No Porridge for Goldilocks

NO PORRIDGE FOR GOLDILOCKS

There is definitely something wrong with the justice system in this
country.

You read about it everyday, where the victim comes off worse
than the criminal. Any thinking person would realise there is a serious
flaw in this somewhere.

I have to admit that never really gave it much thought myself,
until I was on the receiving end, but I've certainly thought about it a
lot since.

*****

It was the wife's birthday. So liking to think of myself as
one of those modern blokes, I decided to get up early and have
breakfast on the table by the time she came down.

Not being a cordon bleu chef, I opted for porridge. Hot and
tasty and even I could prepare it.

I read the instructions a couple of times, then set to work.
By the time her majesty and little un came down I was already pouring
it into the bowls.

"Happy birthday," I said, putting some daisies into a milk
bottle and setting it next to her plate. 'I know what you're thinking,
but you don't find many roses around in February and flowers are
flowers aren't they?

Anyway, she just sort of grunted [she's never at her best in
the morning]

"It's too hot," she said I held onto my temper, then as
sweetly as I could, I said,

"Then why don't we take a little stroll down to the newsagents
and pick up the morning paper? By the time we get back it should be
just perfect, my little treasure."

The kid was already half way to the cupboard, to get his coat.
I could almost read his mind, Newsagent, SWEETS. She could hardly
refuse when he came back with it on and that eager look on his face. So
off we went.

*****

We were away a bit longer than I thought we would be. By the
time the kid had decided which sweets he wanted, Mr Patel, the
newsagent had launched into a tirade about what should be done to the
local vandals.

Some of the punishments he suggest seemed a bit extreme to say
the least. Mind you, after what was waiting for us at home, I could see
his point.

*****

We knew something was not quite as it should be as soon as we
reached the gate. The front door was open.

"Didn't you lock it ?" my wife said accusingly

"Didn't you?" I retorted

Once in the house I crept gingerly down the hallway and gave a
quick glance into the lounge. Someone had definitely been in there.
Odds and ends littered the carpet, spilling out from the rifled drawers
and cupboards. What looked like driftwood was scattered all over the
rug.

The kid started whining when he realised it was his favourite
chair, the miniature rocker that we had bought him for Christmas.

I moved on into the kitchen. The porridge was everywhere, as
though someone had flung it around with a spoon.

"Someone has been at this," I said picking up my bowl.

"Same here, " said my wife

"All mine has been eaten, " wailed the kid.

Just then there was a creaking noise from above us. The wife
gasped, her eyes as wide as saucers.

"They're still here!" she whispered.

I grabbed the rolling pin and started up the stairs, the two
of them clinging to the back of my jacket.

The main bedroom door was open and you could hardly see
anything for feathers. It must have been one hell of a pillow fight, I
thought. I stared down at the ruin of what had been my bed.

"Someone has certainly been at this."

"Ditto," said the wife surveying her own ruined divan.

A chilling scream came from the landing and we almost fell
over each other racing out. The kid was standing by his bedroom
door.

"There's someone in my bed !" he screeched. I barged past him
into the room and there she was bold as brass, all big blue eyes and
blond dreadlocks, sat in his bed with this pained look on her
face.

"Didn't anybody teach you about knocking?" she had the gall to
sound indignant.

"Wait one minute," I said. "You break into my house, smash my
stuff, eat my porridge, then sleep in my son's bed and you have the
nerve to tell me about knocking."

"I didn't break in, the door was unlocked and the porridge was
crap anyway, I hate it when it's got all those lumpy bits in. And it
serves you right for buying tatty chairs that break as soon as you sit
on them."

"Oh and you're going to tell all this to the police are you,
when they lock you up and throw away the key?"

"They can't," she smirked.

"Can't what?" I asked, patiently, considering the state I was
in.

"Lock me up," she said, "I'm only nine, below the age of
criminal responsibility."

There was a strange rushing in my head then and everything
went sort of red and that's when I slapped her. It wasn't the hardest
slap I had ever delivered, but it was hard enough for little red finger
marks to creep up on her face. She jumped up then and started
screeching,

"Assault! Assault! Mister are you in trouble."

That's when the police put in an appearance. My wife must have
rung them while I was dealing with the poison dwarf.

They took us all down to the station, where I tried to tell my
side of things. The sergeant soon showed whose side he was on.

"Assault on a minor, very serious," he muttered darkly.

"But she wreaked my house," I spluttered. He just
shrugged.

*****

She was right of course. At nine she was too young to be
prosecuted, but not it seems, too young to prosecute me for
assault.

I had to sit in that court and listen to how she was a
disadvantaged child who came from a broken home. Not as broken as mine,
I thought bitterly.

I kept my cool while the judge fined me two hundred pounds and
bound me over to keep the peace. I even kept calm when I heard she was
being sent on a trip to Disneyland, along with other deprived children.
But when I got the postcard from Florida saying

"Glad you're not here porridgehead, " that's what fired up the
smouldering fuse

*****

The nurses here say I have to learn to take everything less
seriously, not get upset at every little thing. And if the Prozac
works, I might be able to go home in a few months.