When Good Dinner Goes Bad

The Perils of Parenting. Dining out with a child in tow is often as much fun as being clubbed in the jigglies, repeatedly.

My good lady was at a midwives appointment today. As it was getting late we decided to pop into a quaint little Italian restaurant near the hospital. I thought to myself, wow this place is awesome. I will review it for Steemit!

Enter the Battlefield Rest.

Back in ye olden days. That's the very hospital we were at behind it, still there!

Its a very quaint little building in the area of Battlefield on the south side of Glasgow. Built back in 1914 it used to be a Tram Stop back in the day and is renowned for having been a place where naughty dalliances were once had. All that stopped when a local restauranteur purchased the place and converted it into the funky modern Italian bistro it now is.

Oh the times me and the missus had here in the past before parenthood. The lolz and adventures with wine and linguini are uncountable!

So today we thought, Hey, let's not bother cooking. Let's pop in here for a bite to eat!

Fantastic idea on paper. Our little girl is a veritable angel behaviour-wise compared to some other kids.

So in we popped, our daughter was very excited. 'Can I have spaghetti!' She shouted somewhat wildly.

'Of course you can!' I bellowed. 'Spaghetti, pizza, you name it. We are going to have a great FUN dinner!'

So we sat down, all three of us. Me the good lady and my smashing little daughter.

It's a lovely place and there were twelve or so people in at this point in the evening. Many were drinking wine and the atmosphere was very civilised, very respectable.

The waiter materialised next to us proferring menus and asking if sir or madam would like to order drinks. We ordered a couple of glasses of wine and an apple juice for the little one. The drinks arrived. I looked lovingly at my good lady and raised my glass. 'Heres to...'

'WHERES HORSE?' Demanded my daughter as she writhed about in despair on her chair. Horse had gone missing it seemed. Much searching of floors and horse was found under her napkin.

I raised my glass to my good lady again, we smiled that secret smile that couples have at each other and she raised her glass to toast me.

'I NEED THE TOILET!' Yelled my daughter, since entering the restaurant she seemed to have forgotten how to speak normally. Off she went to the toilet with the good lady after curtly rejecting my offer to go with her. 'DAAADDY is SILLY' being the reason.

They came back. Daughter climbed into her chair. Good lady sat down. The waiter came and took our orders. Darling daughter ordered pizza.

I gazed at my good lady, pulling forth a slightly forced manic grin . 'Well,' I said. 'Lets enjoy our...'

'DADDY STOP TALKING! I'M TALKING!' Screeched my delightful daughter.

I explained calmly and reasonably that Daddy was talking and she would have to wait till I had finished. My daughter responded by sliding under the table.

'I AM PLAYING WITH HORSE, I DO NOT WANT TO COME OUT.'

I couldn't help but feel that horse was winning this unseen battle. My good lady opened her mouth but before she could speak.

'MUMMY, DADDY KICKED MY HAND!'

Except I fucking didn't, despite being sorely tempted to. My daughter surfaced from under the table. She glowered at me triumphantly. 'Daddy hurt my hand.'

The next several minutes revolved around me patiently explaining that no, I did not hurt her hand whilst under my breath cursing all liars to the seven winds.

Our food arrived. Myself and the good lady breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps our little angel was just hungry, she was normally so good in these places.

'I WANTED SPAGHETTIIIIIIII!' She screamed reasonably

'But you asked for pizza?' We both said.

'SPAAAAGHETTTIIIIII. NO, I DONT WANT THIS.'

Somehow her foot was on the table and her juice clunked onto its side sending a tsunami of apple juice into my lap.

I grimaced, aware of the looks the other diners were shooting us and stood up. My pale grey trousers sodden with apple juice at the ball area demonstrating to the world that I had pissed myself.

My good lady remonstrated with our darling little princess who promptly burst into tears. I held myself rigidly with a plastic frozen grin on my face as I went to the toilet to mop my groin ineffectualy with hand towels.

I came back shortly after. My daughter looked like a crying aubergine with wild blonde hair.

After several minutes trying to instil some reasonable behaviour from our beautiful girl we gave up, took the food, paid the bill and headed for home. Daughter cried all the way there.

We got home. I announced I would go and heat up the food and headed to the kitchen. The apple of my eye looked around quizzically?

'WHY ARE WE AT HOME, I WANT TO GO TO THE CAFE!'

Later I managed to convince my other half that I was actually shouting Fox, foxing, foxing fox or of the window.