Darth Baby and I were at the Magic Yellow Bus yesterday. I
managed to put my foot in it with some sub-urbanites.
Inner-city types like to think that they're open-minded and anything goes, but really, apart from that one embarrassing threesome at uni, they're less daring than the septuagenarian tranny at the Rooty Hill RSL who vows that Danny La Rou will make a triumphant return. (That lovely lady will be back, I’m sure of it. She didn’t appear that
ill.)
Darth Baby was making his way through the miniature
earth-moving equipment on the play mat to mug a pigeon, when one of the women
supervising said to me, “Why don’t you sit down and join in?”
I am 20 years older than most people schlepping around with
their kids on the play mats. Getting up and down isn’t something that I ‘just
do’. I need notice and pants that are going to retain
my dignity and not need to have every pocket unloaded to get down there.
More
to the point, Darth Baby moves fast. There is no point in getting settled when
he can outflank and out-manoeuvre in seconds. Better to retain a war-room
overview… utilizing air-superiority.
Ignorant of the above, another woman said, “Here’s a spot…
just here”, and it was then that politeness dictated I respond. I thought I'd deflect by making light.
“Thanks, but I’ve over estimated how these jeans were going
to work with my post-baby-body and I think I’d rather stand this one out.”
They didn't think I was joking. They got angry. So angry.
