Kids are really horrible.
I’m legally obliged to ‘like’ (air-quotes very much intended) the ones that I hatched, but where the reach of statute ends, so funnily enough does my ability to tolerate everyone elses.
That’s usually okay because I’m generally either at work (no Chuckies there) or at home (have negotiated an uneasy truce with the home-grown Chuckies) but I can’t be expected to hide in my bedroom or under my desk forever.
It’s a national issue.
Having given it a great deal of thought, I’m not at all sure that the Chucklets are the whole of the problem, shouldn’t the Chucklet-Owners be expected to contain their particular little handfuls to certain, prescribed geographical areas, so that the rest of us can go about our adult, daily lives without having to well, how can I put it nicely, be bothered by them?
Using the same survival instinct that prevents me from attempting to stop for a Pasta-On-The-Go in the monkey enclosure at Woburn Abbey, I avoid play-parks like the plague.
Visits to school playgrounds (even when I’ve been formally
forced to turn up by the headmistress invited) are inevitably followed by a thumping headache.
An invite to a play-date at an indoor soft fun centre? Sorry, can’t, I think my house might be on fire.
Disneyland? Hell no.
Animated films? Only if there’s a restaurant near the cinema so I can get the exactly same amount of drunk that allows people to think that the swimming pool, that’s actually on the other side of the building, is close enough to their balcony for them to be able to dive into from their twelfth-floor hotel room.
You know the level of drunk I’m talkin’ bout.
MacDonald’s, National Trust gardens, Alton Towers and Lego Land.
No. No. And Christ No.
So, my point is this; if I can allow the Chucklets and the Owners inhabit these environments with a free and happy heart, why can I not expect the same courtesy in return?
Is it so unreasonable for me to expect to walk into a coffee shop without having to force my way through a field of buggies, lactating fat-birds (Oh yeah. In a coffee shop. Baps out. I’ve seen it with my own eyes) and the very real danger that some out-of-control-Chuckie is going to barge into my knees while I’m carry a tray with four steaming hot lattes and a Tuna Melt on it.
No, please don’t try and catch my eye. It really isn’t ‘just precious’ when your kid is using his soup spoon as a Spaghetti-Raquet. I think its behaviour worthy of a padded cell and if it points that thing in my direction, I tell you now, one of us will be sleeping in a cell tonight.
Get out, get out, get out.
Pubs are for pulling fit blokes. Talking about sex, sometimes (if you’re lucky) actually having sex, (that’s a whole ‘nother diary entry) gossiping, bitching, perching on bar-stools looking fabulous and even if you don’t always do any or all of the above, most importantly, they’re for indulging in the consumption of liquor, behaving a bit worse than you normally would, and having over 18 type fun.
So please, Chucklet-Owners everywhere, heed my words.
Please keep Chuckie on his side of the monkey enclosure.
Our patience for the worshiping of your Child-King is wearing thin.
There, I said it.