Kicked, Caffeinated and Close to a Meltdown!
Tales from the Frontline of Flat Whites and Feral Toddlers
Ah, my local coffee house. That sacred modern sanctuary where grown adults, me included, pretend to read newspapers while secretly people-watching and convincing themselves that £4.90 for a latte is a good investment. I came here for peace. A quiet corner. A good book. Maybe the mild illusion that I live in a European arthouse film. You know, existential gazes, gentle jazz, and the smell of freshly ground coffee beans and croissants tickling my nostrils.
But no. Of course not.
Instead, I'm sitting here being slowly kicked into oblivion by a child whose legs are clearly powered by the devil and three bags of Haribo. This pint-sized predator has targeted the chair in front of him, mine, and is giving it the kind of relentless punishment that makes me think he's been binge-watching Gladiator!
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
It's like Morse code for "I have no discipline and my parents think it's adorable." And there they are, the guardians of chaos, sitting nearby giggling like it's all some sweet little quirk. "Oh look at him! He's so active!" Yes, Jane, he's active. So is a jackhammer, and your son's performing roadworks on my lower back!
I give them 'The Look. You know the one. The universal international, "Please control your child before I use this biscotti as a weapon" look. And what do I get back? Smiles. Smiles. As if I've just complimented the child for his precision booting. Mrs G on the other hand, is now squeezing my leg under the table like she's trying to defuse a bomb with my kneecap.
"Don't say anything," she whispers through gritted teeth.
Don't say anything? I came here for solace, not shin-based percussion therapy! And now the kid is sneezing too. Loud, wet, open-mouthed sneezes, the kind that requires a raincoat and brolly. His parents do nothing. Not even a tissue in sight. Meanwhile, I'm watching microscopic droplets of snot drift lazily across the air like glitter in a snow globe of doom.
I ask... politely mind you, if they could perhaps, maybe, just a tiny bit possibly ask their little cherub to stop treating my chair like a football. You'd think I'd suggested sacrificing him to the gods. The mother gasps. The dad puffs up like a defensive boxer. "He's just a child," they tell me as if that explains why he's now licking the table leg.
Well, so was I once. And if I'd pulled any of that nonsense in public, my mum would have taken me outside and had a very firm "chat" involving either her handbag or, if she was feeling nostalgic her shoe. And you know what? I lived! No therapy is needed. Just a healthy respect for furniture and adults trying to enjoy a cappuccino.
At school, we had rulers, not the plastic kind with cartoon frogs, I mean the solid, slap-across-the-knuckles kind. And if you didn't do your homework, well, the ruler certainly did you. Again, survived. No permanent damage. Just slightly faster reflexes and the ability to sit still for longer than a fruit fly.
But today? Oh no. Discipline is now "problematic." You can't raise your voice without someone tweeting about trauma. Meanwhile, I'm in a public space getting slow-tortured by a four-year-old with no sneeze control and an apparent vendetta against chairs.
So I sit here, clenching my jaw, trying to remember my breathing exercises while my wife kicks me under the table and the kid kicks me from behind. It's a perfect symphony of suppressed British rage.
But hey, at least the coffee's good. Even if I'll need a chiropractor and a tetanus shot by the time I finish it.
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Chris Geiger, Author of The Cancer Survivors Club.
Daily Dose of Disbelief!
Bsky: @chrisgeiger.com
Bsky: @thecancersurvivorsclub.com
Bsky: @dailydoseofdisbelief.com
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