Stropper's bedroom. Present, a veritable fuzz of cuddly toys and next door neighbour's niece, three years older than The Stropper. The game in hand involved flying the toys to various corners of the globe. As I left them, Platypus was off to France with Ratty.
Nonchalant comment from guest suggesting her disbelief in the existence of any country called "Marosta". Intervening only when the raising decibels suggested imminent violence, I entered a scene not dissimilar to Armageddon.
Stropper's guest flew, pleading, to my side:
"Tell (Stropper) there is no such place as Marosta. It's not a place is it?
Was that all, a geographical disagreement? That should be easily remedied.
Marosta Marosta....sounds like a real place.
Before I could slink off to Google, Stropper proclaimed, with weighty conviction, that Marosta did exist. In case you're wondering, it's in China. Apparently.
As I attempted to mediate, Stropper continued her insistence on a loop, repeating the word over and over with Guest butting in with her contribution which involved singing "No..ho, no...ho, no...ho"
I held on to my maturity for precisely 30 seconds. I staunched the feeling of an approaching aneurysm by out-hollering the screeching pre-pubescent half pints.
The consequence of my going postal was double-headed strop from two kids suddenly united in fear and shock.
Any discussion about the existence or not of Marosta was halted. Dead.
My work here is done I thought. And it was.
Dismay Factor Percentage:
Any dismay was my own at my losing my blob. That said, they were asking for it. And it was effective:
More:Is It Just Me?
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