I amble into the supermarket, Mother
Dearest and her shopping trolley by my side. My mind is swarming with
the possibilities of what culinary delights we may happen upon in
this temple of provision and sustenance. I am looking forward to
choosing ingredients for the tasty Calzone I will be preparing for
the family in two nights' time.
We enter via the bakery, and things are
looking up. I am itching to race over to the open refrigerated
shelves where the cheeses and sausage meats are stacked, so that I
may select only the finest for my debut as a prime Italian chef.
However, I elect to stay with the woman who brought me into the
world, and “help” her with the bread, fruit and vegetable
selection.
But then, the inevitable, but no less
dreaded, happens.
It begins as a distant whine, like a
Klaxon siren – but then, as it nears me, it gains a more primal,
human quality. My eyes widen in horror as all other noises of the
hustle and bustle of the shopping mall melt away, and there is only
the anguished, stroppy screams of a scorned toddler.
I slowly turn around to behold the
hellish phenomenon creeping ever closer. There, weaving through the
fruit stands, is a trolley housing a child that would barely be two
years old. Pushed around by a young woman who is looking a bit
frazzled and worse for wear (and who can blame the poor thing?) the
little girl is the very picture of ungrateful dissatisfaction with
her circumstances. Maybe she didn't get that toy or chocolate bar she
wants so very much. Maybe she had been reprimanded for snatching
something off a shelf. Or maybe she is just tired and wants to go
home, electing to take it out on her long-suffering Mother. Whichever
option came to pass, her mouth is wide open, her eyes are red-rimmed
and wet, and her cheeks could pass for Niagara Falls with the amount
of tears running down them.
I stand there, frozen by the
annoyingness of this unfortunate event. I try not to stare – as
aggravating as the child's yells are, I do not want to make the
Mother feel worse than she already does. But I cannot help but be
slightly vexed by the fact that the kid is even here in the first
place.
I mean, come on. I know that a shopping
centre is a public place. I know that people go there for a reason
(mainly TO KEEP THEMSELVES ALIVE). But if it's a public place, then
surely there should be some consideration for the needs of others –
when I'm walking around and trying to think or trying to speak to
someone, I shouldn't have to be thrown off or interrupted by a
2-year-old attempting to shred their vocal cords.
So what can be done about this? The
kids don't like the situation, I don't like the situation, so really
the best option is to ban all children under the age of 7 from
shopping centres... or, at the very least, from the supermarkets.
Yes, there are those that won't like it, but wouldn't you agree that
the benefit outweighs the cost? The young Mums won't get embarrassed,
the kids won't get agitated and their vocal cords will live to fight
another day, and I get to walk around the shops in zen mode forever
more.
You know it works.