So far your day has not been a good one. It looks like it’s going to be colder so you decide to wear skinny jeans, but when you’re halfway down the road the sun comes out and you realise it’s going to be a hot day after all.
Little Man whinges for the entire bus journey. Then Wee girl whinges all the way around the supermarket. By this time you’re hot, tired and flustered and starting to lose your cool.
You get what you need and wait for the bus in the heat. And wait. And wait. The children have finally stopped whinging, but Wee Girl keeps jumping around and jerking on your arm. You’re still waiting. The bus has been due for ten minutes and when it finally comes it sails merrily past — not in service.
So you wait some more. And when the next bus finally comes, after you’ve been waiting over twenty minutes in horribly uncomfortable skinny jeans, feeling like your arm is going to be wrenched from its socket, you can’t get on the fucker. Because some twat is standing in the space for wheelchairs and buggys, blocking up the space with his fucking suitcase.*
So ordinarily it wouldn’t matter, right? Just one of the pains of being reliant on public transport when you have small children.
Except that this time, you’re hot and tired and stressed and on the verge of tears in the bus queue and suddenly you have a clear insight into the life of a toddler. Is this what they feel like when they throw tantrums, overflowing with helpless rage? Because right now all you want to do is throw yourself on the floor and scream blue bloody murder because it’s not fucking fair.
Luckily you’re not a toddler.
And neither am I. So I said screw it and we went to the cafe and I treated myself to this:
It was delicious. And just for a few precious moments the stars and the planets aligned and everything was right in my world.
(*It wasn’t really the fault of the man on the bus. Although I think that had he actually made the effort to shift his luggage around and actually moved out of the space himself, we both could have fit into the space)