Tell me the future but tell me no lies

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Imagine a scene, a scene if you will, unfolding in supermarkets across the nation on a wet Sunday afternoon. We’d popped in for a few essentials and found the place to be heaving, a whole sea of damp, grumpy people getting in each others’ way.  Jostling our way to the checkout we found queues at every till, so picked one with the least number of people in it. And then we quickly found out why it was a short queue. The lady in front of us had two children; the eldest a young boy of about 4 was singing tunelessly at the top of his lungs, LaLaLaLaLaLaLaLaLa! etc. and wandering around aimlessly checking out the sweets on the shelves by the till, investigating with great dexterity what everybody else had in their baskets and completely ignoring his Mother’s request to be quiet, behave, stop it, leave that alone etc. The other child was in the chair in the back of the basket and was about 18-24 months old (am a bloke so am very much guessing here) and was a strange purple colour, gilded in a furious crimson.

And then the Mother began to unload her trolley onto the conveyor belt and an unholy racket issued forth from the crimson baby – bbbbwwwwaaaaaarrrrghghghhghghggh! This things was incandescent with rage, it was vibrating in it’s seat, the older brother was still going LaLaLaLaLaLaLaLaLa at the top of his voice, and the baby was going bbbbwwwwaaaaaarrrrghghghhghghggh! and the Mother was getting more and more exasperated with both of them, trying to unload her shopping as quickly as possible; then the baby in the chair started grabbing at the things which were obviously distracting her Mother from focusing her full attention on it i.e.. the shopping; and managed to grab a packet of crackers which burst and shattered everywhere, showering the mother and the children with cracker crumbs. And then the baby managed to grab a tube of cream cheese which squirted everywhere like projectile vomit; it was all over the Mother, over the shopping, on the conevyor belt, and a great dolop landed on top of the babies head, which it then proceeded to smear all of itself whilst screaming bbbbwwwwaaaaaarrrrghghghhghghggh and his older brother was still singing LaLaLaLaLaLaLaLaLa completely oblivious to the chaos around him.

And it was then the Mother realised that everyone, for a dozen check out queues in every direction was in fact stood watching her and her family. Most where smirking with barely disguised humour, some in disdain and a few looked on in horror. Most I think were thankful that this scene of abject horror was unfolding for somebody else and not them.

Whilst turned away from this scene I’d noticed a young lad behind us, late teens, looking on with increasing horror. Eyes wide, the colour had drained from his face inch by blood curdling inch; his face a rictus of grim proportions, lips drawn tight across his pallid face; about as sad and bedraggled and forlorn as it was possible to look.

And then there was a lull in the noise, a moment of tranquillity and the Mother looked up and through grated teeth, hissed at the world, ‘look I am having a really bad day ok. I’m sorry, it’s just a bad day.’

Most people acknowledged this with a smile of commiseration and a sagely nod, but one small voice behind us piped up ‘not as bad as I’m having’, and this was from the young man. And I was a tad perplexed at why he had said that until I noticed what was in his hand basket: half a pint of milk and a pregnancy test kit.

Prophecy can be a harsh mistress.