AKA - Indiana Jones and The Playground of Doom
A Nazi’s worst nightmare
It’s Saturday and like how all epic stories should begin, I’m sitting on the toilet.
“Honey!” bellows my beloved little ball and chain from our girl’s bedroom. “You’ve been in there for half an hour! What are you doing?”
“Er, just paying some bills.” I reply as my opponent scores a sumptuous winning penalty on the mobile football game that I’m playing.
“Well please do it later!” she wails followed by “I need some help!”
I sigh, reluctantly leave my recharging throne and re-enter the arena. A scene of utter carnage befalls me. Toys, clothes and children's books are strewn all around the room, our daughters covered in paint. It’s like a scene from a Fisher Price Soddom and Gomorah.
“Playground?” suggests Zsuzsa wearily.
Shortly after we’re walking through a sunny Budapest, pointed in the direction to the local playground, Mila on her scooter, Lola in her buggy. They’ve been running us ragged all morning and have seemingly limitless energy. As a result we’re both quite quiet.
“What are you thinking about?” says Zsuzsa, studying me.
I’m thinking “Why don’t people skip more, as it seems like a very efficient way to travel?”
“I’m thinking about how lucky we are to have two such lovely girls and live in such a wonderful place.” I reply back with a wistful smile.
Zsuzsa smiles back and we walk on in a contented silence.
“Carry my scooter!” orders Mila, suddenly interrupting my skipping daydream.
I sigh and pick up her little turquoise scooter decorated with a pink horse head. We turn the corner and…
Five bald men with black bomber jackets are standing in our path, at least one has a swastika tattoo on his neck. They stare at us, impassive and unfriendly, like an evil Right Said Fred.
I suddenly remember an article that I’d read a few days earlier about how there was to be a far right demonstration in our local park. Basically a load of nazis having a fascist ‘knees-up’.
“Oh dear.” I think.
The rascally slap-heads eye me up, a man pushing a buggy whilst also carrying a little girl’s scooter complete with pink horses head. I obviously look intimidating and formidable, like a destroyer of worlds, yet amazingly they don’t buckle. These are either very brave Nazis or word of my yellow-tip karate belt, awarded to me when I was eleven, has not yet reached the Hungarian Nazi community.
A fearsome sight
We take a deep breath and walk past the Nazis. To our dismay, at the end of the road are yet more Nazis. A lot more Nazis. Hundreds of the fascisty bastards. Where’s Indiana Jones when you need him?
“What’s this Daddy?” asks Mila, staring at the sea of shaven-headed thugs.
“Nazis” I whisper.
Mila contemplates these words for a moment and then frowns.
“I don’t like Nazis Daddy.”
“Me neither darling.”
“Naughty Nazis!” scowls Mila.
We keep on walking towards the playground, but soon discover that, thanks to the Nazi swine, the playground is closed.
“Right! That’s it!” I think. “They’ve been pushing their luck with me for years, but now that they’re stopping us getting to the swings, those Nazis have gone too far! TOO DAMN FAR! No more Christmas cards from us, Mr and Mrs Nazi!”
We walk on, away from the troublemakers. I remember something.
“Do you know that Hitler was a staunch vegetarian and animal rights campaigner?” I ask
“Yes, I’d heard about that.” Zsuzsa replies.
“Funny to think that in an alternate reality Hitler might have been the face of Quorn,”
We near two men standing on a street corner, but these men don’t seem like Nazis. One is holding an EU flag and both smile at us kindly.
“Are these Nazis!” says Mila uncomfortably loudly.
“No, no! We’re the goodies!” replies one of the men overhearing her. “Would you like to join us! We’re protesting against the baddies!”
I thank him for his kind offer, explaining that we are also firmly anti-Nazi and pro-goodie, but that we need to find an alternative playground for our little girls to have a jolly good swing in.
Twenty minutes later and we complete our quest. As we push our little girls on the swings Zsuzsa turns to me and says “Do you know what I think?”
And before she’s even said it I know what she’s thinking. She’s thinking “What is wrong with this world?” She’s thinking “How can there possibly be Nazis in civilised society?” She’s thinking “How can they live by their values and beliefs knowing all of the horror that has gone before them?” She’s thinking about ways that we can make our bruised, creaking world a better place for our little girls to grow up. She’s thinking that all it really needs is less meanness and more kindness. She’s thinking of ways to end this worrying wave of right-wing populism that’s sweeping through Europe and beyond.
“I think that Lola will look really good in heels when she’s older. Just look at her feet! Heels are really going to suit her!” she says.
Or maybe she’s just thinking about our baby wearing high-heels.