The Thunderbolt Kid goes shopping

It really should have been a fun morning out for the Thunderbolt Kid.
And it would have been too.
Except for the freaks and the weirdo's. Of which there were plenty.
While the female parental (FP) took the siblings off to watch Ice Age 4 for the second time -

(Yes, these are the very same people who are all running temperatures that would cook microwave popcorn, and who are unable to fall asleep at night due to their tuberculosis like coughing. And yes, both adults saw no problem with taking the whole infected high risk brood into a closed public space filled with hundreds of innocent children who were quietly becoming infected with the equivalent of the Ebola virus while they ate popcorn and slurped slush-puppies)

- so while the FP had the siblings off infecting 13,000 other children, the male parental (MP) took me off with him while he went to do the weekly grocery shopping.

As I say. It started out great. The Mall - all those sounds and sights and people. Malls are great places.
He was holding me up against his shoulder and I was squealing with glee and kicking my little legs in excitement and wonder.

The first issue was transport. Those specially adapted shopping trolleys with the baby seats in them.
Yes those ones. The ones that 124,000 other snot nosed and dribbling children have used, all dirtier than you. The ones that never get cleaned. Nossir. I was not going to sit in that.
I eventually compromised after the MP wiped everything down with sterile swipes and draped my own blanket over the seat surface. But it was going to be a cold day in hell before I let him clip the snot and mucus soaked harness over me. Uh uh. That was not going to happen.

The shopping was fun, except for the weirdo's who ruined it every five minutes.
What makes strange looking old women who smell of toilet spray and look like they are alcoholics think that I want them coming up to me every five minutes and touching me with their gross and disgusting hands?
An alcoholic haze no doubt.

It kept happening. The worst one had hair so bad it looked like a cheap wig. except it wasn't. Her cheeks had a sunken multiple Gin & Tonic look about them and her voice was hoarse from probable substance abuse. And she dressed funny and her lipstick was very, very red.. She looked like a blond middle-aged witch from Hansel & Gretel. And she was all touchy and clingy and kept trying to convince the MP how much I liked her.

I wish I was old enough to swear. Or at least be able to articulate things with rude and unmistakable finger signs.
All I could do was burp gently in her general direction, which admittedly is not much, but is all my mid-range arsenal currently holds at present.

They should make it compulsory to have signs of the back of all baby trolleys that make it an arrestable offense to touch, tickle, breathe on, talk to, prod, stroke, pinch or generally have contact with the baby's inside.

Adults are clueless. They have no sense of personal space at all.
Its just disgusting.
No wonder their own grandchildren or nieces and nephews never come and visit them.

At least in this aspect the MP and I are in rare agreement. He seemed as pissed off by it all as I was.

Except right near the end when we were at the cheese counter and three rather attractive foreign exchange student type girls in their early twenty's were making a bit of a fuss.
Oh yes, he seemed to enjoy that quite a lot.

Middle aged git. If only he had seen them laughing at him behind his back when we moved off the look for the cold meats.

Its the last time the Thunderbolt Kid goes shopping for a while.