The streets of London abound with small children in knee socks. The little boys clad in newsy caps and sweater vests ask their mums for sweets in a voice not even Beelzebub could resist. They are generally cute and good natured and I would venture to say proclaim things like "cheerio," and "top o' the morning to you," (or maybe thats the leprechaun from the Lucky Charms cereal). While they are not wearing rouge (thats blush in British...I think), their cheeks are endlessly rosy, coloured with the vibrance that is youth. If you are imagining a mix between Oliver (the title character in the classic british play) and Christian Bale (the title character in the classic disney movie, "Newsie's"), then I have hit the descriptive nail on the head, because that's where I'm going with this. British children are far cuter than any American child I have ever encountered, including blood relatives (sorry Mannah).
Despite the constant urge to abscond to the country with one of these adorably British children where we would live a simple life of tending house and garden, making cheese and possibly operating some sort of independent news press all while wearing wooden clogs (it's possible I'm mixing up some of my bizarre Disney/cross cultural fantasies here, I haven't seen anyone in England wearing wooden clogs), I don't. As I only have a one year student visa and mounting debt, I don't think child abduction is a feasible option at the moment. If my passport gets seized and I get deported my family, friends, and new acquaintances might think less of me. Alas, I will not be stealing any children (or sketchers) any time soon.
Twas a Sunday afternoon, no more than a fortnight ago, when sitting on the tube, I was cured of this desire to steal small British children. The tube, London's underground akin to the New York Subway, the DC Metro, or the Boston T, is clean and efficient. Its one major drawback is the lack of air conditioning. London, a city famous for its dark dreary weather, must be sitting on top of large magma deposits because going underground is like walking into a volcano, or sauna. Off come the trendy leather jackets, trendy scarfs, layers of sweaters or other trendy tops and down everyone strips to their t-shirts while they wait for their train. This strip down is both embarrassing and time consuming, but for sweaty Americans, it's a must.
Everyone uses the tube. Men in suits, women in heels, tourists with overstuffed backpacks and new mothers with baby's in prams all crowd into the hot cars and hold on as they make their way to their final destination. I often relish my time on the tube, despite the uncomfortable heat and gradual appearance of sweat on my brow, the tube is prime people watching ground (and prime child snatching ground.
Anyway, as I said, it was a Sunday afternoon. Unseasonably warm and hotter than usual, I sit perched on a ledge meant for luggage in the center of a crowded train. As we approach Kings Cross people prepare to empty out. I slyly looked around, secretly judging my fellow passengers and coveting the boots of the impossibly thin and fashionable girl standing across from me. The train slows to a stop and unloads its burden while new people, fresh from the street and only starting the strip down game board.
A woman in her mid thirties stumbles into the car. She looks as though she has spent significant time in a tanning bed and beauty parlor. Her hair, a brilliant two toned display of black and yellow, poofs in ways that defies gravity. Her nails are the type that preclude any desk or house work. Her outfit, of silver mesh and too tight jeans, twists as she doubles over and begins a long search in her massive tote for something that must be extremely important.
Behind the woman two small children board the car. The children are not the sort I have been getting used to seeing in London. First of all they are Ginger, that's British for red headed. Now everyone knows that you can't really trust a red head. A lot of people also live by the credo that "no one likes a redhead." As someone who doesn't buy in to stereotypes, critical judgements or general meanness, I would NEVER think or say a thing like this. I reserve judgement of these unfortunate ginger children. I slowly assess them, trying to figure out who they belonged to. While they got on immediately after the too tanned woman, she doesn't seem to notice or acknowledge them, nor them her.
The lady on the loudspeaker asks people to stand clear of the closing doors as the children begin to wrestle in the middle of the crowded train. They fight for space on the long pole meant as a grip for standing passengers. The boy is the smaller of the two. A mere eight, he wears an intense bowl and appears to have less teeth than my 80-year-old grandmother. His eyes looked like those of a cartoon dragon, yellow and mean.
The girl, perhaps ten, is no less unfortunate looking. Plump and wearing shorts and a cropped t-shirt that falls down in a long fringe over her spandex shorts, her hair fire red hair emanates from her head like the rays of one of those static balls. The fringe of her shirt is garnished with beads like she just returned from a Jamaican vacation but instead of getting her hair braided and beaded she got her shirt shredded and beaded. The weather is unseasonably warm this Sunday, but not even the Sun spitting out little sun pellets of burning flame merits any sort of cropped beaded top.
Despite dragon boys small stature he appears to be the stronger of the two and certainly the more forceful. My ears almost fall off when I think I hear him command his sister to "Fuck off," in a little British accent. It must be the accent, I tell myself. There is no way a small child, even a ginger, would say that. I try and maintain my faith in human goodness and small British boys in newsy caps. Then it happens again.
"Fuck off fatty, I do it better." I love the British accents with an embarrassing passion. That may or may not be my real motive for relocating for the year. However not even "fuck off fatty" sounds refined in it.
The little girl, surely embarrassed now moves to an adjacent pole. She quickly climbs it and then slowly slides towards the floor, her pudgey stomach making the uncomfortable sound of flesh rubbing plastic as she makes her way down.
Frantic for both my own and these foul mouthed children's safety, I look around for the surely mortified parents. I see no one. Again my eyes turn to the too tanned, two toned woman. She continues her search in her bag, seemingly oblivious to the behavior of these red headed devils. She can not be the mother I tell myself, no mother would ever allow this sort of behavior in public. Across the car appears a man in a wife beater. Bingo! I don't care where you are from or what language you speak, a wife beater means one thing and one thing only, you probably live in a trailer.
The children begin to fight with each other, dragon boy throwing punches at his sister, her beads jingling as she throws slaps back. Wife beater makes his way over. Of course he's their father.
" 'Ey," he says, carrying another redheaded child in his hands. The children look at him and instantly stop fighting. The return to their respective poles and begin to show him how they are able to climb up the dirty pole that is touched by millions of people every day and probably carried swine flu, bovine flu, elephant flu and gonorrhea.
"Look at me Dad. LOOK AT ME!" Devil boy commands. The father shows little interest and leans over too tanned lady. Of course she is their mother and has this entire time ignore their take over of the car poles and their foul ginger language. Too tanned and wife beater kiss. I think I just contracted syphilis.
"Mum look I can climb the pole too." Jingle bells wants in on the action too. The parents exchange looks and wife beater reaches up to scratch his hat. The site of his under arm hair causes me to gag.
"You're not as good as I am. I'm the fucking best." Devil boy has dropped the f-bomb again. I have through my adult life, been accused of cursing like a sailor. But holy fucking shit, if I spoke like that as a child I would not have lived to see the light of day. Wife beater however doesn't seem to notice.
"Yeh, nice job (insert British white trash name here)." He turns away again.
The car slows and the conductor announces that we have arrived at my stop. Thank god, freedom. Dragon boy and jingle bell block my exit as they try and do flips off the pole. I say excuse me as sternly as I can, hoping this small show of discipline reforms their horrible ginger ways.
Once home I look up the number for London's child protective services and destroy my VHS copy of Newsies.
