People sometimes ask me, "PTR - how would my life be changed if some kind of super-villain stole all the liquid helium in the whole world?", to which I reply that I won't be drawn into speculating on hypothetical scenarios and that I would much prefer to talk about why people should keep their goddamn hands off my baby.
We were sitting having caffeinated beverages this morning in a nearby cafe when an adjacent table of oldies got up to leave. Of course they have all been eyeing off the Hatchling the whole time so this is their opportunity to file past and ask us questions and give us unsolicited advice. Which is, in general, fine.
Except this morning, one of the oldies thought she'd be funny and came and said, "What's in here, a baby?" Sigh, yes, a baby. Then she reached down and slapped the sleeping Hatching on the cheek with her big puffy ham-hock-esque mitt, looking frighteningly like Boris Yeltsin, and asked, "Is it a boy or a girl?"
Which is a question that I normally have no problem with. In fact, I like it when people ask because it is, in a sense, acknowledgment of our refusal to sail with the prevailing winds and only dress the Hatchling in pink. But this time I just wanted to fix the intruder with my best cold glare and say, "It's asleep." Or perhaps just fire up my lightsabre and lop her whole arm off.
Did I? No. I'm too nice for my own good. Plus I don't have a lightsabre.