On the bus this morning my eye was directed towards a little scene taking place on the pavement, or rather, in the middle of a crowded London street. A woman had taken it on herself to drop her young sons trousers, produce a potty from her bag and plonk him right down on it, right there and then. She then had the fucking audacity to kneel beside him and quite obviously egg him on. I’ve no idea what the kid was about to pass but his little red face suggested it wasn’t just a straightforward piss. People passing by delivered a variety of expressions from the bemused to the amused, disparagement to utter disgust. I was in the latter camp. What the fuck has this country come to when some women thinks it’s perfectly acceptable to firstly display her toddlers peas to the whole world prior to not only allowing him to defecate in a public place but to actively will on its passage? They must have been Dutch.
It would be a pretty poor show, I feel, if we all carried on in this manner. The natural conclusion to such a break down of societies values would be to make it acceptable for adults to carry on in the same casual manner. Imagine some skateboarder doing an ollie only to remove his rucksack, produce a Tony Hawk signature Vans potty and ‘cack it off’ there and then.
I’m in a dreadful mood, last night I suggested to Myfwt that my hair needed a trim, before I was in a position to say when and where I’d been dragged into the bathroom and set upon by a drunken girl and some scissors. Full of Pinot Grigio I didn’t put up much of a fight, besides if she pulled it off I could save myself a few quid and anyway her confidence had disarmed me. This was an error, after a few snips her deadly serious Paul Mitchell expression cracked into a huge laughing face. I’m sitting here typing this with a flight of stairs carved into the side of my head. An appointment to a professional has been made.
But that’s not the real reason I’m in a bad mood, it’s because, you’ll note, I arrived here this morning by bus. Tonight there is another fucking works do, this time our annual outing takes us to the BBC fucking Proms at The Royal Albert Hall. God, if it’s not bad enough having to spend the most part of a day with my colleagues but to have to spend additional time with them outside a workplace engaging in an activity so fucking dull I’d have more stimulation picking bits of sweet corn out of my own shit with a blunt pencil.
We’re all still waiting for my sister to drop, I demand to know whether I’m going to be an uncle to a niece or a nephew but she’s selfishly late, nearly a bloody week now. I’ve not been an uncle before, the anticipation of my new role is frankly interrupting my routine and I’m too impatient to relax in my day-to-day life.
By means of distracting and to at least do something to prepare myself for the role I’ve already made a small purchase. A bag of Werthers, I think I’m going to be a fucking brilliant uncle, I really do.