Last Monday seemed to be a comedy of errors, like most days ending in Y at the moment. What made Monday stick out more than some was the sequence of strange and embarrassing conversations that seemed to constantly flow.
Supermarket, events always happen in the supermarket, I need to schedule a regular online delivery like most sane people. A cyclist was cruising the bakery isle minding his own business when my confident toddler skips in front of him and declares boldly 'has that man got a BIIG willy??'. No idea where to look, except the obvious place (!), blush, blush a LOT more, start fondling gluten-free-seeded-batches like my life depends on them and have zero answer as he repeats the question. I never talk about willies!! I clearly look like a willy obsessed mum who walks around discussing the size of various strange men's packages. So so embarrassed. Fortunately Man in Lycra actually seemed to fluff out his chest, almost smile and move on to the eggs on aisle 24 with a strut in his stride.
Public restaurant, not particularly child-friendly (I certainly do not expect it and feel guilty for subjecting clientele and waiters but was in a desperate feed-or-suffer scenario and the emergency Marmite Rice Cakes carpeted every footwell in our health-hazard wagon) phew, they had Herby Herefordshire Beef, Caramelised onions and garlic-infused potatoes aka Bangers and Mash. 'What lovely sausages mummy!'. Awwww. The beasts behaved, food arrived promptly and all seemed well. Hot plate (nice touch), very hot food (always an adult winner), a looooooong (anything over 1 minute) wait for it to cool down. The atmosphere in our family idyll was turning, the twitching, the leg kicking and the less obvious 'BLOW MY LOVELY HOT SAUSAGE MUMMY' 'BLOW MY SAUSAGE NOWW' 'then you must blow Freddie's sausage' 'BLOW MY SAUSAGE RIGHT NOW'. Of course I saw nothing particularly strange or amusing about this conversation (!) that is just wrong on every level.... But the gentleman on the adjacent table sniggered, coughed and virtually choked so hard on his fois gras his face turned as red as his cords. After a torrent of ridiculous conversations about sausages and some onion catapulting for good measure I was met with yet another fine humoured man, Mr Red Corduroy walked over having finished his less than peaceful lunchtime glass of Merlot, patted me on the back, smiled at the beasts and said 'thoroughly fine and entertaining chaps'. I suppose I am inclined to agree.