*”‘Back again to torment my soul, are you? Look at this fine English lord! Oh, he fancies fifty grams a serving, does he?’ – The Shopkeeper Roared*

**Diary Entry A Tale of the Little Lord and Auntie Clara**

That boy had the nerve to show up again, didnt he? Right there, bold as brass, like some little English lord! Fancy him, demanding his fifty grams like its his birthright!

The shopkeepers voice boomed through the grocers, rattling the windows. But the boy just lifted his ginger kittenbright as a summer sunsetand held it up. Oddly, the creature didnt flinch at Auntie Claras thunderous glare. Instead, it wriggled free, leapt onto the counter, and rubbed its tiny head against her grubby white apron.

Youve seen women like Auntie Clara beforecarved from stone, solid as an oak, with a face that could curdle milk. No one dared meet her eye. Not properly. It was always the same: fury, scorn, and a simmering resentment, as if she might tilt her head back and bellow at the heavens, *”Lord above, why must I serve this lot?”*

Clara was a shopkeeper through and throughnot just by trade but by nature. She served customers with her fists planted where her waist ought to be, glaring so fiercely even the bravest man would shrink back, mumbling his order like an apology. And woe betide anyone who dared argueher face would darken like a storm cloud, her fists slamming onto the counter, and that roarlike a lionswould send the queue ducking for cover.

But this boythis cheeky little scamp of tenhad the gall to come in every week, plonking down his handful of coins with the same quiet plea: *”Auntie Clara, please, fifty grams of the milk sausage.”*

Shed flush scarlet, then pale, then grey. *”Here again, are you?”* shed thunder. *”Fifty grams, like you own the place!”* Shed glare at the queue, daring anyone to side with him. But the boy never faltered. Hed just fix her with those sky-blue eyes and say, *”Please, Auntie Clara. I really need it.”*

And somehow, every time, shed grumblebut shed slice the sausage.

Today, though, Auntie Clara was in a mood. The shop was silent, tense. Even the other shop girls avoided looking her way. She flung parcels of meat across the counter, snarlinguntil *he* appeared again, peeking over the edge, those blue eyes wide.

*”Auntie Clara,”* he whispered, *”I havent any money today. But I really need it. Could you spare fifty grams? Ill pay you back, I swear.”*

The audacity! The sheer cheek of it!

Auntie Clara turned purple. Then white. Then she *roared*a sound so mighty the drunkard by the door dropped his bottle of gin, shattering it across the floor.

*”Youyou little toff! Come to give me a heart attack, have you?”* Her fist rose, trembling. The queue winced, clutching their chests.

But the boy didnt flinch. *”Hes hungry,”* he said softly. *”Mum forgot my breakfast money.”* Then he lifted the kitten again.

The ginger scrap, instead of cowering, squirmed free, trotted right up to Auntie Clara, and nuzzled her apron.

A gasp rippled through the shop. They all expected her to crush the thing like a fly. But insteadshe *paused*. She stared. Then, slowly, she scooped it up.

*”So this is it, eh?”* she growled. *”Spending your mums breakfast money on this flea-bitten thing?”*

*”Aye,”* the boy admitted. *”But Ill pay you back tomorrow.”*

The sweet-shop girl burst into tears, thrusting a fiver into his hand.

*”DONT YOU DARE!”* Auntie Clara bellowed, making the windows shudder. She turned back to the boy, scowlingthen hacked off a thick slice of milk sausage, tossing it into a bag. *”This is for you *and* your mum,”* she muttered, adding an entire ring of smoked Cumberland.

The queue gaped. The sweet-shop girl dropped her money. The drunk scrambled up and slunk out, hiding his new bottle in his trousers.

*”And this thieving little beggar,”* Auntie Clara grunted, *”stays with me. Needs a mouser on the stockroom.”*

The kitten purred, rubbing against her.

From that day on, the shop had two catsone ginger, one grey. The boy still visits, dragging in strays. All the shop girls feed them, but the cats? They always favour Auntie Claraclimbing over her, purring, while she grumbles and swears and *strokes them*.

And the queue? They smile.

Just a tale of a boy called the Little Lord, a ginger scrap of a cat, some sausage, and a shopkeeper with fists like hammersand a heart, hidden deep beneath.

What do you make of that?