“It’s such a lovely morning, I think we’ll put you in your lederhosen today, Oliver,” Vera Evans announced as she drew the curtains of her son’s bedroom wide open. She threw open the window and took a deep breath of fresh air. It had been a cold night and from Oliver’s bedroom, Mrs Evans could clearly see frost on the lawn still sparkling in the morning sun.
“I want you looking nice and smart, Oliver… and on your best behaviour. You’re a big boy now and you’ve a big day ahead of you...” she added as she leant over her seventeen year old son, before turning to sit on the bed beside him.
“Yes, mummy…” Oliver said, “But, mummy… do I have to wear my lederhosen?”
“Of course… why ever not? It’s the perfect day to put you in lederhosen… Lovely crisp, frosty morning… It’ll give your legs a nice rosy glow after being in your stuffy school longs all week.” No mention was made that Oliver was always put straight into short trousers each day on his return home from school, so could hardly be said to have been in his longs ‘all week’. “We want you to look nice and smart before I take you over to Mrs Wilding’s. Remember it’s your sleepover with Stephen tonight…”
“Yes mummy… But mummy, I haven’t worn my lederhosen in ages… suppose it doesn’t fit?”
“Don’t be silly Oliver… Of course your lederhosen will fit, or perhaps you’d like to wear your Red Indian costume instead? Mrs Wilding asked me to be sure and pack that with your things… so you could wear that instead if you don’t want to wear your lederhosen...”
“What… wear the Red Indian costume?!”
“Yes, Stephen’s mummy said she’d love to see you wearing one of your play costumes so I said I’d bring your Red Indian costume with your things… but if you want to put it on before we go and wear it on the way over...”
Oliver was horrified. The thought of having to squeeze into his lederhosen, which had been an embarrassingly tight fit when he’d last been made to wear it a little over a year ago, was bad enough… but the Red Indian costume!!
“Oh, please mummy... please… I’ll wear my lederhosen, but… please… please don’t put my Red Indian costume in with my things,” Oliver said as he pushed himself up from his bedclothes in a bit of a panic.
“Don’t be silly, darling,” mum said as she smoothed his hair, “Don’t be silly… it’s a lovely costume… Mrs Wilding asked to see it especially and if you’re a good boy and behave yourself, she might help you put it on so that you can play in it with Stephen…”
Put that way, it sounded as if it would be a real treat for Oliver to be allowed to play in his Red Indian costume… until, that is, you saw what Oliver’s costume consisted of, or rather didn’t consist of… even the word ‘flimsy’ would hardly do justice to the skimpy little costume... and you might appreciate that from Oliver’s point of view the word ‘treat’ would not be the first word to spring to mind.
“Hmm…” Oliver’s mum said, stroking her son’s hair and holding a few strands up for inspection as she ignored his protests that at seventeen, he was too old to dress up in his Red Indian costume and play cowboys and indians with Stephen, “Yes, I think someone needs to visit the barber’s chair before we take you to Mrs Wilding’s…”
“But mummy… I had a haircut last…” Oliver protested, but stopped short when he saw the stern look his mother gave him.
“You want to look nice and smart for me, don’t you Oliver? You don’t want to look horrible and scruffy, do you? I hope you’re not going to let me down, are you Oliver?”
“No, mummy,” a chastened Oliver replied.
“I should hope not… Now, where are you going before I take you to stay with Stephen?”
“The barber’s shop, mummy.”
“And what are you going to do there, Oliver?”
“Get my hair cut…”
“Good boy… and are you going to be nice and smart for mummy?”
Oliver nodded: “Yes, mummy.”
“And are you going to be a good boy and not make a fuss when the barber tidies you up and cuts your hair nice and short?”
These words send a shiver down Oliver’s spine. It meant that he was to be given an extra-special short haircut… even shorter than his usual childish short-back-and-sides.
“No, mummy,” as the words left Oliver’s lips, he prayed his visit to the barber’s shop wouldn’t be as bad as it had been on previous very memorable occasions, “I promise… I’ll be good.”
