Sunday 9 February 2014

Week 126- men in tights, weeping children and breastfeeding to Ryan Gosling...

There is only one thing more heartbreaking than seeing a genuinely disappointed child. 

It's seeing shit loads of genuinely disappointed children.

Ben and I had promised Nancy a trip to the cinema. 

She'd been with me before, but mainly when she was a baby and I'd sit there watching Ryan Gosling films while she breastfeeding. Which doesn't necessarily count.

(Totally just an excuse for a hot Goslinator picture...)

But I'd seen that the picturehouse down the road was screening the Disney version of Peter Pan.


And just the right level of reminiscence for Ben and I that we'd all have a cracking time.

I'd built Nancy up to it for days. 

Showing her pictures of Peter Pan on the internet. 

Word of advice. 

If you're going to do that then vet the Google images first before passing over the IPad.

Turns out it's not just stills from the film that come up, but weird-looking men in green tights and facepaint, draped round leathered 'Tinkerbells.'


The Peter Pan seed had been well and truly sown. 

Nancy was finishing her tea, going to bed and getting dressed without fuss as the threat of not seeing Peter Pan if she didn't weighed heavy.

And on Saturday morning we all trotted down to the pictures with over half an hour to spare, which is virtually unheard of in our family.

As we approached the cinema, the scene was one of confusing devastation. 

Mothers were hugging crying children. 

One little boy had thrown himself on the floor and his dad was trying to pick him up without getting booted in the face.

Another girl was head in hands, shouting, 'I hate you!' at her distraught looking dad who was trying to quietly calm the situation by offering her a variety of snacks.

And then we saw it. 

Selotaped to the door. 



As Nancy asked, 'are we there yet?', Ben quickly enquired within about returns, whilst I observed the faces of more parents falling in disbelief as they read the sign. 

It was like watching people going through the five stages of grief.

Firstly denial, as they marched in anyway to buy their ticket. 

Followed by anger, as they told their kids and were met with stamping feet and little clenched fists of rage.

Bargaining- as they lurked by the ticket office, asking the staff if there was anyway they could just stand at the back. Or creep in after it had started and see if there were any spare seats.

Depression, all round, as mums and dads squatted down by the side of the road to hug a little person who's doing the shoulder shaking sob, absolutely inconsolable. Leaving the parents feeling like King/ Queen shithead.

And finally, acceptance - going back to the car, which, incidentally, they'd already paid a fortune for three hours parking, and only used about 10 minutes of, vowing to never to be so disorganised/ spontaneous again.

Turns out they were screening the same show at the picturehouse in town the following day, so, without hesitation, we bought our tickets and attempted to convince Nancy that we'd always said we were going 24 hours later.

And come Sunday morning, I internally high fived myself as I saw the same note taped to the cinema doors again.

But predictably, the same scene unfolded there too.

We waded through a sea of weeping, disappointed children and their crestfallen parents to go and, finally, see the film. 

And I decided then that I'm going to be much more organised in future. 

Either that, or just not do anything good together as a family. 

At least that way you can totally manage expectations....

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