The Chaos Fairies Have Moved In 29, January 2010

We decided to take junior out today.  It’s ‘warmer’ than it has been so we optimistically headed off to the zoological gardens.  We arrived and did very well for an hour or so until glove-spurning junior’s hands were so cold that he started to scream… it was also his lunch time so we headed for the café.  It was freezing outside but we discovered that people eating in are not allowed to bring their own lunch (fair enough) even for children (not quite so fair if the child is very small). Still, since we’d packed Mr Small’s lunch it seemed pointless to buy one, especially one designed for older children which he was unlikely to eat.

It was too cold to eat at one of the outside tables and when junior ran into a corner, started to cry and refused to come out, we gave up and headed back to the car to feed him his lunch there.  I had brought a free sample bottle of baby milk with me instead of the usual carton.  The freebie had a screw top and I thought I could put the usual two thirds into his sippy cup and then put the lid on.  Great I wouldn’t have to worry about trying to hold the milk container upright to stop it spilling all over the spouse-mobile, I thought. How wrong I was.

During the journey the screw-top proved to be leakier than a carton with one corner snipped off.  Milk dribbled out and ran down the plush leather seat of the spouse-mobile.  Since the spouse-mobile is sporty and more of a 2+2 than a 4 there was no room for my knees and so I was sitting with my legs apart.  Naturally, this resulted in the milk collecting, unnoticed in a pool at my crotch.

We got out at the shops and I found I had a large wet patch exactly where the pee would be if I’d wet myself or – should I have a requirement for such things – overestimated the absorbency of my tena-lady.  I managed to find a loo, remove my knickers (which left me feeling pleasantly draughty and a lot less soggy) and dry the worst of the milk off my naughty bits – not to mention the trousers.

After all that, the bloody shop was pretty much devoid of stock so we went home.

When we arrived home, I couldn’t find my keys in my bag.  I searched the spouse-mobile, searched everywhere I’d been in the house.  I decided I would have to ring the hotel where I’d been to the loo and get somebody to see if I’d left them there… or jump in the car and go back to the car park to see if I’d dropped them.  Luckily before I went I decided to take one last look in my bag.

Yeh, where else would they have been?  If I could have back half the time I’ve spent looking for my keys I would still be cash poor but oh so time rich.