We are sitting having a picnic in Green Park, on a half-term trip to London. My four-year-old son suddenly asks, “Mummy, why are there so many baddies in London?” For a moment, I think he is referring to the national publicity about London’s knife crime and begin to tell him that whilst there are some baddies, there are many more goodies. He pauses for a moment before adding, “But why are the baddies all sitting on benches eating their lunch?” I glance across to look at a mass of men in suits enjoying their sandwiches in the sun. Why does he think they are baddies? “Because they’re wearing black and baddies always wear black.”
Now everything becomes clear. Earlier as we had walked along the busy pavements, he had been careful to step aside when any man in a suit walked past. I had mistaken this for politeness. Actually, he was quite terrified and had convinced himself that anyone wearing a suit was a member of a large London baddy gang.
The three children finish their lunch and bound off into the park to let off some steam, after a morning’s trailing round a museum. They rugby tackle each other to the ground, shrieking and I feel instantly relieved that they are wearing old jeans. However, I am horrified to see The Toddler suddenly whip down his trousers and ‘widdle’ on the grass, much to the amusement of his brother. At that moment, three small girls scoot past him staring. They are dressed in matching floral smocked dresses, their hair neatly held back off their face with velvet hair-bands. Meanwhile, my daughter, with her mass of brown hair unleashed around her face, is busy picking up litter from the ground. The girls’ smartly dressed mother looks aghast as my daughter scoops up old tissues and a crisp packet stuffing them into her coat pocket. “Just leave it,” I shout. “But Mummy, the litter might kill the birds,” she cries.
Suddenly, I hear high pitched screams and see the two boys running towards me terrified. “The big birds are chasing us,” shrieks my son. A small group of pigeons are following behind them, desperately hoping to be fed. With the three children huddled around my legs, I shoo the birds away, much to the amusement of the lunchtime workers. The pigeons refuse to budge and more join them. I fling the Toddler in the buggy and yell, “Run.” We sprint out of the park and return to the safety of our small flat, away from the urban baddies, litter and pigeons.
