Babies and bumps (to the head)

I spent the vast majority of my afternoon trying to shop for a 2 year old girl's birthday present (let's be honest, she's still only interested in the wrapping paper).
I have never gone baby clothes shopping before, and I'm not sure I ever want to again. I have mixed feelings about the whole affair.
On the one hand, I got to spend hours looking at the most adorable stuff in the world - so cute, it made my ovaries do an impatient little dance around my forlorn empty womb. (just you try it, uterus, just you try. Get me knocked up accidentally on purpose just so you can feel useful for once, and I swear, I'll have you whipped out faster than you can say 'oh no! surprise hysterectomy!')
On the other hand, it is bewildering, and confusing, and there is so much of it and it comes in every possible size except from the size you're looking for. Or, even more unfortunately, my size. Because kids clothing is way cooler than adult clothing. I feel a little sorry for my future (way off distant future) children if I have boys, because today I saw a vision of my shopping habits once I'm a mum. And it is RAINBOW coloured.


I then spent 2 1/2 hours sitting in Reading's finest A&E department thanking my lucky stars that at least it wasn't a Saturday night while my sister waited for medical attention.
She got smacked in the head by a rogue shuttlecock at close-quarters on Tuesday, and appeared to be having delayed concussion. (Or, possibly probably a case of severe drama queen-ism. Quite debilitating, that is...) I've been telling her for years that exercise is a dangerous hobby.

While we were there, we overheard many conversations with reception, including my personal favourite from a mum with a toddler in one arm and a carry cot in the other - 'Hi, my baby just fell down a flight of stairs. *notes a couple of shocked faces* FELL. Not pushed. Fell down the stairs.'
Way more disturbing than that was the dinner discussion going on between a family of people who could only possibly be described as fatties. Or porkers. Or lard-arses. Or... well. Many things. All rude and jelly based, but seriously. Had I called them anything within a healthy weight-range, I'd have been prosecuted by trade-descriptions. They were the kind of weight that rocks the ground when they waddle forwards. Like when the glass of water shakes in Jurassic Park when the T-Rex is near.
Fattie no.1: 'I was thinking about a chicken sandwich' (ok, fair enough, people have to eat. And hospitals make you wait a really long time. Knock yourself out. Sarnie vending machine right there.)
Fattie no.2: 'Oh well I don't know where McDonalds is from here' (oh. THAT kind of sandwich. The type normally referred to as a burger.)
F1: 'I'm getting hungry though, we're going to have to think about getting something for **the patient** for her dinner too' (she's in a hospital. They tend to feed the inmates. Ok, so granted, hospital food isn't up to much....)
F2: 'Well, I know where KFC is on this road, and Burger King, and there's a Subway just down there, but I don't know where to find a McDonalds' (oh, ye gods. You mean you don't have that on radar?)
..........OK, Fatties... here's a radical idea.... don't try to find a McDonalds. By the looks of you, enough Maccy D's have found you in the past, that you can afford to sit this one out. When you can see your pubes again, past your giant, 17 rolled stomach, then, then, you may consider eating a burger. But only consider it. Eugh. Eventually, they settled on their burger joint of choice (and nearest convenience) and on getting a pizza for the patient. A 12 inch.
'Will that be ok? Shouldn't we get her something for the night?'
'No, she won't be feeling great so I think that she's not going to be too hungry later.'
.......who the hell is feeling hungry after eating a 12inch pizza to themselves at 9pm? Actually. Probably me. But I'm in rightous indignation mode and refuse to admit to that.

ANYWAY.
2 hours later, my sister finally gets seen by a doctor. Not even a hot doctor to make up for the hours wasted from my life. I do my best to be helpful and fill in any bits my poor concussed sister might leave out.
*doctor examines sister's head*
'you might find some older scars on there. From rocks..'
*doctor looks up* I thought she said it was a badminton accident?'
'Well, yes. This one was.'
'But you were there?'
'Well, no. I don't believe in playing sports. Bad things happen - like Miss.Bumpy-brain here can testify. But I've been there before when she's had head injuries.'
'With rocks?'
'Yes. When rocks hit her head.'
'You mean when she hit her head on a rock?'
'Well, no. The rock hit her.'
'........'
'I threw it. At her head.'
'....er....'
'what?! It was an impressive shot! I was only 8!'

Despite my bragging, they refused to give her a brain scan. Which is a shame. Ah well. Next time... I'll use a brick.