my parents
were amazing at it. my brothers and i had fab childhoods with brilliant holidays, christmases, birthdays, solid loving background, spoiled rotten in general.

which now means that everything from council tax to office politics to cellulite to dead kittens to world politics to traffic jams to no chanel store in uxbridge is a horrid grown up shock that bursts my happy sheltered the-whole-world-is-lovely-and-happy bubble on a daily basis... damn them!

ha, i was once babysitting a lovely little blond angelic looking child called freddie. he was about 18 months old and i had to pick something up from the village centre. so we walk into town and i naively let him out of his pushchair in the shoe shop. then i stop to drool over some shoes.

one minute later and he's dropped a hiking boot on himself. amidst his shocked howls and sobbing, his clear little treble pipes up:

FUCK!!!

i was mortified. plus as i was about 16 at the time, everyone assumed i was some chavtastic twat who knew no better. i scooped up the sobbing freddie and dragged him out of there, my face burning.

it was only when i strapped him back in his wheelchair and his sobbing was slowing down to that hitching breathing that doesn't happen after the age of about 10 that he said again, in a plaintive little voice this time:

"FOOT... FOOT... FOOT..."

oh dear. he'd actually been saying "foot" because that was where he'd dropped the boot and his little toes were all bruised...
( rachelswipe with a fork, Fri 17 Aug 2007, 17:05, Reply)