Is this hell, or is this reality?

The other day I entered the seventh circle of hell.

The journey down was punctuated by ever more irate swearing, near misses and the occasional screams of the young. The further I descended, the hotter it became. The cacophony of noise was enough to make my ears bleed, the screams reaching pitches only dogs can hear, and a writhing mass of bodies strung all around, from objects of torture.

Why did I ever think my actions were a good idea? All of this could have been so easily avoided.

The most bizarre thoughts flew through my brain as I settled in for the long wait, the wait for the final judgment. “I can’t believe I’m wearing this” “My bag doesn’t match this outfit” of all the banalities to be thinking of. Mind you, I figure that’s exactly what hell is. Too much time to think, too loud, too hot and generally an ever expanding state of nothingness. All the while, on my journey to the seventh circle I was making observations.

More women than men seem to be in hell. Some women seem to be enjoying it. Generally the men look as terrorised as I do.  They serve coffee in hell. Not nice coffee, a bitter, burnt affair. Yes, this is definitely hell. Surrounded by knee high people, all screeching, some in pain, some in glee at the torture they are inflicting on others around them. The colours are bright and garish. Making your eyes water with the intensity of them. If you look hard enough you can see random smears of human offerings. Under foot, you can feel a random mess of dirt and destruction.

Time marches ever forward, as it tends to do.  The noise never eases, the heat increases. My clothes start sticking to my body; only heightening my stress levels. This truly is hell. The acrid coffee burns my mouth, as the smells of hundreds of different people assault my nose.

Then blessedly the clock hits 4. So the feeding time has begun. Another experience confirming I am in hell. Tiny sausage rolls, not enough to fill even a mouse, weird cold pizza. Luke warm juice, from weird smelling cups. Little people, in their dozens, flock to the feeding station. The cries of…increasing in intensity: volume and pitch. My ears bleed a little bit more.

And then mercifully, oh so mercifully; the master that is Time takes pity on me. 430 arrives, I can gather my two little people and leave the hell that is soft play and a children’s party. Now, where did I put that sock? And why exactly do I have wotsits down my bra?


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