Partying is such sweet sorrow

by Kyknoord

Regular visitors will know that the fruit of my loins (a.k.a. Kyknoord Jr) lives in Port Elizabeth with her mother and that I, being the doting sire that I am, visit her regularly.

An enormous advantage of living in a different city to your progeny is that you aren’t expected to attend the scores of kiddie birthday parties that seem to crop up more or less continually throughout the year. My previous trips to the windy friendly city have been rather well timed, because up until now I’ve managed to avoid them all. Sadly, my run of good luck came to an abrupt end on my most recent visit.

If I had to summarise the experience in three words, they would be “Oh, the horror”. Picture an extended version of Timmy permanently about to fall down the well (with Lassie nowhere in sight) and you’ll have some idea. Of course, when the adults weren’t chasing after their screaming offspring, they were busy discussing mucous and bowel movements in full Technicolor detail. Fun is not the word+.

When the indoor activities++ were done, the outdoor festivities began. Naturally, when you have a dozen toddlers and only one item of recreational apparatus, you have a recipe for conflict:
“I wanna swing!”
“I wanna swing!”
“I wanna swing!”[Cue: wailing and gnashing of teeth. Repeat]

It was like being in a sugar-powered echo chamber. It did, however, illustrate that the laws of supply and demand are established at a very young age. This is probably why Communism never really caught on. It also explains why there are rallies and sell-offs on the stock market. Brokers are clearly all three-year olds at heart.

+ Indeed not. “Bleuaargh!” is the word.
++ i.e. cake orgy.