Monday, 27 February 2012

Random children are the bane of my existence

Not your child, of course. Nor the child of people I know. It's children of people I don't know. The lesser spotted child. Random child. It's as if they're conditioned by parents in labs resembling something from Bourne films:

MUMMY:   Your mission Timothy is to track down this pair.
                     (PASSES PHOTO OF ME AND BUG)
                 Once found I want you to neutralize them. Neutralize them both.

TIMOTHY: I don't think I can Mummy.

MUMMY:    It's what we trained for.

TIMOTHY:  I know. I'm sorry Mummy.

MUMMY:    Well, what do you think you can do?

TIMOTHY: How about I wait until the baby's asleep, then ride by on my bike and just
                  shout really loud as I pass them?

MUMMY:    What will you shout?

TIMOTHY:  A series of elongated vowels. I'll then turn around and ride off.

MUMMY:    Will it work?

TIMOTHY:   It'll have to.

And it normally does. Children on bikes, normally rotund boys (never girls, which is weird because they have a song and everything) pass us all the time screaming primordially. This always wakes Bug.

They're on buses too, sans bike. Bug had fallen asleep in the sling on the way back from the museum last week. A woman got on with her son. I noticed that the kid, around Bug's age, was playing with a plastic bag. Screaming and rustling his plastic bag.

I kept thinking: that crazy woman's letting her son play with a plastic bag.

His excitement was beginning to wake Bug. Every time he screamed, Bug stirred.

Bag rustles. Boy screams. Bug stirs.

Now I'm thinking: that crazy woman's letting him play with a plastic bag. It's not even keeping him quiet.

Bag rustles. Boy screams. Bug stirs.

Now I'm angrily thinking: that crazy woman's letting him play with a plastic bag and if health and safety's taught me anything it's that plastic bags are pretty fucking good at keeping little boys quiet.

Bag rustles. Boy screams. Bug wakes.

Dad grumps.

Another day, another child. While swinging on swings at the park, I heard a women scream “say hello, Thomas!” I couldn't see the woman or Thomas. I spent a while pushing Bug and wondering why Thomas was in need of hardcore politeness training.

Later we were by the slide when out of nowhere a boy came sprinting towards Bug, fist drawn and ready to punch. It was something out of a war movie, the only thing missing a hunting knife and a milk teeth necklace. He looked three months older than Bug.

“No Thomas!” screamed his Mother trying to catch him. “Say hello!”

Thomas stopped inches from Bug's face and spat “hello!” fist hovering. He then backed away, never taking his eyes or laser guided fist off my daughter.

'They're all like that at that age,' laughed his Mother nervously.

'What? I replied. 'Fucking psychotic?'

Random children. They're like nuclear missiles: you can see them coming but you can do fuck all about it.

Bye for now



We are teaching Bug about things that grow:

When grown we're going to sell the beans to a gullible giant. This one's for you, Jack.

No comments:

Post a Comment