NS January 6th, 2007

I went to a coffee shop this morning to relax, baby-less, and read the weekend newspaper cover to cover. It was the perfect morning for it — it was raining, early (so not crowded yet) and though the holiday drinks were not on the menu any longer, the barista managed to conjure up some eggnog for my latte. All was right with the world. I settled down to cup my hands around the warm mug, delicately pick at my banana nut muffin and ready to say ‘what’s up’ to the planet through the attainment of knowledge of the goings-on of the world at the present moment (i.e. read the paper, which I haven’t done in a couple weeks, ashamedly).

Ten minutes into this deliciousness, a man, soon to be known as the most annoying person in the universe, barged in, banging the door, and ruined it all. He shat all over my perfect coffee morning with my lover, the news. Men get my respect begrudgingly at the best of times (yep, that’s me, ol’ Man Hater), but this was one of the worst breeds out there. Not ‘Sexist Pig’ or ‘Chavtastic Thug’ or even ‘Bible-beatin’ Bubba’. He was a Weekend Dad.

Weekend Dad is the guy who is freshly divorced and, since it’s Saturday morning, has just picked up his kid from that woman he used to call his wife’s house. He’s overexuberant, overbearing and trying waaay too hard to please. He’s in your face, in the kid’s face, in everyone’s face, trying to prove What A Good Dad He Is. When really, what he is is The World’s Biggest Wanker. This guy, from the moment he stepped foot in the place, was full of non-stop chatter. He had verbal diarrhea, seriously. I don’t know how he breathed in between all the yapping. He was with a cute little girl and a woman (who I mistakenly thought to be the girl’s mother at first) and was LOUD. It was “Hey! Julie! Look! Over here! Look at Daddy! Daddy got us the sofas! Isn’t Daddy clever?” Then it was “Julie, sweetie, come help Daddy choose his coffee-woffee, puh-leeeeease?” and then “What sound does a lion make, sugar pie? That’s right, RRRRRRRRRR!! Lions roar, don’t they pumpkin? Tell the nice lady what Daddy wants, honey. Go on, you can do it. I’ll tickle you if you don’t! I’m gonna get you, I’m gonna get you! (cut to Weekend Dad literally chasing his child around the entire store, tickling her, trying to make her laugh, while himself shrieking wildly).

All of this done at the top of his voice, in the most annoying baby-talk voice one can imagine, and without a moment of reprieve. For 45 fucking minutes. I know I said I wasn’t going to swear so much in 2007, but if Baby Jesus didn’t want me to swear he wouldn’t allow people like this to be born, grow into adulthood, breed, and then cross paths with me, now would he?

The woman with this nutjob, who had been pretty silent so far (no surprise since it’d be nigh on impossible to get a word in edgewise or to be heard over the deafening roar), was suddenly called into action because, apparently, little Julie needed a wee-wee. Of course, Weekend Dad had to announce this to everyone by shouting “Do you have to wee-wee honey? Do you? Daddy can’t take you to the potty because that’s for girl-princesses only, but Allison here will take you, won’t she?” Allison smiles thinly and looks like she might be sick. Poor thing. She’s obviously the New Girlfriend After Divorce and this is the first time she’s met the kid and seen them together. I can only assume that her silence means she’s either had a lobotomy already or is mentally planning her escape from the window in the bathroom and thinking about what her new number could be when she changes it.

To make matters worse, the guy fancies himself a professional photographer. He’s getting the kid to pose by the coffee beans, by the front door, standing on the sofa, pretending to drink his coffee. The flash is going off like he’s the head heavy in the paparazzi and his child is Britney Spear’s barenaked snatch, clambering out of a limo while out on the piss with LiLo. It’s disgraceful. I consider walking over to him, getting him in a headlock, and stuffing my muffin down his throat until he can’t swallow or breath and his eyes bulge from his head and the veins on the side of his temples explode. What satisfaction that would give. Reminding myself that I *could* be deported from Her Majesty’s kingdom if I did such a thing (as TNH has had to remind me before), I instead mutter under my breath “Shut up, you idiot.” The guy at the next table hears this and grins at me, nodding his head in agreement. We share a mutual rolling of eyes and go back to our lovers, newspaper and coffee.

As I’d been reading the paper, I’d jotted down notes on the back page about things I want to learn more about, look up when I got home, or just found funny (this is coming in a subsequent post). I picked up my pen and wrote at the top of this list “annoying dad.” On my way out I shot him a dirty look and then the girlfriend a sympathetic one. I didn’t know what kind of look to give the kid. Perhaps a fiver tucked into her tiny hand would’ve been better. Attached to it, a note reading “For your therapy fund. I’d invest big if I were you. Your dad is a wanker.”

• Parenting 101
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