Force has no place where there is need of skill

There has been a clamouring from the mob for more Henry on this blog, and never let it be said that a baying mob cannot frighten me into a response. Quite unlike Leonidas at Thermopylae, I am not prepared to deny the teeming masses the object of their affection. So here he is, my first born, the hulking beast that is Henry Fitzgerald McCracken.

Actually, I am quite proud of Henry today. As ever, we traipsed off this morning to play group, and as ever, a horrid young man – who I shall not name for reasons of decorum – was there again. This young man (some deal older than my Henry), is not popular amongst the group. Clearly a spoilt child – a ‘Hutchins man’, at three-and-a-half no less – he lacks in comprehension what he does in manners. Even at this early age, he is what one might call a ‘taker’ in life, empowered in his selfish ways by parents seemingly ignorant to his effect upon others. Truth be told, I feel him to be a simpleton. The lack of any awareness of the withering glares cast upon him (by children and their parents) far and wide certainly suggests so. The complete lack of any verbal skills beyond wild shouts or animalistic grunts merely confirms it.

To expand, this unpleasant little character has a habit of – upon seeing a smaller child enjoying a small toy or game – charging in and grabbing the source of whatever petit amusement he can, all the while wailing like a banshee. This, along with hitting other children on the head with whatever is at hand; or grabbing and emptying the cups of children capable of utilising cups (this imbecile has – of course – stalled on a ‘sippy cup’); or just wailing and shouting at random. Suffice to say, he is quite exasperating.

I resist the urge to offer what I would dearly love to advise my Henry (which runs something along the lines of: “Henry, smack this little thug right between the eyes with that truck, he’ll drop like a sack of s%&t, mark my words; all bluff, no stuff”). I instead take the moral high road and tell my lad (who to his credit, offers little more than a contemptuous gaze to the moronic child, no tears), “ignore the boy Henry, rise above it, and we can find plenty of action outside of this”.

That said, upon thwacking Henry on the noggin for the fourth time (and the tenth such assault that I witnessed), I did firmly grasp this cretin by the wrist, frustrated by the lack of parental response, and slowly, calmly and (most of all) firmly inform the child that, “seriously mate, one day you’re going to do that to the wrong person and they will hurt you, and you’ll be in no position to complain”.

I only wish that I could be there to see it.

A severe shortage of sleep can bring out his baser instincts, I will admit.