At garden gate chatting to our elderly and lovely (but true devotees of the send-'em-up-a-chimney-as-soon-as-they-can-walk school of discipline), neighbours.
"No, you can't go and play with the chickens because you are dressed for a party"
Phase 1: Complete Stropper breakdown. Sit down protest, tears, party shoes kicked against the wall, birthday present shoved (little bit too scared to throw) onto the floor, arms crossed, uncrossed, crossed.
Phase 2: Pleading. Not much in the way of practiced articulation. Much repetition of the word pleeeaaase. That was it really.
Phase 3: Negotiation. Now this was quite impressive, to be fair. The Stropper offered me the following options: being good for "ever", not "noying" the cat for the whole day and eating two pieces of "bwocli" at dinner.
The whole thing was getting out of hand. Much to my dismay (see below) the neighbours stepped in. "That's enough now. Stop crying." Scared me a bit if I'm honest.
And Stropper stopped! Just like that.
Dismay Factor Percentage:
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