*”Oh, so the fancy English lord’s back to torment me, is he? Look at him, putting on airs—fifty grams at a time, if you please!”*—The Shopkeeper’s Roar*

**Diary Entry**

Honestly, I never thought Id write about this, but today was too strange to forget.

It started as usualAuntie Marge behind the counter at the local grocers, scowling like a thundercloud. No one dared meet her eye for long. She was built like a brick wall, with a face carved from granite, always twisted in the same expression: pure disdain. As if she might tilt her head back and shout at the heavens, *”Why must I serve these people?”*

She was a shopkeepernot just by trade, but by nature. Hands like hammers planted on her hips, boring holes into anyone foolish enough to make a fuss. Most men shrank under her glare, mumbling apologies as they asked for their sausages.

But then there was *him*.

A cheeky lad, no older than ten, who had the gall to show upregular as clockworkand slide a handful of small change across the counter. His voice was soft, but steady: *”Auntie Marge, please, could I have fifty grams of luncheon meat?”*

Shed turn beetroot, then pale, then nearly grey. *”Here again, are we?”* shed bellow, shaking the windows. *”Fifty grams, like some posh little lord!”*

But the boy never flinched. Just looked up with those sky-blue eyes and repeated, *”Please, Auntie Marge. I really need it.”*

And somehowagainst all oddsshed huff, grumble, and slice the meat.

Today, though, was different.

The shop was tense, everyone holding their breath as Auntie Marge barked orders. Then, from under the counter, popped that same blond head.

*”Auntie Marge,”* he whispered, *”Ive no money today. But I need it. Could you give me fifty grams? Ill pay you back later.”*

The audacity. The *sacrilege*.

Auntie Marge turned purple. A roar erupted from herlike a lionsand half the shop ducked. A drunk fumbling with a bottle of gin dropped it, glass shattering everywhere.

*”You rotten little toff!”* she thundered, raising a fist like a mallet.

But the boy didnt budge. Instead, he lifted a tiny ginger kittenbright as sunshinetoward her.

The creature, faced with Auntie Marges terrifying glare, didnt cower. It wriggled free, leaped onto the counter, and nuzzled into her stained white apron, purring like mad.

The shop *groaned* in collective horror.

Auntie Marge went through three shades of red before snatching the kitten up. It mewled and booped her nose.

*”So,”* she growled, *”this is where your mums breakfast moneys been going? Every dayfifty gramsfor this freeloader?”*

The boy nodded. *”But Ill pay you back. Promise.”*

The sweet shop girl burst into tears and tried to shove a fiver into his hand.

*”Dont you dare!”* Auntie Marge barked, rattling the shelves. Thenalmost gentlyshe sliced not just the luncheon meat, but an entire ring of smoked sausage, too.

The queue *gaped*.

*”And leave this cheeky mite with me,”* she added, cradling the kitten. *”Need a mouser for the stockroom.”*

The shop softened. Even Auntie Margethough shed *never* admit itstroked that ginger fur like it was spun gold.

Now, there are two cats in that shop. One ginger, one grey. And that blue-eyed “lord” brought the second one. The staff all feed them, but the cats? They worship Auntie Margetripping her up, purring underfoot, while she grumbles and swears and smiles.

Funny, isnt it? How the hardest hearts sometimes hide the softest spots.