Major frustration has been surfacing recently over mini motorbikes. Kids own them, and if they can’t find private land to ride the bikes on, they become a danger to innocent people pedestrians, kitty cats and chavs by riding them in neighborhoods.
Close your eyes and imagine a motorbike that’s about as tall as Mommy’s shin with some goofy looking, slack-jawed 10-year-old boy riding on it. He’s coming straight at you going 40 mph on the pavement (sidewalk). You better get out of the way!
Mommy’s opinion on police in general is simply they have a thankless, poorly paid job. Cops who walk the beat are probably too swamped in paperwork to care about chasing a mini moto riding, slack-jawed 10-year-old boy, or a grown man with a panty on his head running away with your telly. Besides, isn’t that what contents insurance is for?
Upon reading the annual Policing West Sussex newspaper, the very back of it contained information about the local police stations. After reading Crawley police station was open 7 days a week, it dawned on me that Daddy’s barber is open 8 days a week.
I’m thinking of writing to the police to see if they’d beat the barber’s grueling schedule and stay open 9 days a week. What do you think they’ll say about that?
Today was a very pretty day, so Mom, me, Gran and cousin Shana met up in Tilgate Park for a picnic.
Cousin Shana was absolutely pooch mad, and she had to ask every single dog owner if their dog was friendly. Every minute or so out came the dreaded question, “Is your dog friendly or is he a horrible, maneating nasty thing that’ll snip off my fingers?”. And luckily for everybody’s sanity, 99% of the time Shana got to pet her mutt.
As the four of us trudged along, three ladies and a slightly glum-looking man walked in our opposite direction. They had a shaggy black doggie with them, and of course Shana just had to ask her question. Later as Shana was petting their dog, the lonely man mentioned to Gran he was friendly too. Suddenly Gran looked very uneasy and made a decision for all of us to continue our walk.
I kept shouting to Gran all the man wanted a good petting, but she was having none of it.
England can be a tough place for Americans who like ketchup. Mom’s ketchup consumption has diminished quite a bit over the years, but some fastfood places over here still make you BEG for more of the lovely, life-affirming red sauce.
A little while ago when we went to Tilgate Park for some horse gossip, the two of us sought refuge in a little coffee shop. Mommy bought a cup of coffee and we stayed inside for a little while so we could thaw out.
While sitting in my push chair I noticed a big honking box of ketchup packets on a table across the room and pointed them out. Mommy looked around the corner and saw the coffee shop worker holding a magazine with one hand and furiously picking his nose with the other. He looked like he was digging for buried treasure!
Mommy nearly nicked the entire box, but chickened out at the last minute. She had big plans to put the box in the bottom of my push chair and take off, but I didn’t want to get involved. The only other alternative would have been to stick the entire box under her shirt, but that would have looked too suspicious.
Anyway, Mommy and I went to the mall today, and we stopped by Burger King. The manager of this BK is reeeeeal meeeean and will only give you one ketchup packet per meal. Luckily the manager was probably out whipping small poodles or squirting little old ladies with pepper spray and we were served by a nice Chinese lady instead. She gave us 5 packets of ketchup.
