AKA - My Date with Ashton
I want to go and watch Dunkirk at the cinema, but we can’t find a babysitter. Thankfully, Zsuzsa, aka ‘The Troubleshooter’, is on hand to offer a solution.
“Why don’t you ask Ashton Kutcher?” she says.
“Er…” I reply.
“Tweet him. See if he’ll go with you.”
I should probably mention at this point that Zsuzsa hasn’t gone as mad as you may currently be thinking, as we’ve recently discovered that Ashton Kutcher and Mila Kunis have moved to Budapest and now live practically next door to us. Don’t get me wrong! My wife has undoubtedly gone a little bit mad, just not as mad as you were thinking only moments ago. At the very least, she’s considering locality in her solution which suggests a degree of rational thinking.
“You want me to contact Ashton Kutcher to ask if he’d like to accompany me to the cinema?” I say, keen to check that I’m not missing something.
“Yes.” replies Zsuzsa.
“Hmmm.” I say.
“What do you mean ‘Hmmm’? Do you think he will have already seen it?”
That’s not really what I’m ‘Hmmm-ing’ about if truth be told.
“Don’t you think that I might come across a bit weird.” I say. “Hello Ashton Kutcher. You don’t know me, but we shop at the same Spar so I was wondering if you’d like to go to the cinema with me tonight.
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll sound like a psychopath! I’ll sound like the kind of person who waits outside theatres with an autograph book! The kind of person who religiously watches Doctor Who!”
“Suit yourself.”
“And why not Mila Kunis? Why shouldn’t I tweet her and see if she wants to go and see Dunkirk?”
“How dare you!” replies Zsuzsa, seemingly not pleased with this suggestion.
We’re having this discussion in the local playground and at this precise moment a little boy, around two years of age, wanders past, glares at Mila and says something to her in an aggressive manner. My eyes narrow.
“What did that little boy just say to Mila?” I ask.
“He told her not to look at him.” she replies.
I bristle, which come to think of it is a strange way to describe anger seeing as it basically means a short, stiff hair on an animal’s skin.
“Why can’t she look at him? Who does he think he is? An eclipse?"
“I don’t know why. He’s just a little boy. Kids can be weird.”
But it’s no use. I’m still a short, stiff hair on an animal’s skin. How dare this little shit order my precious spawn not to look at him! I look at Mila. I’m pleased to see that like an absolute bad-ass, she’s still staring right at the boy. Hell yeah baby girl!
I decide that a show of solidarity is in order and join my baby girl in her act of defiance. Together, we stare ferociously at the little boy. We continue to glare at the tiny little boy for several seconds. He sees us and then looks down at the ground, sheepishly. Take that tiny man cub!
“Anyway” says Zsuzsa. I must go. I’m late for my pedicure. Keep an eye on Mila.”
I scoff.
“Of course, I’ll keep an eye on her! I’m not just going to wander of and leave our baby on her own, out in the wild. I’m not a Spartan!”
Zsuzsa nods.
“Let me know if you can get hold of Ashton Kutcher.” she says, before turning and sprinting towards the toenail people.
Twenty seconds later and people are staring at me. It’s either because they are admiring my new flip flops, or because I’m holding Mila aloft in a blind panic, desperately shaking her to dislodge the copious amounts of pebbles and grit from her mouth. This is all no doubt due to my scoff. Mila is obviously attempting to choke herself just to get me in to trouble. The mischievous scamp! Thankfully her plan is thwarted, and after a few seconds, the pebbles begin pouring from Mila’s gob like a jackpot winning fruit machine. Zsuzsa need never know (Until she reads this. Hi Honey!)
Queen of the playground.
I put Mila down in a pebble free zone, cast my eye around the playground and begin to drift away with my thoughts. The incident with the small boy has made me realise something. Previously I’d viewed the place as a delightful little haven where families and small children go to play, but now I see it for what it is. A prison yard. This is a place where you need a strategy to survive, or at the very least a strategy to thrive. I decide that I must teach Mila the ways of the prison yard. Not that I’ve been in prison mind, but I’ve watched several episodes of ‘Porridge’ in my time. I know how this shit works.
I kneel to speak to Mila.
“So, Mila, we need to put a strategy together. We need to figure out how to make you the boss. The queen bitch. How to make the other babies fear you.”
I look over at a group of Russian babies playing in the sand pit.
“I guess we could try and align ourselves with the Russian mini-mafia over there, or maybe, we just need to make people think that you’ve got a screw loose! That you’re a fearless psycho! Unhinged! Hmmm.”
Mila begins playing with a toy truck, no doubt deep in thought about my wise words.
The phone rings. It’s Zsuzsa.
“Honey. My Mum can come up tomorrow and babysit so we can go and see Dunkirk together. You don’t need to go with Ashton Kutcher anymore!”
So, sorry Ashton Kutcher. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but our man date is cancelled. She might be a little bit crazy, but it’s no contest I’m afraid. Zsuzsa wins hands down. Plus I’d hate for you to feel like a gooseberry.
But look, I’ll give you a shout when Blade Runner 2049 comes out as Zsuzsa hates Sci-Fi.