Okay, the last two times I’ve gone to the Y have been distinct aural assaults. Thursday evening I was engaged in non-stop conversation with (by?) another mother of a drama-class kid for over an hour. Fortunately, during the actual play, itself, there was no conversation. Outside of that? Talk, talk, talk. My poor murder mystery from the library lay neglected in front of me despite attempts at monosyllabic discouragement.
Today, I sat down at one of the tables with a view of the pool, determined to finish said mystery. Then a beleaguered father set down his three preschool boys at the next table and zipped off to the cafeteria to buy them lunch. He was in eyeshot all the time but not in earshot. I know this, sadly, because middle son decided to scream the entire time his father was gone, smiling happily the whole time at youngest brother who shrieked right back.
To his credit, when the father came back around in earshot, he made the child apologize to me and another lady in the area.