EDitorial ± 19-Jun-2005

Bizarro Brooms

Escaping the scorchio sun down at the shady end of the garden, couldn't help but hear some kids on the other side of the fence. Sounded like they were larking around with some water pistols.

When one of them started sobbing, perhaps after being on the receiving end of a supersoaking sniper shot, mum appeared: What's up with you?, she shouted; One minute you're happy, the next you're crying! Just calm down, will you?!

Not long after, dad came on the scene, evidently trying to get them into the car. Will you please come along?, he said, attempting to stay calm. No, replied one of the kids, I don't want to go.

Come on!, his volume rising. We Need To Go! Said the child: No!

That's us, we thought. That is exactly us. We've been there. We have those T-shirts. Maybe that six-foot fence acts as some weird distorting mirror. When their kids are bad, ours are good. When those parents have lost it, we're still grasping the plot. That family in the next road along are the Bizarro versions of us.

In which case (a) their eldest daughter was being positively angelic around 3.30pm, but (b) later they had a dreadful family barbecue. 'Cos we had a jolly relaxing outside meal. Which was nice.