“Then afterwards we can call in and buy you some nice DryNites pyjama pants to take with you…”
“Oh, please mummy… do I have to… I haven’t… you know… in ages,” Oliver pouted.
“I know darling, but it’s just to be on the safe side. I know you’re my big brave boy and big brave boys don’t do silly things like wet the bed, but mummies worry about their boys, Oliver… Mummy doesn’t want to spend her evening worrying whether Oliver has been a good boy and kept his bed nice and dry... that’s not much to ask, now it is, Oliver?”
“No mummy…” Oliver said, but still with an obvious pout.
“Let’s see,” Vera Evans said with a theatrical gesture, “I know... as a special treat you can choose which design of pyjama pants to wear… I bet when Stephen sees them, he’ll be really jealous…”
Oliver thought this highly unlikely, but managed to smile in gratitude.
“Come on… it’s time you were up and out of bed young man! Look at the time!”
So it was that after breakfast Oliver was squeezed into his lederhosen. Pamela was called into his bedroom to help.
“He’ll never get into these,” she squealed as she held them up, “Mum… they’re tiny. When did he last wear them?”
Oliver looked at the thin little leather garment. Pamela was right, they looked no bigger than a child’s size. Mum had managed to put him into them a little while back, but like all teenage boys, Oliver kept having growth spurts and he was sure he’d grown a lot since he’d last worn them. But that didn’t deter Vera Evans in the least.
“Of course they’ll fit,” she said, “The leather’s tough… it should be, they were very expensive and it was very kind of your Auntie Sarah to buy them for you. You used to wear them all the time…”
“But mum… that’s when Oliver was about twelve,” Pamela said.
“Well, that’s as maybe… Come on help me get Oliver dressed. He wants his nice Alpine shirt and those lovely little ankle socks with the red stag pattern on the sides…”
With and lot of heaving and struggling, Oliver was shoe-horned into his lederhosen. Mum held the tiny shorts together while Pamela pulled up the front flap and with difficulty managed to button up Oliver’s leather shorts. With the straps and front panel tightly done up, Oliver could almost hear the little leather shorts squeak in protest and his first few steps were taken with extreme caution. But of course mum was right, Oliver’s lederhosen were exceptionally tough and hard-wearing, even though they were dreadfully uncomfortable for him to wear.
It hardly needs to be said that Oliver’s legs were left quite bare; bare all the way from his cute little stag motif ankle socks right up to his upper thighs… and beyond, since the leather straps of the lederhosen were so tight the little shorts were pulled right up high; high enough to expose a good deal of Oliver’s bottom!
It was nothing less than torment for Oliver as he realised he would would have to spend his day dressed in what he considered to be one of his most humiliating outfits (not counting his Red Indian costume, of course!). He blamed his Auntie Sarah for buying the lederhosen for him in the first place, but Oliver couldn’t help thinking that mum really should have given his costume to some other deserving boy, since he had completely outgrown it long ago. Oliver could hardly sit down without the leather shorts riding up even higher. When he sat on one of the kitchen stools the lederhosen cut into him and he could feel the cold seat on his bare bottom, meaning there was nothing at all between the top of the stool and his bottom!
“Pamela, would you mind taking Oliver to the barber’s for a haircut?” mum asked his younger sister, “I was going to take him myself, but with all the packing to do for our trip as well as for Oliver’s sleepover…”
“Of course not, mum,” Pamela replied.
Oliver was not allowed to go to the barber’s on his own since the day, two years earlier when Oliver was fifteen, when he tried to persuade the barber he was old enough to have his hair styled in a way that made the barber suspicious. So suspicious that he made a phone call to Oliver’s mum who needless to say was furious with her son and since that day he was always accompanied to the barber’s shop for his haircut, even though he was seventeen years old.
“Oliver is to have a nice neat trim,” mum added, “I want him to look smart when he goes to stay with Mrs Wilding… You want to look nice and smart, don’t you, Oliver?”
