Maybe I have watched too much TV in my lifetime, but I have this sense sometimes that I am being watched. The words from my mouth often echo in my thoughts, steeped in irony, destined now for the course of luck to change as if an editor of a reality TV show might intend. Perhaps it’s that sense in story-telling that everything has to be there for a reason - an essential piece to aid the plot, and of course it makes a better story to have twists and turns up ahead - everything I say feels like it has a purpose in my story, whatever that may be. Once you get better at telling stories, or you watch enough films, you can see the seeds planted in the story and begin to piece the story together before it unfurls and I have started to try to do this with life, but of course life isn’t like that. The irony only happens in the edit.
Other times it is more simple and I just feel my misfortune is being watched by others for pleasure and entertainment. Schadenfreude, they say in Germany, “pleasure derived from another person’s misfortune.” That someone might pop out of a corner and tell me I’m being punk’d. After all what would be the point of unfortunate things happening if no one was going to find it even a little bit funny?
We had one of those days the other day, and I laughed about it later on. Perhaps we can laugh about it together now - make the whole thing not feel completely pointless.
One Monday I felt particularly energetic and the weather looked favourable, I suggested to the boys that we might get the train to the sand park in Bromley. We had been away at the weekend and the sun continued to shine for us so I took them out while my partner worked from home.
There’s something about a sunny morning aligned with good hormones that makes me feel invincible - but of course the weather isn’t reliable, and neither is how I am feeling.
We took a picnic to the sand park and after playing in the sand we walked down to the swing park, found a spot for our picnic blanket and I laid the food out. I hadn’t been able to get the usual pesto pasta pot from the little shop by the station, so I had settled for Dairylea Dunkers instead - seasoned crispy tubes alongside a runny, molten cheese dip - I thought, along with the snacks I had bought with us they would be pleased with those.
We sat down and ate nicely I would say for about 5 minutes. They got bored and started running around. Mid-sandwich, I chased the youngest as he ran in front of the swings. I shouted at the eldest to get back to his food. The picnic blanket now without any weight on, blew in the wind, and threw the food around with it and once I had dragged the youngest back with me, I found that the molten cheese from the Dairylea Dunkers was all over the blanket. I checked the tag. Wipe clean only, of course.
I shouted again to get my eldest to come back. A lady on the bench pushing a pram back and forth threw me a look. Of course he ignored me and I felt immediately like we are making a scene. Back on the blanket, they refused to eat any of the food that had any nutritional quality and insisted on a cake-like snack I almost always have in the bag, for emergencies. I was annoyed I had bought extra food, none of which they ate. You can’t just eat cake and biscuits, I said.
*
We left the sand park and walked up to the high street. I went into a hardware, gardening shop and found a medium plant pot for one of our sunflower seedlings to go in. Once we had paid, my eldest son noticed the lady behind the counter was blowing up balloons and popping them in a stand by the door. Does he want one? she asked. Yellow and blue like minions, he chose a yellow one and danced out of the door. I checked the buggy and the youngest was asleep. I sighed in relief. Outside, the sun was out again.
At my eldest son’s insistence, we walked into a charity shop as we headed back down towards the train station. I browsed the clothes briefly as my eldest ran to the back of the shop where they display the toys. Then there was the bang, followed by cries of devastation. I picked him up and explained that balloons don’t last forever. He yelled out and the lady there keen to soothe him asked, Does he want a biscuit?
I carried him out as he cried and pushed the youngest still asleep in his buggy down the hill and through the door of another charity shop, in the hope that there would be a distraction in there. I would have bought anything to shut him up. He kept crying and the lady there, again eager to help, told me I have donuts, does he want donuts?
*
Eventually we found a charity shop with toys which distracted him long enough to forget about the balloon and without anyone offering him sweet treats. Moments after I had settled in front of the books he announced I need a wee. I checked my phone and with ten minutes until the train, I thought, of course you do.
*
We got off the train a station earlier than usual in a high street not far from us but that we rarely go to because of the distinct lack of toilet facilities and cafés which I can not always get into with the buggy, but as we were on the way home, and we had just used the toilet, I thought we’d be okay. There’s a charity shop opposite the station I suggested we go in, they had some toys the week before when I went in with just my youngest, we would definitely find something in there.
*
We took our selection to the counter and the lady was distracted sorting through clothes. I placed a couple of books and several cars into a neat pile and the lady started to scan them. A queue had built behind me and a lady, clearly in a rush, pushed ahead to drop a donation bag onto the floor in front of the counter. Can I leave this here? she said.
The lady serving insisted she pass the bag over me and the kids and asked Are you gift-aid? Yes, she replied. A sign that this wasn’t going to be a swift drop and run, I thought, of course you are.
She told the lady to hang on and went back to scanning. Again I breathed a sigh of relief.
The total of the items came to much more than I had expected and when she handed me a pink dress that had been on the counter, I knew why. I’m sorry, I said, I didn’t want the dress.
She then had to do a return, a lengthy process involving a refund onto my card and a small form that I had to fill out to explain why I was returning the item. An item I didn’t want in the first place. I apologised. It’s not your fault, she said. The lady that had come to donate still hovered next to me. The queue behind me was still there.
Embarrassed, I dragged the boys out to the bus stop and looked at the bus times. My eldest announced that he wanted to go to the library just a short walk along the high street. Not today, I said, wondering how much more I could take, but when he kicked off I gave in.
*
At the library, I let them both run around and I sat in the corner and took out my phone for some mindless scrolling, desperate to be somewhere else. They were quite loud and excited. That particular library is a bit of a novelty for them as we tend to go to the one in another high street, which is bigger and has an onsite toilet and baby change. My youngest runs past me and I get a waft of poo.
Of course you have.
I picked him up and dragged the eldest outside, where I planned to change him. The grass had just been mowed and had a fresh layer of cut grass floating on top. The sun had meant I had no coat to throw under him. I laid him on the grass, and got out the things I needed from the changing bag, hoping to be quick. We were by the side of the road. I shouted at my eldest to stay on the path and away from the cars. With no bin in the vicinity, I checked the side of the bag for nappy bags so we can carry the filled nappy home and have a flash back to my partner saying on our trip to Bournemouth just the day before that we needed to top it up. Of course I hadn’t. Luckily I found a carrier bag at the bottom of the bag and used that.
Once we were ready to go I checked my phone hoping that one of the two buses we could get home wasn’t too far away. We were a few minutes from both the bus stop ahead and the one behind. Citymapper said 4 minutes - around the same time it would take to get to the bus stop. Both buses were coming at the same time with a good fifteen minute wait for the next one. Of course they are, I thought.
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Do you ever feel like you are being punk’d or on the Truman show?
Do you relate to having one of those days?
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The doom scrolling to escape, I felt that in my soul! Good news is I'm sure they had a great day and you managed all that stress and fear to get back home.
I feel your pain!!! I’ve had one of those evenings myself and gosh they are painful. But yes, let’s laugh about it together now 😂