It’s sunny. It’s party time. For 4 year olds. It’s 1998. My sister is turning 4. The party is being held in a huge park near our house. My Mum is flat out, baking a cake, getting snacks and drinks organised and trying to “control” what resembles a black hole of mischievous children. My Mum has a lot on her plate, my Dad does not.
My Dad has only 1 job to do today. He has to go to the park and scout the park for the perfect location to setup the table for the party. 1 job. That’s it. Just 1. Mum is flat out and Dad is not that busy. How can he stuff this one up? Majorly, it turns out.
The park near our house is huge. Ovals, playgrounds, tennis courts and a big creek runs through the park; it’s more of a suburb than a park. The park has many places to setup a party, many, many idyllic settings. My Dad had an abundance of places to setup the party table. He set the party table next to a stolen car.
Yep. You read that right. A stolen car. Ovals, playgrounds, tennis courts and a big creek runs through the park. My Dad picks literally the worst place imaginable. He could of set it up next to a dumpster and he would have been fine. He chose a stolen car. My Mum was apocalyptically angry. Hell hath no fury like a woman who’s super busy and her husband makes a very poor choice.
The icing on the cake was the fact that the fire brigade was called out. The car was leaking petrol and there was a concern that it would blow up. Just what every 4th birthday party needs. Explosions and fear.