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Super Heroes

August 21, 2009

15th Oct 2006

BatmanAccent2300I saw Spiderman in town on Saturday. Along with Batman and Robin, and Superman. The Superheroes were on the 6th Floor of the Library. I know what you’re thinking – another ‘Fathers for Justice’ stunt.

No. These particular Superheroes were part of an ‘Event’ organised by the City Council to encourage children to come along and learn more about the facilities on offer at the library. It was supposed to be a ‘fun day’. Mrs D had spotted the ad in the local paper and decided it was just the thing to amuse the grandkids.

“And its ‘free’,” she said. “So it won’t cost us a penny”.

Well, that wasn’t quite true. It cost me £25 before we had even left the house! Mrs D reminded me that new legislation meant we needed to fit booster seats so we could transport the kids to town in our car. Otherwise we ran the risk of the police pulling us over and having to pay a fine. My suggestion that we have the kids lie on the back seat and cover them with a blanket during the journey was not well received, and I was despatched round to Halfords.

The library was packed. Each child was given an ‘Passport’ at the entrance. A ‘trail’ wound through all 6 floors, stopping at various ’stations’ along the way. Each had to be visited in turn. Some were more ’special’ than others. At these, the children would have a ’star’ stuck on their Passport to record the fact that they had visited that particular station. The idea was that each child could ‘earn’ a ‘goodie bag’ on completing the trail by demonstrating that they had visited all the critical stations – and had a star in their passport to prove it.

It was fun at first. After 1.1/2 hours, though, when we had completed only half the trail, I was losing interest. At the next station, I saw an opportunity and took it. While a group of parents, grandparents, and kids were all crowded round the station, pushing and jostling one another to try and get the attendants to affix the required star to their kids passport, I ‘filched’ a sheet of stars off the trestle table.

“What are you doing?” hissed Mrs D.

“I’m using my initiative.” I replied. “No need to visit any more stations. I’ll stick these stars in the kids Passports myself. Then we can go back to the entrance, the kids can claim their goodie bags, and we can nip round to the Wacky Warehouse. The kids can have some fun there, and we can have a drink”

“That’s a dreadful idea.” said Mrs D. “Its cheating!. What sort of example is that to set for the grandkids. I absolutely forbid it!”

tardisWhen we came off the escalator to the 4th Floor, a crowd of people were surrounding Doctor Who and a full size replica of the Tardis. Using her elbows, and dragging our two behind her, Mrs D cleared a path to the front of the crowd.

“Stand over there, and I’ll take your photo”, she told them.

For several minutes, she tried to get a photo of the grandkids standing in front of the Tardis, but the milling crowd made it difficult to get a clear shot. Also, she was not the first (or the only one ) to have had this idea and vast though the Tardis may be on the inside, on the outside its spatial dimensions are quite limited – only a few children can stand in front of it at any one time. As the adults got in each others way trying to get a clear shot of their kids, a scrum was developing in front of the Tardis as the kids jockeyed for best position. Amidst the pushing and shoving I am sure I saw our youngest kick the ankles of a bigger boy standing in front of him (although I knew better than to mention this to Mrs D afterwards). In the melee that followed, our youngest was pushed so hard against the Tardis that he broke one of the panels on the door and fell inside.

Leaving Dr Who to repair his Time machine, embarrassed adults collected their kids and scuttled off. As she wiped away his tears, and tried to console our youngest, Mrs D let off steam.

“Did you see that big boy push him?

F*cken little bastard! He’s lucky he didn’t get the back of my hand, picking on little ones like that. If he was mine I’d give him a right good belting. I don’t know what parents are coming to these days. They should be teaching their f*cken kids to have respect for others, not to bully them. Some folk don’t deserve to have kids if they can’t f*cken bring them up properly. Anyway. F*ck it. I’ve had enough. Have you still got that sheet? Let’s stick the f*cken stars in their passports and get out of here!”


Did I mention that our youngest had to sit on the ‘naughty chair’ at school, last week – apparently this was punishment for swearing in class. Mrs D says she can’t understand where he’s learning such bad language from.

xfactor-200Later that night, watching X-factor on the TV, Mrs D (who had now recovered her good humour after drinking a bottle of Merlot) was teaching the grandkids to cross their arms across their chest in the shape of an ‘X’ and shout “X-factor” The kids loved this new game. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I could have sworn I heard the youngest shouting “X-f*cker”

8 Comments leave one →
  1. August 21, 2009 5:51 am

    What an experience! I’m with Mrs. D. on this one. You know that if you’d had that rant about the kid pushing, Mrs. D would’ve been angry, but since she’s the one who ranted, it’s totally acceptable.

    I think when men realize how this works – they are now fully housebroken and a good husband.

  2. August 21, 2009 7:35 am

    And was the goodiebag actually worth it?

    • August 22, 2009 6:26 am

      A handful of sweets, a balloon, colouring book, crayons, some leaflets extolling the many exciting things on offer at the library (?). The grandkids loved them.

      Couldn’t help thinking, though, there ought to have been a ‘goody bag’ for the adults – nothing much, perhaps a couple of bottles of beer, miniature of brandy or whisky, some fags, a pack of cards ?

      We certainly deserved some kind of ‘reward’ for all we went through !!!

  3. August 25, 2009 2:18 am

    I would have cheated with the filched gold stars too

  4. September 14, 2013 4:35 am

    Reblogged this on The Mad Hatters.

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