Children

I am not especially fond of children; they are far too unpredictable to be likeable. They have bowels and bladders that seem to spring leaks at surprising moments, gabble incoherent nonsense (which, as a woman, one is meant to find infinitely fascinating), and have the ability to suck the room dry of any intelligent adult conversation by their mere presence. (Having re-read that sentence, one realises how many elderly Rich-Listers share the same attributes.)

Another annoying attribute of children, is their parents. Middle-class ones, anyway. The lower and upper-classes seem to share a similar disinterest in their off-spring (although with varying degrees of competency), but the middle-classes tend to think the over-indulged fruit of their loins are a precious gift to be shared with all.

They are taken everywhere the parents go, even the best restaurants, where everyone is meant to be quite impressed with "how adult and well-mannered" they are, something the parents themselves have failed to achieve.

A slack-jawed child of indeterminate gender sits at the table. Mr Gormless (I have no idea who he is), is shovelling small pieces of food into its mouth.

"Since she was a baby, we have introduced her to a great variety of food. This is goat’s cheese. She loves it."

Mr G popped another morsel in her mouth. The child gummed it, unblinkingly, and swallowed. She reminds me of the mechanical clowns at the Easter Show, whose heads swivel as ping-pong balls are thrown down their fibre-glass throats. She demonstrates the same gastronomical delight.

"She's quite a connoisseur. She’ll try anything."
I am tempted to see if that statement is true. I have a lip-stick in my bag I don’t particularly like.
"Most children don’t like olives. She does."
He popped an olive in her mouth.
"Yuck," she said loudly and distinctly, and the olive rolled out of the infant's maw, trailing a long line of dribble. Mr G went red. I covered my laughter with a discreet coughing fit.

Another parent at the table is describing the secret to their parental success.
"We treat T just like an adult. We don't believe in talking to him like a child. Research shows that 'baby-talk' stunts their intellectual development."
"T," I said, "What is your opinion on the efficacy of the Kyoto Protocol in reducing greenhouse gas emissions?"
T violently shook his entire body, knocking cutlery to the floor.
"Interesting. How about stem-cell research? Yes or no."

The parent shot me a look of utter revulsion, and I went back to eavesdropping on the neighbouring table.