Little Pitchers….

When I was little my Mum used to say to me (wise old woman that she is):

“little pitchers have big ears.”

Which totally confused me, because I thought she was talking about paintings on the wall. Therefore I assumed she had completely lost the plot.

Thinking about it, this same ‘wise woman’ used to say (if she suspected it was a going to be a nice day):

“there’s enough blue (sky) to make a Dutchman a pair of trousers”

So she clearly isn’t right in the head…

Anyway, her first expression came to my mind this week when taking my daughter out for a walk with a friend.

My little girl, like most three year olds, likes to point out everything in passing and asking what it is. This could be anything from a buttercup to a discarded TV aerial (yes, we passed one today)

It just so happened that on this day, we passed a large Victorian building that is currently being used as some kind of detention centre.

My daughter stared at the couple of young men leaning lazily smoking against the doorway and asked loudly “What is that place for?”

“It’s like a very big school.” I answered quickly.

“For those big men?” She asked pointing.

“Erm…yes…” I sort of tugged her away and then whispered at my friend “at least they thought they were big – silly bastards.”

“Are they a bastard?” Came her little voice, suddenly not so little. And her finger was still pointing.

I didn’t dare look as I dragged her away.

So yes, little pitchers do indeed have very big ears.

And loud mouth mummies have very red cheeks.

a photo by Fire 'n Ice on Flickr.

Just My Imagination…


a photo by Sharon Mack -on Flickr

I have got a problem, a condition if you like – an overractive imagination. I guess this can be handy in some cases, but in many in can be a pain in the arse!

This week was a prime example. I was in the park with my daughter. It’s a small park, concealed by trees and rather hidden away. In most instances this is a blessing, and as I sat lazing in the late afternoon sun watching my daughter clamber up and down the slide pretending to be an elephant – I was appreciating the fact that no other bugger was there.

This was until the gate creaked open and a man staggered in. This man was hairy. Very hairy in fact….And was carrying a bundle of what looked like rags.

He was probably harmless, and there was probably nothing wrong with him – he might have even been the local vicar having an off day – but as he sat on the bench opposite me, staring, he really started to freak me out.

And so my imagination started to kick in…

I decided that this hairiest of men had evil eyes, and concealed in his bundle was a knife. I glanced at the bundle again and considered whether there could have been blood stains on those rags – my tummy lurched.

Suddenly I could see a scene emerging before me. The man would spring forward with the grace of a gazelle – grabbing my daughter whilst screaming devil-like chants. This would prompt me to jump up in a superhuman response and run to him, yelling like a crazed banshee. I would wrestle him to the ground – getting stabbed in the process.

My brain continued to tick over. Would my daughter have the sense to run? Would she be able to open the stiff gate? Had I taught her what to do in such instances? Should I? Or would that scare her half to death?

A bubble of panic was rising inside of me. Meanwhile, Mr Hairy was still on the bench. He was still hairy and I swear he was starting to twitch.

So I took action. I walked casually (I thought) over to my daughter (by now making elephant noises – not easy) and told her softly that we should go.

“I have something to show you…” I said, trying to tempt her, feeling guilty that she had only had ten minutes

“Where?” She was suspicious.

“Over there…” I pointed vaguely towards the nearby allotments.

My daughter did not look convinced.

“Don’t want to go!”

“It’s really exciting! It’s magical!” I continued, wondering what the hell I would show her. A broken wheelbarrow? A planted marrow?

I was half dragging her out now, feeling (i was convinced) Mr Hairy’s glare, picturing him running after us – knife in hand.

Just outside the gate my daughter looked at me in digust “You’re silly..”

“We had to leave that man alone” I whispered, trying to explain. “He needs some peace and quiet”

“WHAT MAN?” my daughter then shouted. “IS HE SMELLY?”

I think we can safely assume that if Mr Hairy was indeed phychotic, his switch would have flicked there and then and I would not be here typing this story….

My bloody brain has a lot to answer for!