“Yes mummy,” Oliver said as he twisted and tried to make himself a little more comfortable on the kitchen stool, but without success.
“Then I want you to call in and buy some DryNites pyjama pants for Oliver to take with him to wear at Mrs Wilding’s,” Vera Evans continued, “You can let Oliver choose which design he wants to take with him.”
“Should I buy just the one pack of pyjama pants for Oliver to take, mum?” Pamela asked. Oliver was blushing furiously, but kept quiet.
“Well he’s only staying the one night, so he should only need to take a couple of pairs of pyjama pants with him… not the whole pack!” Vera said with a smile in her voice.
“Okay,” Pamela said, then added, “I was going to meet up with Rachel... she might want to come along and help me with Oliver… she’s going to be helping her aunt look after the boys later anyway…”
“Oh that is kind of her…”
This was news to Oliver and added another level of unease to his already anxious thoughts about the forthcoming sleepover.
After a while Oliver was taken by his younger sister to the barber’s shop for his extra special haircut for his sleepover with Stephen. As they walked along hand-in-hand, Oliver kept trying to pull at the tiny lederhosen in a futile attempt to cover a little bit more of his bare flesh. It was still cold outside and in the shade frost could still be seen. Oliver’s exposed legs felt cold and for once he couldn’t wait to get into the warmth of the barber’s shop. However, it seemed as if Pamela and Oliver couldn’t go five yards without meeting someone they knew. Everyone thought Oliver’s lederhosen looked lovely and wasn’t he a brave little boy to be wearing it on such a chilly day… as if Oliver had any say in the matter!
Despite Oliver tugging at his sister’s arm, Pamela never appeared to in any hurry to get to the barber’s and would carry on talking to whoever it was they had met. He pulled her arm once too often though, and in front of the neighbours she was talking to and a few strangers who were passing by, she turned to her older brother and snapped:
“Oliver Evans!” and down come her hand on his bare thigh - smack- smack- “Do that once more and it’ll be your bare bottom that gets smacked!”
Oliver twisted about, but held onto Pamela’s hand. Two red marks were left clearly visible on Oliver’s upper thigh.
“We’ll be going to the barber’s for your haircut in a minute… don’t forget we’ve to call in and get you some DryNites pyjama pants for you to take to Mrs Wilding’s.” All this was of course said in a clear voice, loud enough to be heard by passers by.
Just then Oliver felt his other hand being taken hold of and turned to see Rachel.
“Have we got to get you some pyjama pants?” she said.
“Yes,” Pamela replied, not giving Oliver a chance to answer Rachel, “Mum’s worried he might wet the bed at your aunt’s, so we’ve got to call in and stock up on pyjama pants for you, haven’t we Oliver?”
Oliver was so embarrassed he could hardly speak. The neighbours Pamela had stopped to talk to were still standing in front of them having witnessed Oliver’s leg-slapping and now finding out that his mum was worried about him wetting the bed.
“Are we still having little bedtime accidents, Oliver?” the neighbour, Mrs Turner asked, “I’m surprised a big boy like you still has to wear pyjama pants… how old are you now?”
Oliver was overcome with embarrassment. It was all so unfair… he hadn’t wet the bed in simply ages, but now, he thought, everyone will think I have to wear pyjama pants every night.
He hung his head, too ashamed to look at his neighbour: “Seventeen, Mrs Turner.”
“I think it’s time we got you to the barber’s, Oliver. Say ‘bye-bye’ to Mrs Turner,” Pamela said as she and Rachel each took one of Oliver’s hands and led him down the road. They soon arrived at the barber’s. The little bell tinkled as they all entered the shop.
The barber looked up: “Back so soon, Oliver?”
