Friday, February 24, 2012

Hell is other people's posh children


Wednesday morning, and the quiet despair of the doctor's waiting room. Each and every one of us flipping through old magazines, lost in our own particular illnesses and injuries that have brought us all to this place at this particular time.

Peace reigns, broken only by the ping of the electronic noticeboard as - one-by-one - we are summoned into the consulting rooms.

And then: All this shattered as a family with three young children burst into our solitude and take over the waiting room in an explosion of shouting, running and "Have you brought your spellings? We can do your spelling while we're waiting."

The very worst: Posh kids. Posh kids with parents who actively encourage them.

You know where you are will feral little tykes. You expect the worst. But with posh kids, they don't even know they're being annoying, and neither do the parents.

They make their way to the toys in the corner of the waiting room, and with a great deal of banging and crashing around the Fisher Price play kitchen, which - truth be told - was genuinely beginning to harsh my mellow, launched into the cook-something-for-mummy-and-daddy routine.

"Mummy!" shouts one of the anti-feral kids, "Can I cook you something?"

"Why, yes, Oliver. I'll have a tall skinny decaff latte*, and then a salmon and goat's cheese bagel with seasonal leaves and a low-fat mayonnaise dressing."


"And daddy? What do you want?"

"Yeah. Tea. Two sugars an' a splash. An' a sausage sandwich."

Perhaps, then, there is hope for these poor children.

* Yes, she actually asked for a latte. I am not making this up

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