Stubbing your toe, finding out you’ve run out of Creme Eggs and anything with Fearne Cotton are just a few examples. But there is something, far, far worse. I discovered it last weekend, and I’m still in shock.
I had an enjoyable few days staying with my brother, which involved laughing a lot, drinking at unusual times, and agreeing to go to my niece’s son’s 3rd birthday party. It turned out that this was a very, very, bad idea for my sanity.
This was no ordinary party, but one held at what can only be describes as a kids birthday warehouse. And they were fully stocked with screeching nippers too. On entering the gigantic building, we were met by myriad tables with names on – a kind of green room, where the little darlings could assemble, before being led off to the main event.
If 100+ kids in one space isn’t terrifying enough for you, factor in one of those indoor play areas on an industrial scale, then boost the noise level with a dose of sweeties and fizzy drinks, and you’ll still not even be close. Shell-shocked adults surveyed the scene in wide-eyed terror, wondering if they might be able to escape unnoticed, or at least without permanent hearing loss.
Youthful staff dressed as tigers and pirates walked despondently round trying to clear up and maintain order, all shades of dignity shredded, along with their eardrums. Like a badly injured pheasant on a road, they looked at us with ‘kill me now’ eyes. Imagine what it must be like to work there with a hangover – maybe the only way is to stay inebriated. It would explain the sensibly dressed chap with fairy wings on. Maybe.
Party time arrived, at which point your group is ushered upstairs, to walk past a dozen other parties taking place in themed cubicles. We entered a nautical world, where they’d thoughtfully provided us with benches so low, I wasn’t even eye-level with a 3 year old. The kids were distracted by the other parties taking place, small amounts of unhealthy looking party food were eaten, spilt, pushed up noses and mashed into hair, and then the nippers got theirs too.
The kiddies-Hades staff were soon clearing up the barely touched piles of fries and mini-burgers, and hoovering up ready for the next round of child-based bedlam, whilst I pondered how we’ve reached a stage where the shocking waste of food seems trivial.
Somewhere in the world, a starving child is crying themselves to sleep with hunger – here, they’re probably a bit miffed at having to fork out for another skip to shovel all the unwanted goodies in.
And then we were outside, gulping lungfuls of air, our ears ringing like we’d just exited the front row of a Who gig circa 1976.
Whatever happened to jelly and ice cream, with half a dozen mates, in your living room? My therapy sessions start next week.
Have a party-free weekend.
If you can.
This post first appeared in my 'Thank grumpy it's Friday' column in the North West Evening Mail on Friday 2nd November 2012. This is the unedited version - you can view the printed/online version here The paper retitled this one as "Discover horrors of a child's party". I thought mine was better...
97 words were edited out by the paper, including my one-man crusade against Fearne Cotton. Again. I promise I won't give up though.
(Soothing Mike Oldield on today whilst I struggle with a nasty cold - Tubular Bells, but the version from the 'Boxed' collection. Extended mad Sailor's Hornpipe section!)
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