I stopped at the local hardware store on my way back from collecting Susie from the playschool. I was determined to start a thorough clean-up for Christmas and needed extra cleaning supplies. Susie was not impressed; she didn’t look as sick as the creche worker had suggested. I half-suspected she’d faked it, but she was under three years old — hardly that clever.

A sudden crash, bang, wallop echoed in the aisle behind me, causing me to jump.

“Shit, Susie, what have you done?” I said, pulling her soft hand behind me. “I told you not to touch anything!”

She didn’t react, except to ask, “When am I getting treats, Mummy?”

“Soon, darling,” I said, bending down to her level. “Mummy told you we have to wait and see how your tummy is. There are treats in the cupboard at home. Remember? The shops are all sold out.”

Just then, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see a dark-haired lady with a distinct birthmark on her cheek staring at me.

“Sorry, but your kid just knocked over a vase in row four,” she said in a flat Midlands accent. “Did you not read the sign at the entrance?”

“A sign,” I said, my shoulders rising. “Can’t you see I’m with a toddler? You don’t get much time to stop and read signs.”

“Toddler or no toddler,” she said, puffing out her chest, “she’s your responsibility. And the sign clearly says all breakages must be paid for.”

This day couldn’t get much worse, I thought to myself.

“Are you serious?” I said, trying to hold my nerve. “She is barely two feet tall. How low down was the vase — and what value are we talking here?”

“It’s priced at €150,” she said, folding her arms across her chest.

“Mummy, I want to go to the toilet,” Susie screeched at the top of her lungs from further down the aisle.

“I’m coming, darling,” I said, craning my neck to see where she was, spotting her little brown woolly coat.

“You must be joking,” I said to the sales agent. “Do you have it on camera? I’m not convinced my daughter did it.”

“We don’t have cameras installed,” she said, now standing with her arms folded and her legs planted further apart.

“Well, without proof, I’m not paying,” I said, holding back tears, unaware of Susie’s growing impatience. She ran towards me shouting “Mummy, mummy”—and then, without warning, she threw up all over the sales agent’s black patent shoes.

I almost wanted to hug her at that moment, and was about to chuckle when I caught the lady’s horrified reaction. The mess was the worst possible colour — like she’d just eaten a mountain of pureed carrots — and it smelt unmistakably like rotten eggs.

The sales agent gasped before turning and rushing towards the staff door at the back of the shop. Susie looked up at me with her bright blue eyes and melted my heart.

I sighed, grabbed a packet of wipes from my handbag, and did what any mother would do — started cleaning up the evidence, gagging twice in the process. Christmas cleaning could wait; I needed to get my best girl home.

On my way out, I noticed a stray collie, looking somewhat guilty, with a shard of crystal stuck to its back. It seems it wasn’t Susie after all.