrs Brand.
“…you’ll see.”
Sports Direct on a Sunday resembled an evacuation centre.
Parents wandered aimlessly carrying shoe boxes.
Children sprinted through the sea of grey, navy and black clothes… no one knew or cared who or what they could be useful for.
Someone was crying.
Someone else was negotiating with a seven-year-old over whether football boots counted as school shoes.
A loudspeaker announced another special offer that nobody had time to understand.
Mr Brand stopped just inside the entrance.
His eyes widened.
“Oh…”
He’d made a mistake.
A terrible mistake.
Sports Direct wasn’t a shop.
It was a maze.
A warehouse.
A giant obstacle course constructed entirely from “comfortable” clothing.
Every aisle looked identical.
Every sign pointed somewhere helpful in theory.
In practice…
Not so much.
If archaeologists excavated this place in two thousand years’ time, they’d conclude Britain worshipped discounted tracksuits.
Mr Brand took a deep breath.
“Right.”
He crouched in front of Barry and Marmaduke.
“Listen carefully.”
Neither was.
“We stay together.”
Barry nodded enthusiastically.
Marmaduke nodded because Barry had.
“No running.”
“Okay.”
“No touching things.”
“Okay.”
“No hiding.”
“Okay.”
“No climbing.”
“Okay.”
“No trying shoes on unless I say.”
“Okay.”
Mr Brand smiled.
“This should be straightforward.”
It lasted eleven seconds.
By the time Mr Brand had picked up the little paper measuring guide…
Barry had disappeared.
Marmaduke had disappeared in exactly the same direction.
Of course he had.
Mr Brand sighed.
“Barry?”
No answer.
“Marmaduke?”
A giggle.
Wrong direction.
He followed the sound.
Barry was sitting on one of the fitting benches.
On his left foot…
…a tiny shiny black school shoe.
On his right…
…a fluorescent orange football boot.
Marmaduke was wearing one trainer.
One walking boot.
Neither belonged to him.
Barry beamed.
“They match.”
“They absolutely do not.”
“They both go on feet.”
Mr Brand rubbed his forehead.
Technically…
Barry had a point.
Not a useful point.
But a point.
Eventually they found the children’s shoe section.
Or rather…
Mr Brand found it.
Barry had become fascinated by the escalator.
Marmaduke had become fascinated because Barry had.
Neither had any intention whatsoever of buying footwear.
Mr Brand gathered them together again.
“Right.”
“Can we ride it?”
“No.”
“Twice?”
“No.”
“Seven times?”
“No.”
“Eight?”
“No.”
Barry thought carefully.
“What about six?”
Finding a member of staff proved unexpectedly difficult.
There appeared to be exactly one young assistant covering approximately half of Greater London.
He couldn’t have been more than eighteen.
He looked permanently bewildered.
Mr Brand eventually caught his eye.
“Excuse me.”
The assistant smiled.
“Hi.”
“We need school shoes.”
“Certainly.”
He disappeared into the stock room.
Five minutes passed.
Ten.
Fifteen.
Barry began pretending shoe boxes were bricks.
Marmaduke joined in.
Alfie would have built a neat tower.
Barry was constructing something that looked suspiciously like a medieval siege weapon.
Mr Brand looked around.
The assistant hadn’t returned.
Perhaps he’d emigrated.
Eventually he reappeared.
“Sorry.”
“No problem.”
“We need size eleven.”
“Certainly.”
He disappeared again.
Barry looked around.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“I’m thirsty.”
“We’ll get a drink afterwards.”
“I’m thirsty now.”
“So am I.”
“So’s Marmaduke.”
Marmaduke nodded immediately.
“I am now.”
Another ten minutes.
The assistant returned carrying…
Size eight.
Mr Brand blinked.
“I asked for eleven.”
“Oh.”
The assistant looked genuinely surprised.
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
He wandered away again.
Not hurriedly.
Just… away.
As though time itself had become optional.
Mr Brand watched him go.
If the Metropolitan Police responded to emergencies like this…
Someone would ring 999.
“Help! My house is on fire!”
“We’ll just have a quick wander round the warehouse first.”
“No rush.”
“Back in a bit.”
Around them, every other parent looked equally exhausted.
One father was crawling underneath benches looking for a missing shoe.
A mother was trying to persuade twins that swapping socks with strangers wasn’t hygienic.
Another little boy had somehow acquired three left shoes.
Nobody knew how.
Least of all him.
It was the sort of place where perfectly sensible adults slowly began questioning reality.
Mr Brand finally found Barry again.
He was helping another family.
Specifically… he was taking shoes out of their box.
“No, Barry.”
“I’m helping.”
“Their daddy doesn’t need help.”
“He looks tired.”
The other father looked up.
“I really do.”
They exchanged the silent look of men who had entered a battle neither had expected to fight.
Eventually…
miraculously…
the assistant returned with the correct size.
