toxicsoup

Well, not toxic, exactly... maybe just a little bit rank. But in a nice way. With a garnish.

Thursday, March 23, 2006

security

I go into the school.

Can I just say - I don’t normally go into schools.
I left one fifteen years ago vowing never to return and didn't for one minute imagine that I would have to practically break in if I decided to revisit. Back then the school’s idea of security was one slightly doolally caretaker with bandy legs and not much of a grip on the English language. Or the Welsh one either, come to that.
The locals used to walk their dogs across the football pitch without issue, leaving a trail of dog crap for us to skid in while playing hockey, while the bloke from the estate sold teenths from the ice-cream van just outside the gates.

These days schools have gun towers and RPGs and armed guards with Uzis and fierce dogs that haven’t been fed for six days so that they’ll go straight for your throat if you so much as glance at the school while hurrying past in a I’m-not-a-pervert-I’m-going-to-the-shops kind of purposeful walk.

Mindful of my life being in danger I exaggerate my carefree walk so that it will be obvious to anyone watching that I am supposed to be here, as I am on Official Business.
The playground seems to take hours to cross.

It’s weird walking through a primary school. Everything is tiny and for once in my life I feel huge. I walk past the hall where assembly is in full swing. A room full of tiny people singing tiny songs and being cute in a tiny way. The pictures stuck to the walls are at waist level and the furniture just about comes up to my knees. Mind you, I suppose I am very, very tall for my height.
Spotting a teacher, I look away quickly and try not to look like a paedophile.

I’m going to drive a car-load of people to Cardiff as a favour to a colleague who is unable to drive more than one car at a time. I hope I don’t end up with a whole load of snot-covered kids who will leave dribble and traces of poo on my car seats. I wish I’d lined the seats with bin bags.
Last time I ferried little kids they left a smearing of tuna on the upholstery. I decide to assert myself and ban all meat-based food products, snacking, drinks, talking, whinging, singing, smiling or fun of any kind WHATSOever. Breathing will be tolerated.

I meet the parents.
My eyes nearly pop out of my head. They are all really fat. A room FULL of fat people.
Apparently to become a parent you have to eat pies by the hundredweight.
There is one man somewhere near the back who is emaciated due to living entirely on Lambert&Butlers while the women are squeezed into size 20 shell suits and court shoes or high heels.

"Look, I don't want to be awkward," I rehearse in my head, "but would it be okay if you save the butties for later...?"

In my mind we all have a laugh about that and become close friends before we leave the room, sealing anything with crumbs into heavy-duty plastic bags and taping them shut with gaffer tape.

***

The passengers assigned to me could be body doubles for the Michelin Man's Missus (if he was real and needed to do, say, a sex scene and if he had a missus) and I smile weakly and lead them and their not-yet-obese child to the car.
As I am such a good-natured individual I helpfully carry the ham sandwiches and the fizzy drinks and the Tesco Carrier bags full of crisps and lollipops and spare ciggies for them, while they each crack open a can of Tenants Extra and hand the kid a corned beef pastie.

9 Comments:

  • At March 23, 2006 9:23 pm, Blogger Sniffy said…

    Yes, your assertiveness training has really stood you in good stead! I too go ballistic when people try to eat in my car. It isn't allowed - well, I set the limit to sweets and chewing gum and a bottle of soft drink (with a sports cap). I am allowed a can of pop because it is my car and i am in charge of the cup holders (I know where they are).

    Let this be a lesson to you never to do anybody favours involving children and their parents. You should know that the two things in combination are always a recipe for disaster and stress.

     
  • At March 23, 2006 9:40 pm, Anonymous Anonymous said…

    I agree with Tina, step away from the kiddies slowly, turn, and RUN!

     
  • At March 23, 2006 9:55 pm, Blogger funny thing said…

    I know. I'm shite.
    Someone pass me a gun....

     
  • At March 23, 2006 10:54 pm, Blogger Inexplicable DeVice said…

    This room that all the fat people were in: Was it the sports hall? The only room big enough to fit all the fat bastards in? The room in which they should spend an hour of every day to beocme less fat?

     
  • At March 23, 2006 10:54 pm, Blogger Inexplicable DeVice said…

    * tut *

    "become"

    * sighhhh... *

     
  • At March 24, 2006 12:46 am, Blogger Tickersoid said…

    I'm buying my incontinece pads in mega budget packs because of you now.
    I used to listen to teachers telling me how well my kids were doing on 'open days'. Of course, why tell the parents their brat is a loudmouthed disruptive cunt. What good will come of it. Better to say all is well they are a credit to you. Why do parents fall for this? Because they want to.

     
  • At March 24, 2006 1:26 pm, Blogger Fuckkit said…

    Kids scare me. The smaller the scarier, possibly due to my aversion to bodily fluids.

    I dont like talking to them either, I just had to a call a junior school and they let the fucking kids answer the phone!

    WTF?

    I'm all for child labour but for fucks sake, dont make me interact with them!

     
  • At March 24, 2006 9:40 pm, Blogger funny thing said…

    They're okay as long as they buy me beers...

     
  • At March 25, 2006 4:44 pm, Blogger Kyahgirl said…

    this whole things sound truly awful.

    You need to afix car seats into your car then you always have an excuse for not giving anyone a ride anywhere (and at the same time you can pretend you're 'kid friendly')

     

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