THEME parks are always going to be more fun for children than their ageing, scaredy-cat 'rents. Maybe it has something to do with all those interminable hours spent in snaking queues (hours, I may add, that people my age can't afford to surrender lightly – I don't know how many I have left) and the omnipresent whiff of stale chip fat. We also tend to have a heightened sense of the potential dangers lurking behind every innocent-looking spinning teacup or flying Dumbo.
So, all fired up on cola and candy floss, the little treasures (at least the ones who got past the height gestapo) waited patiently in line for the wildest rollercoasters, the wettest water rides and the spinniest, upside-downiest faux-Spanish galleo
ns. The Suitor and I, meanwhile, stood helplessly by, trying to block the images in our minds of all the ways in which we could plummet to a messy, painful death. All it would take is one screw to work loose…
"You shouldn't worry," mused the Quiet One. "Look at it this way: either you'll be fine, or you'll die and we'll be able to sue the theme park for millions." I suspect he gets that mercenary streak from his father.
Anyway, if you can't beat 'em (child protection laws and all that), you might as well join 'em. Against our better judgment, we were birled round, spun inside out, soaked to the skin and had our stomachs bombarded with more junk food, fizzy drinks and E numbers than any sane, middle-class parent should reasonably be expected to consume.
We thought we had experienced all the white-knuckle rides there were to be had. But we hadn't bargained for the train journey home.
We had run into our travelling companions earlier, in the queue for Monkey Mayhem (actually, I can't remember if that's what the ride was called; I was too busy trying to hold on to the contents of my stomach to concentrate). Were Vicky Pollard and her chavvy children trying to jump the line or had they innocently lost their places? We didn't know, and weren't about to tackle them on the issue as the mouthy, muffin-topped, pineapple-ponytailed one was itching for a punch-up.
So you can image how thrilled we were when they all pitched up in our railway carriage; not just Pollard and her pudgy progeny, but what seemed to be the entire sink estate on their annual day out at the fair. The profanities began even before the doors had closed.
Pollard seemed particularly offended by her own children, telling them repeatedly to "f*** off out of my face before I swing for you". (To be fair, she was pretty much offended by everyone. At one stage she opined, "People can f****** stare all they like, I don't care, I can f****** take them all on." I can't imagine who she was referring to, as we were all resolutely looking out of the window.)
One member of the party played tinny music continually on his mobile phone while another's child screamed its lungs raw from start to finish (to try to calm her down, a loving parent filled her bottle with Tizer – bless).
"There's Greggs!" squealed one of the group excitedly, jumping up and down on his seat. "Quick, let's get off!" Unfortunately, the bakery was closed, which brought the already heightened atmosphere to fever pitch. "I've been to that Greggs before," he mused nostalgically. "It's a really good one."
Denied their pies, tempers were rising and the danger level was at Defcon 1. The Suitor, in his wisdom, was planning our escape route should things turn nasty, but I think the theme park had missed a trick. It could market the journey as the scariest ride of all. Ladies and gentlemen, roll up, roll up! Get your tickets for the Pikey Plunge!
It certainly had us on the edge of our seats.
The full article contains 671 words and appears in Scotland On Sunday newspaper.
