I did something today that if someone else had done to me, I’d have kicked off big style, with guns and lasers and sweet kick-ass karate moves.
Moo and I jumped the queue for the swings in the park.
She loves them swings. More than the slide and the rope bridge thing. She’s not the only one. Swings are popular. There’s usually a haphazard queue. Not a formal queue, with barriers and muttering pensioners. But parents do that oblique nod and furtive glance around thing anyway, and there’s unspoken acknowledgements, and somehow, you know your place. On most days, I can wait my turn. Moo can learn the art of patience from me. Usually. Innit.
Not today. I totally busted that queue and farked it in the face.
I was not in the mood to brook any arguments. I’d just found out I had been royally bloody messed around by some bureaucratic knob-donkeys – and as a consequence, something that should have happened weeks ago needs to be done all over again, for the love of Jeezus – which kind of throws my fragile equilibrium off centre and drags me kicking and wailing into strict doldrum territory.
The enforced jaunt to the park was an attempt to clear my head of the encroaching clouds. I had railed a bit on Twitter. It was obvious something was wrong. I said ‘fuck’ a lot, y’see. I only properly cuss when it’s fucking serious. I knew that Twitter couldn’t help me though. Space and trees and soggy sandpits were my agenda. Some silly play time with my daughter. Y’know, the important stuff.
But the park was busy. OF COURSE, it’s the farking school holidays, it isn’t raining, so everyone’s there. The implied queue for the blessed swings stretched implicitly through the playground. Moo wanted the swings. So I marched up there and hovered malevolently. I inwardly challenged the ENTIRE PARENTAL COMPONENT of the park’s hitherto population to even just FARKING TRY and tell me there’s a farking queue. Just TRY it. I bet NO ONE else had been wrangling with eejits on the phone for the best part of an hour previously, as well as desperately filling in farking online forms with stupid fiddly little tick boxes and STUPID FARKING BASTARD questions, all so I can get what money I’m entitled to and pay my motherfarking rent, and get my harridan landlady off my back for a few more days. No one else. Just me. And those swings were mine.
Swings. Back and forth. To and fro. Good and bad, happy and fucking sad.
But that’s my day. What’s up with you?