The one about fate

Walking with a grumpy child in Rushmere Centre. He’s huffing with me because the Iggle Piggle ride that he remembers was here before has been replaced. And that’s my fault, of course. He spots a machine which gives out plastic eggs containing Paw Patrol figures for a pound and demands one. I meekly acquiesce, reasoning that it least it might get me back in the good books for a bit. As I slip the coin into the slot he says ‘Daddy I don’t want Rubble. I’ve already got Rubble’, and with that my fate is sealed. I try to explain that I don’t control which toy comes out, he nods like he understands but then adds ‘As long as it’s not Rubble daddy’. I fumble with the wrapping, it might be ok, it’s a one in six chance. It could be Skye. It could be Marshall or Rocky. I crack the plastic egg open and pray for Chase. Good Christ, even Zuma would be ok. I stare at the toy. It’s Rubble. Fecking Rubble. Of course it’s Rubble. Cue the inevitable tantrum and protestations of ‘I hate you’. God I love being a daddy ❤️

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