Two Temper Tantrums and a Packet of Crisps…

I witnessed this week the thing the thing that most mums dread and all will have experienced at one point or other – the public temper tantrum.

This one was conducted by a small lad, not much older than my three year daughter, in Sainsburys. He was lying on the floor – face down in a star position screaming:

“I WANT POOH…!!”

I assumed he was referring to a promotional toothpaste, biscuit or toilet roll. Not an actual piece of faecal matter

The poor frazzled mum was trying hard to remain calm and focused, as the customers around her glared and tutted (apart from the parents of toddlers – we just shot her sympathetic looks and inwardly felt relief that it wasn’t us – THIS TIME)

I relayed this story later to a friend, describing the snot ridden boy and the fact that most people were horrified by his quite normal behaviour.

She laughed and proceeded to tell about her recent experience on a bus (yes – I know, another bus story) when her daughter kicked off. A woman in front of her took exception to the little girl’s tears and turned round, asking my friend not so politely if she could “quieten her down”

My friend, feeling a bit uncomfortable and wanting to avoid confrontation, dug around in her bag and found a bag of Wotsits which she decided would “do the job”

And they did, as the girl munched away happily not making a sound. That was until a huge sneeze overcame her and made her cry again.

This wasn’t so bad, as the nasty woman got off at the next stop – complete with tiny flecks of Wotsits stuck in her perfectly blow-dried hair.

My friend didn’t have the heart (or courage) to tell her.

Maybe people should learn to be more tolerant…

My Dad – The Weed Grower


a photo by Ritula on Flickr.

My dear old dad’s ears must burn everytime I make a post – wondering what the hell I’m writing about next.

He is a sweetie really, just a little eccentric. He is also a bit of a paradox, one of the most intelligent people I know (what he doesn’t know about Shakespeare or classical music isn’t worth knowing) but one sip of Tennants Extra Strengh Lager and he turns into Frank Gallagher.

He once brought a plant home and kept it in the outside toliet. Some bloke called Dave had given to him as a gift.

“It’s so pretty – look at the flowers” He would say, watering it with care.

It took a few weeks until he found out he was actually growing cannabis in his bog.

He’s also a man of contradictions. He will sit, arms folded and lips upturned at a plate of pasta and state:

“B****r off, I’m not eating that foreign muck!”

And yet the next minute, he’ll be creating a curry with flourish:

“But curries are different aren’t they…”

Different how, I’m not sure…

Yesterday he was offered the chance to have some Chilli, but he shook his head vehemently:

“Oh no – that’s stuff is no good for me. But I do like a good Con Carne…”