Paradoxically Yours...

Hey, Small Spender (revised)

**Author's Note:

I've sought opinions from experts, other authors, seasoned readers and casual, relatively inexperienced readers, and been given many suggestions and thoughts to experiment with.

At this stage I'm happy with the changes I've chosen and the resulting story. I'm leaving the original version here in my collection for a little, if anyone wants to compare the two - and then I'll replace the original with this revised work.

(prompt: 'money' 8/12/2017)

The King was in his counting house,

Counting out his money;

His little princess perched next to him,

Seriously cute... and funny.

I know if she wriggles too much, she's likely to fall off the cushions piled on top of the chair to make her tall enough for her most serious after tea job.

The adult me whispers to that child of memory, stay still and concentrate. There'll be no more lovely nightly ritual if you don't. And then I see her lip drop and quiver. And the eyes! Ahh OK then... just ONE small wriggle, but hold on tight. Can't help a smile as I see the small Christine grin her cheekiest.

There were arms on that chair. She knew she was safe. Besides, her darling dad was there to prop her back up if she faltered. But I won't! she mouths, across those years between then and now. As her attention shifted to fixate on Dad with adoration, I chuckle at my mental picture of the two of them.

Whilst his small daughter was perfecting her balancing act, Dad had opened the huge silver cash register in his shop with a secret code. A sharp pull of the handle and the money drawer would spring out to reveal its tray of myriad compartments separating various notes held firmly in place by spring clips, and coin divisions in a removable container for ease of counting the day's takings.

These many years later, I imagine he felt much like that king of the rhyme above, accompanied by his small but trusty assistant teller, always and ever chattering about something, whilst solemnly stacking the coins in their correct denominations. He smiled most fondly as he collected the carefully piled coins and tipped them into small paper bags marked with different values.

The talkative child of yesteryear couldn't help herself asking, "Did Bob and Barry and Jenny all help you like I do, Dad? Did they count the money too? And did they have to sit on cushions, too? And—"

He interrupted her with a kiss on top of her head. "Ohh barleys, you little possum. One question at a time, if you don't mind." He saw his trusty sidekick drawing breath to roll on again, so he answered quickly. "No, they didn't help me. They were too busy being playmates with each other. Now shhh!" and he tried to look stern and make his voice tough. He tried, but failed dismally.

I'm smiling again, remembering a time many years later (in my terrible teens) when he did growl - more gently and lovingly than I've ever known. And made me cry for the shame I felt.

Dad was certain a career involving numbers awaited me. Accountancy maybe, or banking. But no. The 'assistant teller' finally became a wordsmith, because numbers simply don't sing.

What that child did have was a total fascination with Dad's handwriting; the most beautiful script, complete with the proscribed light upward and firm downward strokes.

I have no doubt this admiration gave birth to my love of words and writing.

Me either, I seem to hear that 'little possum' whisper.