The CHILD problem

What’s the first thing you check out when you board a long-distance train? Me, I look for kids. Even medieval shackles can’t keep me chained to a compartment with one of those wailing, squealing, burping, pissing, puking monstrosities.

Don’t get me wrong I love kids. As long as they are at a good safe distance from my belongings and me I adore them. Some of them are even lucky enough to gain my approval despite being within contact distance. But any little rascal that comes in my way trying to gain attention and making a total juvenile ass of himself/herself I strictly abhor. As luck would have it most kids I meet choose to fall into the latter category rather than the first.

It’s not my fault, as some of you no doubt are on the verge of deciding. I am at my civilized best around people who reflect my civility. But kids are beyond the scope of human civilization itself. The only function they serve in the set-up is to take it further, which, I admit, is a rather important role on the whole. But surely…. surely even that extremely essential role doesn’t entitle them the coveted spot they enjoy amongst us humans. I mean, they could be placed in quarantine in the Sahara or some such place till they were grown up enough to know that drooling is impolite.

Not that I have an essential issue with kids at the age when they drool. Fluffy little creatures, kids at that age are fun really. Much like teddy bears or puppies. It’s when they grow up and move around and start behaving semi-human when they tend to disgust me the most. Although, I am quite sure the feeling is quite mutual. All my close encounters with kids that age have been an event.

My brother, 11 years younger than me (now an undignified 11!) celebrated the advancement of his knowledge of the English language by smartly scribbling “I AM MAD” 101 times all over my spanking new Jim Morrison poster when he was 7. That was the closest I have ever been to infanticide.

Not so long ago on a dinner date with a rather arresting young man an abominable young child (not a day older than 4) had shattered my romantic life into a million little pieces right before my eyes.

It was like this; this young pest was dining with her equally pesky (and might I say rather stupid) parents on a table next to ours. Mid-way through the meal this kid, who was obviously no gourmand and had decided to give the Mediterranean fare a miss, decided to take an uncanny interest in me. Being busy (and of course myself) I had paid no attention to her gooey-mooey blabber and completely ignored all advances. But the young Missie took the rejection rather badly. What followed was a nightmare. After tugging at my hair about a dozen times (I had spent close to an hour trying to get the damned thing look va va vroom) she finally took a fancy to my dress and decided to wipe her gravy soaked hands right on its smooth surface.

I had spent my entire months earning on that silly outfit. I ended up spending a little more than that on the dry wash.

Needless to say the arresting man did not feel quite so arrested by me after the incident. Although I can’t really blame him given my reaction (the restaurant manager had to throw me out after I jumped up and down on the couch we were sitting on calling the smiling little devil every name I could think of).

Secretly I have sworn NEVER to have kids about a million times before going to bed.