An award

Once or twice a year, I take my small child with me on the long commute to work. We spend part of the day at the office and skive the rest of the day in the museums. We while away the train journeys with rations of Percy Pig candies, crayons, and new activity books.

She's a pleasure, and I really enjoy these special trips. On the way back today, there was a Scouse grandma dressed in silver heels, tight top, and hot pants stretched over her orange-tinged skin. The three kids with her were little hellions. The 10-year-old blasted Eminem from a speaker attached to his mobile while tickling he 5-year-old until she squealed like a stuck pig. The middle boy kept running for the toilet, no doubt to purge all the bottles of pineapple pop he was chugging. All of this was met without the slightest shake of granny's peroxide head or raise of the overplucked eyebrows slathered in iridescent shadow. Then at the end of the trip, she dropped the hammer on them by telling them that they weren't going out for burgers and chips because they were so naughty. She yelled at them for longer than children can comprehend, apparently for the benefit of the other passengers rather than the children.

When they left, my daughter breathed a sigh of relief and said, "well they weren't very good children, were they?". Well put, kiddo. You deserve an award.

Typos? Blame my iPhone.