I suppose as metaphors for tantrums go, an exploding car isn’t a bad one. I first became aware of the short, sharp bang emanating from a hatchback in the middle of the road while standing outside Blackhorse Road station last week. I say standing, but I was really hunkered on my ankles attempting to commiserate with my son as he screamed in my face.
He’d been crying for about 40 minutes, in an unbroken tirade. It began as we were leaving the park. His friend Eusebio (whose name has been changed, in the manner of a much more serious article, to emphasise how stressful this was) was showing off his shiny new toy car, one we knew very well since we have the exact same one at home. It’s a small blue sports car that kind of turns into a Triceratops. You might even say it transforms into one, had its manufacturers not gone to great lengths to avoid any such language.
