Baby Tom
Kirsty’s flatmates’ mum looks after little kids for a living. So? Nothing wrong with that at all. I should be happy they’re not left to fend for themselves on the streets. But there’s one little kid (around 2 years of age) called Tom. I hate him so much. I’ve heard so many stories about Baby Tom (this is what they all call him, it is partly why I hate him) it would make you sick. It’s always “Ahh, Baby Tom did x” just like a baby would! Or “Baby Tom is so cute because of fact y”. Where y is something inherent to all babies who simply don’t understand things properly. That’s why he’s being like that; because his brain is underdeveloped.
Anyway, this leads to Saturday morning, when I’m pretty tired anyway, and certainly not in any mood to hear more saccharine tales of Baby bloody Tom. This time he was getting jealous of attention and saying (wrongly) “Mines!” when Clair hugged her mother in his presence. Kirst kept repeating this inanity at me in that stupid baby voice girls are wont to do and it was visibly annoying me. “Ahh,” she said, “I want to give Baby Tom a cuddle,” to which I replied, with some frustration in my voice, “I want to boil him alive.”
This resulted in an unprecedented flood of tears and the first instance of my having to convince my girlfriend I didn’t want to actually poach toddlers. One of the most bizarre arguments I think we’ve had, but I think we have it sorted now, and I’m not going to have any more mawkish Baby Tom stories recounted at me.