The husband and I need fret not a minute longer about our non-existent pensions. For our middle child is going to be the next Richard Branson and we shall enter our twilight years rich beyond our wildest dreams.
My boy and his friend have set up their own business, selling miscellaneous items of various worth (2p all the way up to 10p, with some luxury items up to £1) to friends and neighbours.
They have set up a stall of sorts on the pathway at the front of our house. It’s a very quiet cul-de-sac so there’s not a lot of footfall. But they are thinking big and if they are to be millionaires they have to start somewhere.
They stock a wide range of items – when I drove past today I was offered a half chewed pencil void of a lead for 10p. I passed on that but was interested in a black DVD player remote control that looked awfully like the one we own, it even had the same black electrical tape that our one has sported since Finn broke it in half trying to hammer imaginary nails into a wall.
I bought said item for the extortionate price of 40p.
Caolan has so far pedalled the entire contents of his own pencil case and a good portion of his brother’s.
He sells works of original art, mainly pencil sketches of stick men with guns and colourfully attired zombies, at discount prices.
Entire unopened packets of biscuits have been going missing. When questioned, the child told me he is selling them to his friends at 5p a pop at his stall. Taking into account his costs, labour, rent and rates, he is still making a profit of 75p per packet. Which in my eyes is a business victory.
I got an inkling he had a business mind when I took him shopping. I had picked up 20p change from the car instead of a £1 coin I needed for the trolley. When we walked all the way to the shop I discovered my mistake. The boy announced that he had £1 in his pocket and that I could have it only if at the end of the shopping expedition he could have the £1 and the 20p by means of accumulated interest.
There are no flies on him.
I remember having my own business at his age. Myself and my friend from across the street fancied ourselves as miniature florists. There was a lady in our street who had a gigantic overgrown bush at the front of her house, which would burst into bloom for two weeks of the year with magnificent magenta flowers. My friend and I would wait until the flowers were almost ready to fall off, pick a few, mix them with some greenery and sell them to our neighbours for a staggering 20p a bunch.
We actually met the lady who owned the bush on our travels. She asked us where we got the lovely flowers. We lied, told her we gathered them from another location, and to our shame she bought her own flowers off us. We only charged her half price at 10p. We did have morals.
I remember the sheer joy we felt counting our profits. £1.30. We thought we were millionaires. We bought so many sweets in the shop we need an actual plastic bag to put them in. We ate them all and my friend was sick on her living room rug, which is always a sure sign of a good time.
So I’ll let my boy keep his stall, and I’ll encourage his mini-entrepreneurial spirit. For it is he who will be paying for myself and the husband's terribly posh and expensive old folks home further down the line.
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