Boys Behaving Badly

Date: 10/25/2025

I approach a Victorian-looking toy shop — the vintage kind. Its crisscrossed windows glow like a lantern in the dusk, flickering gold against the darkening sky. Warm. Inviting. The sort of place that feels dusted with magic. My boys are teenagers now, well past the age of toys, yet something about this place pulls me in — like I’m being reeled back through time. A moth to a flame. I push open the quaint wooden door. A bell tinkles overhead. For a moment, I expect that musty warmth of nostalgia — cinnamon wood polish, tin soldiers, the faint jangle of a wind-up music box. But no. I’m hit with fluorescent light so harsh it could sterilise a hospital. The cosy illusion evaporates. The air buzzes with the stress of over-caffinated parents — eyes wild, long lists, wallets thinning by the seconds. So much for vintage charm. In the corner, there’s a commotion — huddles of people around a stall. On closer inspection, it’s a charity giveaway. A sign reads: ONE FREE ITEM PER PERSON. Free. Now that’s not a word I hear much these days. My ears prick up like a dog who’s just heard “walkies.” I hate queueing — avoid it like the plague — but this? This feels too good to miss. Besides, Monkey — my cat — has mutilated his favourite toy rat, and I’m on the lookout for something to fill the void. Who knows. Maybe there's a new rat in town? So I take my place behind a man who smells faintly of mince pies and despair, and I wait. The line moves at the pace of a snail on sedatives. By the time I reach the front, I’m ready to commit minor violence on a stuffed toy. Finally, it’s my turn. And that’s when I spot him. Alan Carr. At first, I don’t quite register it’s him. Then I hear that laugh — that unmistakable cackle — and there’s no denying it. Same thick glasses, hanging slightly too low on one side. Same translucent hair that looks like patchy lawn. Same gapped-teeth wide enough to fit a beanie baby through. He dives headfirst into a basket of them, legs akimbo. All I can see is his arse sticking out, wiggling, while his pockets bulge like Santa's sack. He’s stealing them. From a charity stall. A celebrity kleptomaniac. I should be furious — I am — but I can’t help admiring the sheer gall of it. Man has got balls. He glances up mid-heist and catches my eye. Raises a finger to his lips. Shhh. I roll my eyes. “Don’t worry, mate. Your secret’s safe. I’m just here for the cat.” By the time I reach the basket, it’s carnage. The good stuff’s gone. The Beanie Babies are extinct. All that’s left are the sad rejects — one-eyed bears, flattened giraffes, a unicorn minus a horn. Bloody Alan Carr. I sigh and pick up a llama rattle. It jingles faintly, like Alan’s laugh trapped inside a bell. “Get me out of here,” I mutter. The ground tilts. The shop shudders — and then collapses beneath me. I’m back home. The “comfy sofa.” A reality show flickers on the TV — Naughty Kids of Britain or something equally appalling. It’s chaos. Children hurling chairs, screaming, setting fire to science labs. I take a sip of Jasmine tea. “Yikes. Thank God I never became a teacher.” Just as I’m starting to enjoy other people’s misery, my son appears beside me. Alex. He’s holding the Polar Express DVD again. He’s watched it so many times, I half expect Tom Hanks to pull up pew right next to us, popcorn and all. “Can we watch our film now?” he asks. “Yeah, give me a minute. I’m just finishing this.” He stands there, foot tapping, arms folded, sighing loudly — the teenage symphony of impatience. I reach for the remote, but before I switch channels, I glance at the screen… And freeze. There he is. Alex. On the telly. Slouched in a school chair, chewing gum, giving the teacher lip. “No…” I whisper, “It can’t be.” “It’s not me!” he blurts, lunging for the remote. “It’s my doppelgänger!” I almost laugh, wanting to believe it — but it’s him. My son. My perfect, polite, star-collecting, prefect-badge-wearing boy. Acting like a delinquent. He snatches the remote and flicks over before I can blink. Polar Express bursts onto the screen, Tom Hanks cheerfully shouting, “All aboard!” Alex slumps down next to me, pretending none of it happened. I stare straight ahead but my eyes are vacant. My heart feels heavy, like someone has pressed “pause” on my chest. When did my little boy turn into someone who could surprise me like that? Monkey jumps up beside me, batting the llama rattle with his paws. It jingles softly — a thin, silly sound — but it makes me smile. Alan Carr’s cackle. Alex’s mischief. The sound of boys behaving badly. And suddenly, I understand. Maybe mischief never really disappears. It just changes shape. From pocketing Beanie Babies to testing boundaries. From the innocent to the inevitable. I glance at Alex. He’s laughing now, lost in the film, the glow of the TV painting his face blue. For a moment, he looks just like he did when he was small — before he learned how to lie convincingly, before the world got complicated. I ruffle his hair. “Try not to end up on telly again, yeah?” He smirks. “No promises.” Monkey bats the rattle again — jingle-jingle-jingle — and somewhere deep inside the sound, I hear it: the faint ring of that toy shop bell. I glance towards the window. Outside, the streetlamps flicker softly in the dark, just like that shop’s golden glow. For a heartbeat, I wonder if I imagined it all — the queue, Alan Carr, the Beanie Babies — or if somewhere out there, that toy shop still waits for me, light still burning, doors still open, ready to test who’s been good and who’s just pretending. The bell rings once more, faint and far away.