During one of those narcissistic mirror-staring because there was nothing else to entertain me days, one of those mothers walked into the shop pushing one of those strollers with one of those little boys in it. Now I’m completely immune to cuteness and babies or toddlers, so when that little boy with short, curly blonde hair tried to climb out of the stroller while the mother looked away, I thought I’d make myself helpful and said, “He is falling!” (How that has anything to do with being immune to cuteness and babies or toddlers, the world may never know.)

The mother turned to look at the boy, then looked at me, then looked back at the boy.

“Bad girl, bad GIRL!” screamed the mother while she fixed the boy GIRL. I panicked a little, stood there and tried to think up an excuse or apology (hrmm, she looks like a boy? Me no speak Engrish?); but before I could mutter another sound, they had left the shop and were never seen again.

Now that I think about it, maybe she was really screaming at me, not at GIRL.

GIRL, you’re one year and three months older now, probably no longer pushed around in the stroller that you so desperately wanted to climb out of. But GIRL, if you mummy won’t let you wear trousers, sit with your legs comfortably apart, have short hair, not wear make-up, climb a tree, leave the kitchen, play video games or write a program…

I’m sorry. It was probably me…