What's in it?

Hi, I'm here to pick up my son's bag. I called earlier.

I smiled at the receptionist of the Nursery. Which is like kindergarten but in English.

The lady manning the reception desk tipped her large glasses down with a finger and sternly peered at me with a questioning eye.

And who, precisely, is your 'son?'

She barked, the words seeming to snort from her rather flared nostrils.

I smiled my most winning smile. Her face was all angles and sharp lines with a smear of red lipstick like a naked cat that had been run over. I took a fancy to her immediately.

I leaned on the little windowsill and smiled handsomely.

The Little Boom? He is five. Comes in Tue-Fri?

Miss Deadcatface frowned and tapped something on a computer to the side.

Said computer appeared to give her an answer she didn't like and she turned to me with a haughty sniff.

And who, precisely, might 'you' be?

The corner of her lip twitched a little as if she had just beaten me at strip poker and in the final reveal found my Peeping Jeebus to be wanting.

Well, if he is my son then I would be his Dad.

Despite her attitude I tried to remain breezy and light as regardless of what they said, kicking a table over and shouting HULK SMASH was most definitely not the most efficient way of getting what you want in these situations.

Miss Deadcatface froze in place for several seconds before visibly relaxing and smiling even further than she had dared twitch before.

And who would be 'his dad...?'

Her smile grew to the point that I started to worry her head was going to fall open like a counterfeit Gucci bag bought in an Italian market.

Eh, me. Obviously.

On the other hand, my grin was withering under the aggressive deadpan onslaught of Miss Deadcatface. Lord knows how effective my penis would be as a sundial if we were ever stranded in a desert together and needed to know the time.

Miss Deadcatface practically purred with pleasure. She magicked a pen from somewhere and gave the end a little chew before smirking smugly and leaning closer to the hole in the perspex that all public servants hide behind these days.

And your 'name' is...?

She chuckled happily, the results of the unspoken game we had commenced leaning in her favour.

Ah. My name, that's what you mean.

Now it made sense. Swiftly I told her my name and waited expectantly.

She bade me wait a moment and clip-clopped away on some rather splendid heels. My persistent worries over desert sundialing abated somewhat.

She returned very quickly, smiling and holding out a grey backpack decorated with pictures of diggers on it.