Children

Tonight, I did the unheard of and hosted THREE rugrats (that is not a typo) who are hoping to get a dog of a similar breed to Bristol so wanted to make his acquaintance.

Despite my misgivings, it went swimmingly well and Bristol, of course, adored the fawning attention.

I do, however, have three questions:

1) Why do kids do that high pitch squealy thing? And with such regularity? Bristol and I are now both functionally deaf, as is my neighbour four doors down.

2)Why do kids ask so many questions? I have no idea how the jellyfish got into the glass dome on my coffee table and nor do I care. Please ask someone else.

3) Is it strictly necessary to touch every item in my house? We have a LOT of breakables, most of which have been carefully shipped 12,000 miles. I will, therefore, be extremely cross if they are broken by some butter-fingered eight-year-old. Believe me, you wouldn’t like me when I am cross.

Thankfully, there was minimal damage to dog and house (perforated ear-drums aside) and friends assure me I will go to heaven for this. And, before you clog my in-box with hate mail, a simple reminder: it is 2012 not 1953. Contraception has been invented, women are allowed careers, not wanting to breed is a valid option and everyone is entitled to choose how they wish to live. You might dislike brussel sprouts, whereas I love them; you might wish to spend every spare minute sailing but I get seasick. You know where I'm going with this, right: you worship at the altar of children, me, notsomuch.

Now please excuse me while I go lie down in a darkened room and await for this ringing in my ears to subside.

(Pic credit: Google Images)