Do I like children? Why, yes, I do.
Do I like a lot of small children running around and screaming their collective heads off? Well, I won't say I like them, but I don't mind them, as long as they're over there and I'm someplace else, watching from afar.
The trouble was that right at this moment I seemed to be surrounded by the little monsters, all yelling at the top of their not so little voices, galloping around like a herd of horses over-dosed on uppers.
What had got into my husband to volunteer to help out at the Church picnic was beyond me. Bad enough to actually have to go, but to volunteer to help? Especially with the children, and I use that word only because I've been raised not to use foul language.
I wasn't at the picnic to help. I was there to relax, eat something, drink bad coffee, and provide moral support to my beloved husband. I was most certainly not there to help control a screaming horde while the parents of that screaming horde sat around and watched. My husband, bless him, had said he would organise some games for them. A few races and friendly competitions. Now he was heading back this way with a few victims to help him. I'm sorry. That should have read a few volunteers to help him. These were eager martyrs, full of righteousness, keen to lend a helping hand, ignorant of the fact that those little fiends would probably bite that hand.
I smiled at James, told him I really needed to go visit Mother Nature and I would be back soon. I was quite sure he and his posse could carry on without me.
I headed over towards the public rest-rooms, ducked around them and kept on going into the woods, away from the whole mad scene, breathing a sigh of relief to have escaped.
I've only been married for a year and so far have zero children. Today's experience was not convincing me that I should contribute to the population explosion just yet. There was plenty of time for that in the future.
I strolled through the woods, enjoying the peace and quiet. After a while I came to where a creek ran through the woods. A small area had been cleared to one side of the creek and there was grass and a picnic table with benches. Just the thing for someone wanting to get away from it all. I sat down and contemplated the rippling water.
"Aren't you supposed to be with your James, helping organise the kids?" someone asked.
"No," I flatly stated, not even turning to see who it was. "James volunteered. I did not. Neither do I choose to be drafted. I may return and lend a hand but, there again, I may not."
"You don't think it's your Christian duty?" he asked, and I could hear the laugh in his voice.
"No. They all have parents, most of who are at the picnic. I wouldn't feel right, abrogating parental rights. I'm sure they'll manage."
The man strolled around and I looked him over. He was tall, not unhandsome, had a friendly, smiling, face, and I had no idea who he was.
"I'm Elizabeth, more often known as Liz," I told him. I waited for him to introduce himself.
"Well, yes, Liz, I know that," he said.
He did? Come to think of it he did look a trifle familiar, but I still couldn't place him.
"You don't remember me?" he asked. "I am wounded, deeply wounded. Think cassock." With the last word he ran his hand down from shoulder height to his knees as though indicating the long flowing robe.
"Father O'Brien? Oh. I didn't recognise you out of your cassock. How silly of me." He also looked years younger in casual clothes.
"Understandable. When you always see someone dressed the same a change of clothes can throw you. Mind you, I'd think I'd recognise you anywhere, in or out of your clothes."
I blinked. It was my imagination. No way he meant that the way it sounded.
"It's the hair," I said, touching my naturally red top. "I bet if I dyed it you wouldn't know me."
"No," he said, sounding very thoughtful. "I don't think it's just the hair."
When he said that his eyes were on my chest. OK, so I was very nicely endowed in that area and was used to men talking to my breasts, but this was a first for Father O'Brien. I blushed. He looked amused.
"I was asked once if I thought you had, ah, enhanced your breasts. I said no way, you have too much self-confidence to need that sort of prop. Enhancements are for people who have low self-esteem, and that's not you."
I was both flattered and embarrassed. He was right, my breasts were natural. I have a friend who had falsies put in, and I knew just what he meant about self-esteem. Marge always had a problem with the way she regarded herself. Me, I was quite happy with my own figure. I might have liked a shade of hair that was more auburn than what I had, but I was content with it. I'd never seen the need to dye it.
"Yes, well you're right," I admitted, "but I don't think you should be talking about my breasts."
"I quite agree. I'd much rather be touching them."