Once more Oliver was ignored by his younger sister who took charge: “Oliver is going to visit his friend and will be staying the night. Mum wants you to give him a trim to smarten him up…”
Oliver looked around. There were a couple of customers waiting, but what drew his attention were the two boys who when they saw Oliver in his ridiculously small lederhosen, started giggling and pointing towards him. The boys can’t have been much older than twelve, or at the most thirteen; both were wearing denim jeans.
Nobody seemed to mind when they started to taunt and tease Oliver as he stood while his sister told the barber about Oliver’s haircut. The boys, it appeared had already had their haircuts and Oliver looked jealously at their neat, but much longer hair; hair that almost grazed the collars of their shirts and fringes that nearly touched the boys’ eyebrows. How come these boys were allowed stylish haircuts? How come they got to wear jeans? It was all so unfair, Oliver thought. He was seventeen and in the 6th Form, though you’d never guess to look at him. But the thing that really got to Oliver was that no one appeared to notice how embarrassed he was to be dressed in outfits like the lederhosen he was wearing, or how he looked. Quite the opposite. He got tired of the times he was told how nice he looked; how he was such a smart boy. All this attention just made Oliver feel a hundred, no a thousand times worse. He could see that no one in the barber’s was in the least concerned about the way he was being teased by the two younger boys. He knew that if he did complain he’d be told to grow up and ignore the teasing. But who was he to complain to? To Pamela, his sister... his younger sister? The young boys would love that, wouldn’t they? Watching a big boy like Oliver whining to his little sister about the teasing he was getting from two boys four or five years his junior.
It turned out the younger boys were waiting in the barber’s while their mums finished a spot of shopping, so Oliver was guaranteed an attentive audience when it was his turn for the barber’s chair…
… only Oliver didn’t actually get to sit in the barber’s chair, rather it was decided he should be put on the child’s seat. The child’s seat was simply a short plank of well-worn, polished wood that was placed across the arms of the barber’s chair and enabled a small child to be raised to a height whereby he could have his hair cut without having to spend the barber’s valuable time adjusting the chair. Perversely though in Oliver’s case, the chair had to be lowered in order for the barber to deal with Oliver’s haircut.
The reason for this somewhat unusual arrangement was because the barber pointed out that Oliver’s lederhosen might cause a build-up of static electricity when his bottom was pressed onto the leather seat of the chair. This was, of course, a preposterous suggestion, but enabled the barber to properly show off Oliver’s very bare legs especially when he choose one of his shorter child-sized capes that hardly covered anything more than the top of Oliver’s chest. The barber took time to ensure Oliver was properly positioned and took a firm hold of his bare thigh:
“Now keep quite still, Oliver… and no wriggling. It looks like you’ve been a naughty boy already today, judging by the red marks on your legs. I don’t want to have to add to them,” the barber said sternly.
Oliver glanced towards the leather strop hanging next to the electric clippers. He didn’t need to be reminded to what other use that particular item of barber-shop equipment could be put, so he allowed himself to be positioned on the child’s seat in full view of the other customers and of course the two younger boys. These two boys hadn’t been able to take their eyes off Oliver and couldn’t believe their good fortune in being able to watch Oliver’s all too evident embarrassment; this would be something to tell all their friends about.
Oliver would have agreed to just about anything at this juncture. He felt very exposed sat up on the child’s seat and the barber seemed to be in no rush to get started on his haircut. His hand was resting on Oliver’s thighs as he told him to keep his knees wide apart as this would help keep Oliver stable on the child’s seat. All this did was to make Oliver’s lederhosen feel tighter than ever as pushing his legs apart made the tiny leather shorts bite even more into him.
Eventually the barber pressed his hand down onto Oliver’s head and turned to Pamela:
“Right then, it looks as though Oliver’s hair needs shortening all over with scissors and comb… then I would recommend a few passes with the thinning scissors, followed by a no nonsense clipping…. and… let’s see… yes… I would strongly recommend the fine grade clippers to the nape of his neck…. and sides, too of course… How does that sound?”
“That sounds to be just what mum wanted, Mr Banks,” Pamela agreed. Oliver was not consulted at any point.
