On the turning away

As I was methodically combing the shelves at the chemist, a muttered conversation drifted towards me, gradually becoming louder. “Give it to me so I can look in it. If you have nothing to hide, then let me have a look,” said a stern voice, sounding extremely exasperated, followed by child’s repeated “No! No, I deserve my pwivacy!” The stern voice belonged to a Suspicious Parent, who followed their young Potential Shoplifter through the aisles, stopping briefly to continue the argument then moving on as the child backed away from her.

There’s a feeling of slightly smug relief I get sometimes while observing other people’s parenting. Sometimes this is because I’ve passed the age they’re currently struggling with – there’s a quiet pleasure in contemplating the fact that you will never again be the one soothing the crying baby on the plane. At times like this, it’s more of an over-confident “well, my kid would never do that” feeling. I was contemplating this and trying to ignore them as the argument continued, the child keeping up a grating monotone of “No! I do not consent! You cannot invade my pwivacy!” at increasing volumes. Her chaperone insisted several times that she would call the police, no, that was it, she was calling them, she would definitely call the police – falling into the trap of making a Big Threat and then realising you don’t have anywhere to go from there, so you just have to repeat the Big Threat in different ways. 

They came into my aisle, as the child started insisting that not even the police had the right to look in her bag and there was nothing anyone could do about it. I had become so sick of hearing about “my pwivacy!” at this point that I interjected with “You’re wrong, they can absolutely look in your bag”, and smiled sympathetically at the parent, thinking that perhaps the firm voice of a stranger might be helpful. This had no effect at all. As they got closer to the door, the caregiver made a swipe for the bag, the girl screamed and flung herself on the ground, and they ended up grimly wrestling each other on the floor, the girl keeping up her wailing scream. The staff and everyone around them pretended this wasn’t happening, which is always a strange phenomenon to observe. “It’s not there, it’s not there,” you can almost hear the mental murmurs. “If we don’t look at it for long enough, it will go away.” I joined in the collective turning away and stepped around them to exit the shop, leaving the pandemonium behind me.