Baby Massage: Part 2

We dared to go back...

And if only we had seen more than five minutes of the session, we might have been able to set off a fire alarm or cause a bomb scare or something equally destructive in order to trump card the commotion we caused last time.

We arrived at the Children's Centre. That's the good news. We looked for a space on the reopened car park, and being on the last minute (but not late), there was one space left - one tiny narrow bay beside some 6ft wire mesh temporary fencing.
I sqeeeeezed the car into the space then spent roughly three minutes sidling my giant ass out of the minuscule gap I had made between car and door, bumbling each limb, joint and boob clumsily out of the vehicle, before picking my way up the edge of the car with as much style as is possible when smearing your torso along a damp metal shell. Tasting freedom, I grabbed the changing bag and my handbag from the boot before once again breathing in and shuffling my way back to the driver's door.
Pausing at my destination while holding the two bags aloft, I stood wedged between the car and fencing not knowing which move to make next. I opted for creeping back up the car and dumping the bags on the floor. Skirting once again back down the side of my vehicle to collect Betty, I clicked the 'LOCK' button on my keys, then set the keys down on my car roof, before osmosing myself back into the auto. 

Digging about to find the clasp which flicks my seat forward I discovered the half eaten boiled sweet which fell from mouth when recently succumbing to a rather more severe bout of road rage. This sweet was now covered in bits of fluff and gravel, and stuck rather attractively to the end of my finger. I peeled it off and tried to throw it out of the door, but being three dimensional, it bounced back in. Finally releasing the seat, I climbed into the back of the car and knelt in the foot well to unfasten Boo's many restraints. Balancing precariously (I really need five doors), I plucked Boo from her seat and turned to exit. As the door had closed, I reached out to pull the handle. Nothing.

I pulled again. Nothing.

Locked. Bugger. Where are the keys? 

BUGGER.

THE KEYS ARE ON THE ROOF.

After checking that there was no possible way from me to unlock the car from the inside, I commenced panicking, out loud, while trying not to swear in front of my seven month old daughter. 

How? How does this happen to us? Why does this happen to us? Well? Why?
As I sat imprisoned by MY OWN HAND in MY OWN CAR, feeling like a complete and utter loser, I decided things couldn't get worse. God decided they could. 

Hail. Massive golf ball sized hailstones. April showers? Yeah. All over our bags, which were sitting saturated, sodden and forlorn on the car park outside. Great stuff.

But, a stroke of luck. My phone was in my pocket. Willing my 3G Internet connectivity to give us a break, a white van suddenly pulled onto the car park. Yes! Help.

Reaching into the front of the car I began to honk the car horn aggressively while rapping hard on the window with my sticky fingers. A fella jumped out of the van and ran, wincing, through the hail to his boot. Parping, tooting, and beeping my heart out (no trump metaphor intended) I prayed for the chap to look over. He did! Thank God.

He waved. Then he carried on in his boot, before pulling out a few long lengths of wood and making his way inside the building.

You have got to be kidding me. That did not just happen.

Looking back down to try my phone again, I suddenly noticed filthy grey smears of muck all across the boob part of my top, like some sort of nipple brass rubbing. Must have been all the shuffling along my dirty car. Can't wait to get inside and show that off.  

I went back to summoning up the Internet to little avail. Next thing; the van man's back. I set off with the horn blowing and window tapping again. He's looking - I begin gesturing wildly through the tiny back window for him to approach. He does! He's walking over!! He nears the vehicle before picking up our drenched bags. 

"These?" he says holding the bags to the window.

"My keys are on the roof." I said through the glass.

"I thought you knew me," he responded, smiling with thousands of white dots balanced on his hair.

"My keys are on the roof." I said through the glass.

"Thought you were saying hello." he announced with a friendly grin.

"MY KEYS ARE ON THE BLOODY ROOF!" I screamed aggressively through the glass.

"Oh!" he whispered as the smile fell from his face.

"WE'RE LOCKED IN. MY KEYS!" I screamed again, while pointing upwards to encourage some movement out of the fella.

"Ah! I see." he responded, finally taking hold of them. He unlocked the car and passed the keys and two sopping bags into me before toddling off laughing to himself.

Already twenty minutes late, my stress levels had encouraged my eyes to burst straight out of my head so they merely dangled by their optic nerves slapping against my face. Then we went inside...
In only FIVE SHORT MINUTES -
I - broke the pen in reception, forgot my £1 to pay for the session and accidentally stood on the back of someone's flipflop and tore it.
Betty - hit another baby in the eye with a rattle, knocked the massage oil all over the floor, then licked some of it off her fingers (fortunately it's olive oil).

Think I'll go home and set fire to my hair to chill out.