A country ruled by children
Gedankenstrich_02
I live in a country ruled by children. And by that I mean a country where Luna will take a seat in the yoghurt section of the supermarket because she's tired. A country where no one will tell her to take her feet off the mozzarella because "she's only three". Even though "she's really adorable with her curly hair" falling in front of her eyes, I can't help myself from asking: Luna, where did you leave your parents?
I understand that one doesn't get a book on how to raise a child and I get that Luna has the right to grow up freely, without worrying about boundaries and following too many rules. I do. I like the idea. – Well, at least the theory behind it.
But Luna, your father – who is actually watching this scene, only to look away from his child to return to the complex and distant world that is the pasta aisle in this country – yes, sir, I see you with your shopping trolley, imposing yourself as you would probably do with your sports car – your "scruffy" outfit, which tries to scream "eco" (and especially) "friendly" is – as you know – too well put together and betrayed by your cardigan, which undoubtedly costs more than the shopping list of the mother of four next to you – yes sir, I see you revving up the turbo and pushing past her, almost knocking one of her own in your stride, only to rush over to the packet of pasta at the heart of a couple's debate: "orecchiette vs. strascinati" – yes, it's a thing and cavatelli are far too often underestimated and left out of the equation – to continue your journey with your trolley, which you will end up abandoning in the middle of the aisle for who knows what, thus keeping the old lady behind you from reaching the pesto sauce she was so desperately looking for – how can he be so selfish and self-absorbed not to realise that he's not a child anymore?