I was at a wedding in Lancashire yesterday, so I visited my Mother today instead. She had other visitors; a mother and her 7 year old son. I was introduced to the young boy, who just sat staring at me with a particularly disconcerting grin. In the absence of any conceivable response to his silently amused gaze, I rather uncomfortably proffered my hand to him in a formal but rather awkward looking manner of introduction. He responded by raising his own tiny palm, completely bypassing my handshake, shoving it toward my chin, before devilishly tugging at my beard hair. I laughed politely pretending to be amused, whilst inside feeling completely out of my depth, not really knowing what to do or how to respond. I was drowning in a sea bereft of appropriate polite social conventions. “How old are you?” his half-angelic-half-demonic little gob enquired. “31” I replied. He informed me that only people over 40 grow beards and this seemed to amuse him even further. Why does my beard seem to be suddenly getting so much slack lately? Like I said yesterday, I don’t object to a jibe or two, but it was almost like he was aware not only of his insult, but the fact he could manipulate an alibi of childish innocence to merit immunity from retribution. I would like to say that the next words I spoke cut the cheeky whippersnapper down to size in a manner as wittily akin to anything Oscar Wilde’s finest canon. But I can’t. Because all I did was continue to stand with a gormless grin of paralysis. In real terms, I was being psychologically hoisted by a 7 year old.
When I sat down, his mother managed to discourage him from jumping upon me long enough to have an interesting conversation and to even order a Chinese meal. I did not partake in this feast as I had only recently eaten. The boy soon devoured his meal and then opened his fortune cookie, which informed him he would be a flourishing businessman. I bet he will be too. I can just imagine his maverick and acerbically brutal negotiating techniques once they have been honed, like a nightmarish cross between Vinnie Jones and Malcolm Tucker. Personally I would have settled for such a successful and optimistic premonition without the slightest temptation to take any further gambles with the God of fortune. But the boy was not satisfied by this, and was soon snapping open everybody else’s cookie; which either made him appear a greedy selfish little sod, or a genius little satirist of the novelty biscuit premonition system.
In fairness, he had been pretty restrained for quite a while, and I could even go as far as to say quite fun. But it was when his mother left the room to nip to the toilet that all hell really broke loose. The young man suddenly launched a frenzied attack firing fists at me from all angles, laughing like a maniac. Once again, the paralysis of uselessness struck me, as I stood rooted to the spot. I hadn’t a clue how to counteract this unruliness. Giving the lad a good knee in the face would have probably been considered inappropriate. It didn’t even really seem like my place to shout at him. All I could do was stand uselessly swinging from left to right trying to shield my genitalia from his barrage of waist-level punches. My own mother stood beside this spectacle of demonic outburst, assessing its psychological implications. “He’s testing you to see what he can get away with”, she concluded. After sating herself with her academic hypotheses, and watching me receive a couple more swings, she eventually addressed the boy. “Stop that now,” she sternly ordered, “This behaviour is not acceptable.” And as if by magic the lad simply turned around and sat back down on the settee. Peace was restored as quickly as the chaos had erupted. But there is no getting away from one depressing fact: I had needed my Mother to protect me from getting beaten by a 7 year boy. This was a new low.
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