Paris had decided that she was my horse, and I had been ordered to say "yaah" to go and "woah" to stop as she dragged my carriage (the shopping trolley) up and down the fairly deserted aisles.
As we exited the staples/tins and exotic products aisle, an old man took note.
Unfortunately not an old man of the ilk that smiled gently and moved on. This old man was more the Frank Barrone variety. Slightly more hair, perhaps, but clothed by the same tailor and sang from the same song book.
As we "woah"ed to go around the corner of the toiletries aisle, he said (and this needs its own line)
"having a good day out, Nanna?"
Not having yet taught Paris the meaning of certain swear-words, I nodded politely and "yaahed" her right up to the far end of that aisle in record speed.
Unfortunately I had toiletry needs that were located at the near end, but the mortification of a septuagenarian referring to me as "Nanna" blitzed all logical thought from my head.
We then "yaah"ed productively down the cleaning products aisle. We were almost clear when he leaped (well, shuffled) out again, pretending to be a policeman and spooking my horse.
As we all know, Paris is excessively shy, and so my gorgeous little horse shied beautifully and manouvred the carriage around Mr Plod.
My nod lost its polite, and any discerning fellow shopper would surely have read the swear words in my body language.
I will give him this, he must have put on a bit of speed, because in the time it took for us to collect some cheese he had placed himself in the petfood aisle where he could not be avoided.
My horse slowed, unsure of her footing. I "yaah"ed as gently as I could, and called out that we were currently invisible if he could please clear our carriageway. He smiled like we were playing with him (rather than despite) and offered me another "Nanna" gee up.
Unfortunately I do not have any Elsa powers, otherwise the grocery store could have moved their fridge section across.
Into the last section, I remembered bags and toiletry requirements. I left Paris by the ever so exciting stationary section and went back around the corner - and there he lurked. I ignored very pointedly, but as he crabwalked towards me, I gave up my quest and returned to my carriage.
By the time we were at our final collection (frozen peas) he had caught up and attempted conversation.
"She must be such a delight for you, Nanna" he opened with.
My polite had left, and I delivered a rather curt "She is my daughter. I am her mother." The "and expletive deleted off" was unspoken but definitely in the delivery.
"Oh, well done" he said in a tone that reflected his belief that I had approached World Records in Geriatric Maternity.
I then realised that, not only was he being gobsmackingly rude in assuming my role in Paris' life, this was his attempt to pick me up.
At the supermarket.
On a Friday afternoon.
A. The wedding ring was on. Out of bounds.
B. Old enough to be my father.
C. Not only out of my generation, out of my LEAGUE.
Yeah. But the roots - definitely due a touch-up, it seems!!