Scarborough is littered with desperate yoof. Despite it being school time again, in the hour or two I spent shopping downtown I saw at least four scarcely pubescent spotty, spotty girls who either had conjunctivitis or an extremely inconsiderate sexual partner. And more yoof by the moment, it seems. You can tell Catholicism held on too long up here – so many young mothers, some of them obviously having no fucking clue.
I went into a store called Woolworth’s to look for a certain kind of baking dish for Figaro – Woolworth’s is budget but it isn’t like Walmart, it’s dirtier and stuff, like they have signs up about how it isn’t acceptable to beat on the staff. There’s a café in there where a young whale of a mother was eating, and her crying baby was sitting in a babyseat, pointing away from her and trying to crane his head around to catch sight of her. The mother was getting really pissed off and just kept yelling ‘Behave. Are you going to behave? Behave,’ at this poor fucking pre-verbal infant. Babies having babies. Awful.
Which reminds me of a story my grandmother told us yesterday of a nasty hospital trip she’d had with Grandad a few months ago. “We were in this crowded waiting room full of children. It was awful, awful. I asked one of them what they were there for, and for a moment there was complete silence in the room. And then it said ‘babies’, and they all started laughing and saying ‘babies’. Absolutely awful.’