“Right then… we’re agreed?”
Pamela turned to Rachel who nodded her approval, at which Pamela looked back towards the barber who waited with his hand still pressed on Oliver’s head and announced: “Yes, Mr Banks… agreed.”
The two young boys snickered as they watched Oliver getting his haircut. Each time they caught sight of the older boy sat on the child’s seat they would poke their tongues out at him. If Mr Banks, the barber, saw them he said nothing, but he wasn’t beyond telling Oliver to keep still and to stop fidgeting, accompanying his words with the occasional sharp slap on one or the other of Oliver's exposed thighs.
Oliver had a long experience of what Mr Banks was capable of with regard to his haircut, but on this occasion the barber had surpassed himself. When Oliver looked in the mirror he was appalled by what he saw, but he was quickly distracted as Mr Banks began the ‘brush-down’. The brief cape was pulled from him as the barber used a neck brush to quickly remove loose hair from around the collar of Oliver’s shirt. Mr Banks flicked his way down the front of the shirt, pulling at the shoulder straps and front panel of the lederhosen as he did so.
“I think we may have to loosen Oliver’s lederhosen… some of his hair has got into his shirt....” he announced.
“That… that’s alright… I’ll, I’ll brush it out later,” Oliver was mortified at the thought of what might happen if Mr Banks tried to undo his lederhosen.
“Nonsense… I wouldn’t hear of any boy leaving my shop without a proper brush-down. It wouldn’t do my reputation any good at all if boys were sent home all covered in hair-clippings.”
“Please, Mr Banks…” Oliver pleaded with the barber, “Please… it’s…”
It was Pamela’s turn to show everyone she was in charge: “Oliver! Let Mr Banks do his job. If mum finds out you’ve been naughty…” She didn’t need to say anymore and simply left the words hanging in the air. The boys snickered some more as they watched Oliver’s young sister tick him off. This was priceless, they both thought.
Oliver sat still as Mr Banks loosened the buckles on the lederhosen and slipped the straps over Oliver’s shoulders. Without a word spoken Pamela stepped forward to help and started to unbutton Oliver’s Alpine shirt.
“It’s no good… the hair has got in everywhere…” Mr Banks said. “If we undo these buttons at the side of the shorts we might be able to pull the tails of the shirt free of the lederhosen…”
Oliver couldn’t believe Pamela would countenance such a measure, but to his astonishment (and a repeated threat of what would happen if mum found out) she agreed.
“Stand up on the chair,” Mr Banks ordered, “Stand up, it will be quite safe if you keep still…” Then he had an idea and turned to the two boys still sat watching the entertainment: “Lend a hand here boys… when Oliver stands up I want you both to grab hold of his legs so that he doesn’t fall…”
Anyone passing the shop must have wondered whether after all it was possible to travel faster than the speed of light, because in an instant two pairs of eager hands were holding Oliver’s legs. Two smiling boys’ faces were turned up, longing to watch what was going to happen next.
They didn’t have more than a few moments to wait, when to their delight Mr Banks succeeded in unbuttoning the side-buttons, the front panel flopped down and it was revealed that Oliver was not wearing any underpants!
There was an eager exchange between the boys:
“Cor!” they said as one. “Look at that!” “He hasn’t got any hairs!” “Cor!” they repeated.
But the expert eye of Mr Banks had spotted a tiny hair sprouting at the side of Oliver’s penis, just at the base. He knew it was Mrs Evan’s policy to keep Oliver ‘smooth and clean’ down there, so had no hesitation in turning to Pamela and asking her to please pass him the tweezers which were kept for the express purpose of removing boys’ unwanted pubic hair.
Oliver was most upset when he saw his younger sister pass the tweezers to Mr Banks and begged the barber not to pull the hair out.
