What I’m really thinking: The Witch in Seat 34A
When I smile at it, it is because I have to. Because, if I don’t appreciate your small squirming hominid, I am monstrous. The wicked witch. The sour barren aunt. The ferocious old nanny. All three.
I like children. Smart children, funny children, sharp children, quiet children, excitable children. Even moody 12 year old kids who call me Stalin when it is definitely after 9pm. My dislike is really just limited to infants. I have all the maternal instinct of a butch komodo dragon. Okay, I won’t actually eat your offspring, but only because it is not socially acceptable to commit cannibalism on the grounds of baby based prejudice. Although it has been tempting.
So I am the ultimate abomination: a young, fertile woman who hates babies. Oh shut up, Felicity. I know how wicked and nasty I am, and what a saint and sufferance you are to dear little Marcus. Go write a smug Facebook status about how hurt you were by the nasty lady who moved away from dear little Hugo’s 3 hour tantrum. I know it’s hard. That’s why I’m not a mummy. But please, just accept I’m not evil for quietly thinking that your baby is a loud, pink jerk.
Babies are loud. The screaming and biting is to be suffered. Anyone who enjoys it is a masochist. I’m not a witch for moving to another carriage when baby Poppy punches my knee for the third time. I am probably doing both of us a favour. In fact, Felicity, you are the wicked witch of the tale, sadistically forcing me to endure your gene vehicle out of sheer social martyrdom. If I shut my eyes, wince, move away or put in my headphones, it does not affect your sweetiekins in any way. Hell, it’s too busy stuffing it’s spoiled mouth with rice cakes to notice the quiet student moving back a row.
I’ll be quiet. I won’t be confrontational or unpleasant. But know us witches exist, even if we won’t swallow Petunia whole.