Mr Brand almost applauded.
Barry immediately put both shoes on the wrong feet.
“They feel funny.”
“I imagine they do.”
Marmaduke copied him.
“They feel funny.”
“That’s because yours are wrong too.”
“They’re Barry’s.”
“No…”
said Mr Brand patiently.
“They’re yours.”
“Oh.”
Marmaduke looked delighted.
“I’ve got Barry’s feet.”
The fitting took forever.
Barry kept standing up.
Marmaduke copied him.
Barry bounced.
Marmaduke bounced.
Barry discovered shoe horns.
Marmaduke discovered shoe horns were excellent pretend swords.
Two elderly ladies wisely chose another aisle.
At one point, Mr Brand turned around for perhaps three seconds.
Three.
When he looked back…
Barry had vanished.
Again.
He found him inside one of the clothing rails.
“Barry!”
A small voice came from inside.
“I’m invisible.”
“No, you’re underneath school trousers.”
“They’re camouflage.”
“They really aren’t.”
“They’re black.”
“Exactly.”
Mr Brand wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.
Possibly both.
Next came trainers.
Surely trainers would be easier.
He was wrong.
Barry wanted the ones with flashing lights.
“They’re not allowed.”
“What if I only flash on Tuesdays?”
“No.”
“What if I blink politely?”
“No.”
Marmaduke nodded.
“I’d like polite flashing.”
“No.”
“What about slightly rude flashing?”
“No!”
The assistant reappeared.
“Need any help?”
“Yes.”
“We’d like these in size eleven.”
“Certainly.”
He wandered away.
Barry watched him disappear.
“Where’s he going?”
Mr Brand smiled weakly.
“I honestly don’t think anybody knows.”
Twenty minutes later, the trainers appeared.
Success.
At last.
Mr Brand paid.
Collected the bags.
Checked both children were still wearing their own shoes.
Counted heads.
One…
Two…
Good.
They walked towards the exit.
Barry suddenly stopped.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“We forgot something.”
Mr Brand felt genuine panic.
“What?”
Barry smiled.
“We didn’t ride the escalator.”
Mr Brand looked at his watch.
Looked at the queue.
Looked at the sea of parents still searching desperately for shoes.
Then looked down at Barry’s hopeful face.
He sighed dramatically.
“Oh, go on then.”
The boys whooped.
Up they went.
Down they came.
Up again.
Down again.
Mr Brand stood patiently beside the escalator.
After everything else…
this felt positively relaxing.
When they finally returned home, both boys exploded through the front door.
“We got shoes!”
“We got trainers!”
“We rode the escalator!”
Mrs Brand looked up from the sofa.
“Oh?”
Marjory smiled into her coffee.
“How did it go?”
Mr Brand placed four shopping bags onto the floor.
Very…
Very…
Slowly.
Then he simply walked into the kitchen.
He opened a cupboard.
Took out the biggest mug they owned.
Made an enormous coffee.
Drank half of it without speaking.
The ladies exchanged amused glances.
Finally Mrs Brand asked, “Everything alright?”
Mr Brand stared into the distance.
“I’ve seen things.”
Marjory tried not to laugh.
“Busy?”
“I now understand why military commanders study logistics.”
Mrs Brand bit her lip.
“Were the children helpful?”
Mr Brand gave a tiny hysterical laugh.
“Barry spent fifteen minutes wearing one football boot and one school shoe.”
Mrs Brand nodded.
“Sounds about right.”
“Marmaduke copied him.”
Marjory smiled proudly.
“Can’t be all bad though… look who made your big mug.” The biggest mug in almost every house in the U.K. has “Sports Direct” written on it!
The adults laughed.
“The sales assistant disappeared four hundred separate times.”
Mrs Brand nodded sympathetically.
“Oh…”
“I think he may still be wandering around looking for size elevens.”
Barry appeared beside him.
“Daddy?”
“Yes?”
“Can we go again next weekend?”
Mr Brand looked horrified.
“No.”
“What about tomorrow?”
“No.”
“Christmas?”
“No.”
“Ever?”
Mr Brand shook his head.
“I’d genuinely rather assemble flat-pack furniture while listening to recorder practice.”
Alfie looked up from his book.
“That’s a bit dramatic.”
Mr Brand smiled.
“You weren’t there.”
Barry looked at Marmaduke.
“I think Daddy had fun.”
“I think so too,” agreed Marmaduke.
The adults burst into laughter.
Because that is one of the great mysteries of childhood.
Two little boys had spent two hours creating absolute chaos in one of Britain’s busiest sports shops…
…and had come home convinced they’d been enormously helpful.
Which, in fairness, was probably for the best.
After all, school would be starting again soon.
Their teachers deserved to enjoy these last few peaceful mornings.
Even if they had absolutely no idea what was coming.
Alfie, Barry and Marmaduke Stories 
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