There we were, walking about our local DIY store. I know – we have the best family days out ever!
Sackgirl and Botboy were happily rummaging through the hammers, saws and hedgetrimmers – I saw no harm in this.
Having finished unwinding a 40 metre hosepipe and carefully removing all 74 of the garden gnomes, plastic rabbits and statues of naked women (where are the men, that’s what I want to know) from their shelf and rearranging them along the aisle floor, Sackgirl wandered over waving a bottle with a spray nozzle.
What happens if you spray this on a person, mummy?
Ok, call me stupid, but I wasn’t really paying attention. I mean, I was deeply immersed in the comparison of the value box of screwdrivers, which you know will only last for a few tight turns before blunting, as opposed to the extremely hardwearing, diamond tipped, can also be used as a hammer and tin opener, deluxe screwdriver that costs as much as a month’s household shopping.
So, I glanced quickly at the bottle (it looked like some sort of car polish) and quick as a flash across the brain I thought “better stop her spraying that then!”.
It’s really nasty and burns all your skin off
Come on, it’s not just me, right?
Sometimes you think that making something up will stop them doing something else. Like telling them that when the ice cream van plays music it means it’s empty. This deception practiced by parents around the country is meant to stop them asking for ice cream when that little bugger drives up your street and parks outside your house, music blaring, every darn Sunday.
It was a flash response. My thought process was much like this.
She asked what would happen if she sprayed it = tell her it burns = she won’t spray it.
What I failed to do there was to take that thought one teeny little step further. What I failed to realise was that the crime may already have been committed and she was now in damage limitation mode.
Arrrrgghhhh. My skin is burning, my skin is burning. I’m on fire. I’m burning.
Blood curdling screams echoed through the metal warehouse as Botboy fell to the floor in hysterics, clasping at his perfectly healthy and dry left arm.
In case you were wondering, I didn’t get a screwdriver. Or a garden gnome.