The screeching in this indoor soft-play area reaches the parts of my brain that normal screeching cannot; the most dehydrated, wine-soaked parts.

The extremely thoughtful techno-beats they are pumping into the cafe here, collides with the screeching to create a completely unique aural experience.

The slightly different but equally loud techno-beats they are pumping around the play structure results in a three-way aural mash-up that makes me want to dig my own grave, or find the owner of this over-priced establishment and dig their grave for them while they watch…

The good news is that youngest doesn’t like the chicken goujons I just bought him (aka NUGGETS unless you’ve paid eight quid for them because you’re a TWAT trapped in an over-priced play area) and I already knew he hated them when I ordered them because I am a very fucking clever Mummy who knows that stealing items of breaded chicken from a child’s plate is the only way to endure this criminal raping of my ears.

Yesterday we went to the park because I read the same articles as you and know that our children are on the verge of becoming obese, screen-obsessed, constantly masturbating psychotics.

In the park there are trees. Lovely trees, perfect for climbing and learning about risk whilst also engaging with nature. Please DO NOT climb the trees.

In the park there is a meadow. A lovely meadow with poppies and wild grasses growing, irresistable to small people who want to run through that tall grass and feel the nature sweeping against their pasty, sun-deprived skin. Please DO NOT enter the meadow.

In the park there are many winding old brick walls, perfect in height for small people to climb atop and balance along whilst imagining there are crocodiles below. Please DO NOT climb on the walls.

What you are allowed to do is go to the designated play area where you can watch your kid queue for ten minutes to go on the norovirus-coated slide and cry when they attempt to climb the rope frame because some older kids are perched at the top bouncing up and down and wiggling it like the massive psychotic wankers they already are.

After an hour of this misery, you go to the over-priced park cafe and queue for half an hour for a luke-warm latte and slice of organic cake that tastes like manure while your kid attempts to find the one solitary intact crayon in the entire place with which to draw a shite picture on a ripped piece of paper or read a bogey-smothered book provided by the over-priced cafe because they are ‘child-friendly’.

On leaving the cafe with heart-burn and a raging thirst, you wind your way back past all the DO NOT signage and feel wretched that you’re not rich enough to buy a country-pile with land and trees and meadows and walls in which to raise your offspring and allow them the crucial outdoorsy, risk-takey experiences the government insists they should have in order for them not to become fat, porn-addicted burdens on society, yet not providing any actual outdoor spaces where they can freely roam without fear of being arrested for touching wild flowers or scuffing a tree, so that unless you have a degree in outward-bounding, you end up in these plastic, foam-filled, money-sucking play areas where all your kids learn to do is observe the signs saying DO NOT STAND ON THE SLIDE and DO NOT LIE DOWN HEAD-FIRST ON THE SLIDE EVEN THOUGH IT’S MUCH MORE FUN AND WILL MAKE YOU GO FASTER while your brain slowly dies scrolling through facebook on the free wifi in the clubbing-cafe.

On our way out of the park yesterday, the kids stumbled upon an abandoned piece of rusty old farm machinery, covered in graffiti. There were no prohibitive signs attached to this play structure…

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