“Don’t be such a baby,” Mr Banks chided Oliver, “You know it only stings for a second… then you’ll be as clean as a whistle…”
As he spoke these words Mr Banks took the rogue pube in the tweezers and gave it a gentle tug, just sufficient to raise the skin without pulling out the hair. Oliver bit his lower lip in anticipation. The boys gripped Oliver’s legs tightly and looked up with mouths open as Mr Banks tugged at the little hair.
Without prompting the boys started a countdown: “Three… Two… One!!!” and with one extra sharp tug, Mr Banks had the little hair out with his tweezers. He held the hair up for all to see, but as it was almost translucent it had to be looked at very closely to see it in the jaws of the tweezers.
Mr Banks handed the tweezers back to Pamela and recommenced Oliver’s ‘brush-down’. He flicked the brush on Oliver bare skin inside the open shirt which tickled the boy so much he started to wriggle.
“Keep still Oliver!” Pamela told her brother, “Keep still while Mr Banks tidies you up.”
The young boys held Oliver’s legs tightly as Mr Banks continued to tickle Oliver with the brush until he was brushing where a few moments ago he had pulled out the tiny pubic hair.
Mr Banks calmly brushed around the base of Oliver’s penis. Oliver was beside himself as he felt the soft, feathery brush, but managed to control himself to the extent that he let out a sigh of relief as Mr Banks' little brush passed on down to his legs. A few more flicks of the brush and Oliver was at last allowed to sit back down in the chair. For a moment he thought Mr Banks was going to spare him the pungent, greasy hair-cream that Oliver was sure he kept for him alone as he never saw anyone else having their hair smeared with the yucky white ungent-like, smelly stuff.
Oliver watched as Mr Banks put the neck-brush back the shelf and tidied up the various combs and clippers he’d been using. Then he reached up for the jar of hair-cream and Oliver stared ahead, looking at himself in the mirror as Mr Banks unscrewed the top of the jar.
“Can’t have you going home without some hair-cream to keep your hair nice and tidy…”
Oliver winced as a big dollop of the oily, medicated cream was deposited on his head. The smell turned Oliver’s stomach and he felt the cream trickle past his left ear as Mr Banks put the lid back on the jar and put it back on the shelf. The barber placed both hands on Oliver’s head and started to rub the cream vigorously into the scalp.
What little hair Oliver had left was plastered onto his head as Mr Banks finished off by using his comb to give it a neat side parting and a sweet little-boy ‘cow-lick’ fringe.
Finally Mr Banks picked up the hand-mirror so that Oliver could see the back and sides of his head.
“What do you think, Oliver? Is that smart enough?” he asked.
Oliver thought he looked like a laughing-stock, but knew better than to say so. He hesitated and had to be prompted by Pamela:
“Say ‘thank you for your nice haircut’ to Mr Banks, Oliver.”
Oliver looked at Mr Banks in the mirror:
“Thank you, Mr Banks… Err, thank you for my haircut…” he stuttered.
“Thank you for my nice haircut, Oliver…” Pamela corrected him.
Oliver glanced at his sister and then back at Mr Banks. He daren’t risk mum finding out he’s been ‘uncooperative’, so repeated the words: “Thank you for my nice haircut, Mr Banks…”
At last Oliver, Pamela and Rachel left the barber’s shop and Oliver remembered what was next on the morning’s itinerary.
The old-fashioned, family-run chemists shop was a couple of doors down from the barber’s. As Oliver walked along between his sister and her friend he felt very self-conscious wearing the tight leather shorts… his bare, long legs were also very cold. Fortunately for Oliver it wasn’t long before they were inside the shop. However, Oliver was not very pleased to see the other customers who were waiting for prescriptions to be filled. This could be even more embarrassing than Oliver thought.
Oliver hung back with Rachel as Pamela approached the counter.
“And how can I help you today?” the lady behind the counter asked.
“It’s for my brother, Oliver....” Pamela explained in her normal speaking voice, “He’s going to be staying away from home and mum’s worried that he might wet the bed there, so she’s asked me to buy some, some… oh dear me, what are they called, Oliver… pyjama something…”
Unfortunately for Oliver in the small shop his sister’s voice was clear enough to be heard by the other customers and heads were turned to look at the tall boy dressed in lederhosen with his freshly cut and very short hair.
