The Cigarette Incident.

Favourite Son and Favourite Daughter are at The Pond. I am in attendance. Obviously. (Fuck me. The Pond is about five miles from the house. I wouldn’t let them wander off. Unless I was having a nap.)

It’s not really a pond – it’s far too big to be described as such, but I will admit it is by no means a lake.

I am struggling. The ducks and the mallards are fine, but the geese and the swans are somewhat temperamental, as are the moods swings of my offspring. My guard is high HIGH up.

Added to which the fact that FS can barely walk, so is hands-and-kneesing it much of the time, despite the fact that the grass run-about-at-will area is littered with surprisingly large, round and firm droppings from the local bird-aristocracy.

So, I am juggling this, the fact that there is a large amount of WATER nearby (that apparently it is very easy to drown in), killer birds of huge proportion and the potential bird-flu (were it not pretend) to be contracted from all the SHITE everywhere, with attempting to provide my Favourite Offspring with an impromptu afternoon out.

But we’re O.K. We feed the ducks, I shoo-away the more fearsome birds and everything finally runs smoothly.

For about five minutes.

We run out of bread.

We are a fifteen-minute bus ride away from anywhere that sells bread.

I inform FD of this grave news.

‘We’ll just have to go sweetheart.’

She is not one to give up as easily as me. She spies another young family approaching. A young mother with her two girls.

Without a word to me, FD goes marching up to them. She is three at the time.

FD: You. Give me some of your bread now. Please.

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Toward the end of a very long afternoon, FD has arguably robbed at least three families of some time and pleasure. And bread.

And I cannot admonisher her. She wanted something. Thought. Went and asked for it. Was not rude. Got it.

Did not cry for somebody else to sort it out for her.

Hmmm. Still don’t know if it was good or bad. Anyway.

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Fuck. I think. It’s only fucking eleven o’ fucking clock and I’ve got NO fucking cigarettes whatsoever and there is no chance of fucking getting any at fucking all until at least half fucking one and I for cunting one am not cocking happy about the fucking situation.

One peasily (it’s a fucking word now) twatting little cigarette and all would be fine. I cast about me.

The only smoker in the office is Very Scary Guy Who Killed People In The Falklands. I have never spoken to him.

For obvious reasons.

I think about my strategies for achieving the hallowed cigarette.

‘Hi, erm, I know we don’t know each –‘

SHITE.

‘So, Killer –‘

NOT MUCH BETTER.

‘Hey, erm. Cor. Smoke much do you. I can help you cut down. Just give me –‘

OH DON’T BE SUCH A CUNT.

I remember Favourite Daughter. The look of pride, youth, confidence and strength on her face.

I march up to him.

‘You. Give me one of your cigarettes NOW. Please.’

VSGWKPITF blinks, looks around him as if to make sure that this is happening and then opens a desk drawer and GIVES ME ONE OF HIS CIGARETTES!

WITHOUT A WORD!

She is a genius.

( He later revealed that he thought me a thorough cunt for asking in such an off-hand manner. He gave me the cigarette. Who’s the cunt?)