The Tunisian Plaything
When I was 6 years of age I was holidaying in Tunisia with my parents.

One hot day my parents decided to hop on a coach and drag me about a very remote marketplace miles away from our Hotel up in the mountains. The market was one of those really claustrophobic places crammed full to the gills with Persian rugs, giant clay pots and hanging meat dangling everywhere, and my mum had drilled into me that I should never wander off, and to keep hold of my dads hand at ALL times.
About 10 minutes later I had somehow become separated from my parents completely. By all accounts, at this point they were shitting bricks that their only son was lost around a sprawling mountain Bazaar - all alone.
All I remember is feelings of absolute terror as I screamed out loud 'MUMMY.. DADDY..' over and over at the top of my little voice, whilst all around me appeared a swell of beckoning Arabian gentlemen - all leering out from the hoods of their shrouded stalls wearing sinister grins as wide as a banana.
What felt like hours later - and by complete luck, an elderly English couple stumbled across me who happened to have been on our coach and had recognised me from it.
Soon after I was reunited with my very relieved parents, and apparently the old couple who found me were the only other English speaking couple on the entire bus.
(CjR Mix, Thu 19 Aug 2010, 16:30, Reply)