TOY STORY

Picture the scene.

Late 90s,

A weekday, mid-afternoon.

Toy section,

Elegant shopping centre, pretty mamas in fifty-shades-of-creamy-beige.

French manicure de-rigueur.

I’d clock him at around

Five years old.

Golden skin,

Jet black hair,

Sapphire eyes.

Imagine the most stunning little angel imaginable, and then imagine even more stunningness.

“Mais qu’il est beau, votre fils,” French-manured ladies swoon-say to his mama, clutching their Cartier.

Yeah, happened a lot.

Now, block your ears and avert your eyes.

You’ve seen him.

He’s gorgeous.

Now please evacuate the building.

Quick.

P is his middle initial.

Should have been.

P for Pavarotti.

And P for Pest. That works, too.

So does Pasticcione, if you speak Italian. Cute, eh? I know, I love that word.

And it suits him. Cutest pest, like, everrrr.

That cacophony? Yes, it’s Pavarotti the Pest. He wants a toy.

Sure, he can have one! The problem is he can’t decide. It’s been three hundred and twenty-five hours.

Dinky Toy? Hot Wheels? Digger? Ferrari? Howdy-Dudie? (Audi; I kid you not)

I don’t think he’s good at decisions…

So, I get that after so many hours his Mama might growl a little. Only at the back of her throat, mind you. She’s nice. Patient, too. Then she says, “Right, that’s it; we’re going.”

Tots TV-La Traviata-The Ring-Metallica-Scatman-Bohemian Rhapsody-Thomas the Tank Engine.

Blimey! He’s belting them out all at once. A mash-up!

Woah… Skills!

And look, he’s doing it on his belly, too, hanging onto the wheels of the trolley, while being dragged at many-miles-an-hour across the entire shopping centre.

Pasticcione’s Got Talent.

Pink quivering tonsils paired with fire-red cheeks never looked so adorable.

To think the child turned down a lucrative advertising campaign for a luxury watch brand.

Kids.