“Um… pyjama pants, sis…” Oliver answered blushing nervously.
Pamela turned back to the lady behind the counter: “That’s it… pyjama pants. Mum likes Oliver to wear pyjama pants when he stays away from home…”
“I understand… boys are easily upset when they have a change of routine,” the lady said, “It’s as well to take precautions… there’s nothing worse than cleaning up after a bed-wetter. Now, how old is your brother?”
“He’s seventeen,” Pamela said perfectly calmly.
There were a few raised eyebrows among the other customers, but the lady behind the counter was quite unperturbed: “Let’s see now… boys’ DryNite pyjama pants…” she said as she looked along the shelves and drawers that covered the wall behind the counter. “How old did you say your brother was?”
“You see strictly speaking DryNite pyjama pants are for boys up to fifteen years old, but your brother is seventeen…” the lady explained, “I don’t suppose it will make that much difference as long as he isn’t allowed to have too many fizzy drinks before bedtime! Sugary drinks and too much excitement are best avoided when it comes to bedtime. Now, let’s see… I’ve got a pyjama pants sample for older boys… come over here and we’ll see if you measure up.”
Oliver felt Rachel’s hand on his shoulder as he was encouraged to step forwards towards the counter. The lady stepped out from behind the counter and held the pyjama pants sample to Oliver’s waist.
“Oh, there’s plenty of ‘give’ in the elastic,” the lady said, “They don’t look too small. I’m sure he’ll be quite comfortable wearing his pyjama pants… better to be safe than sorry. eh?” she added, addressing Oliver.
“Yes, miss…” he replied, trying not look, but aware that everyone in the shop was looking at him and the pyjama pants being held against his waist.
Oliver just wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. He was so embarrassed. He could feel the pyjama pants rubbing against his thighs as the lady fussed around him. And now everyone in the shop must think he was still wetting his bed… everyone would think his mum made him wear pyjama pants to bed every night. It just wasn’t fair!
Pamela spoke: “Do you have pyjama pants in different patterns?”
“Oh yes…” the lady replied, “The boys’ pyjama pants have all sorts of different designs… Let me see, there are motorbikes, or guitars, there’s even one with a big dinosaur on the front… that’s very popular with the younger boys.”
“It’s just that mum said Oliver could choose the design as a special treat…”
“Well that is kind of her,” the lady said, once more behind the counter, “Which design is it to be then?” she asked smiling sweetly at a red-faced Oliver.
Oliver thought for a moment. Of all the designs he preferred the dinosaur, but if little boys chose that one he’d better choose something else. In the end it was the motorbike design he asked for and was duly given a pack of them to carry home.
“I do hope Oliver doesn’t have a little accident… but as long as he wears his pyjama pants to bed he’ll be safe and sound… and don’t forget, no fizzy pop before bedtime!” the lady said as Pamela, Rachel and Oliver left the shop.
“Wasn’t she a helpful lady?” Rachel said as they made they way back down the street.
“Yes… very helpful… wasn’t she, Oliver?” Pamela agreed.
Oliver didn’t say anything. He was lost in his own thoughts about how cold his bare legs were; how uncomfortable his tight-fitting lederhosen was; how he hated his new haircut; how embarrassed he’d been in the chemist’s shop buying his DryNites pyjama pants…
He felt a sudden sharp -smack- on the top of his left leg. This time it was Rachel who had slapped him.
“Oliver, your sister asked you a question,” Rachel reminded him, “And she’s waiting for an answer.”
“Sorry… um… yes…” Oliver mumbled.
“Yes… what?” Rachel persisted.
“Yes… the, er, lady in the shop… was, er, helpful…” Oliver said.
“That’s better…” Rachel said as the three of them walked on.
Oliver decided he was not looking forward to his sleepover with Stephen after all.