If any of you’ve had an inordinate amount of time and found yourselves mindlessly scrolling through my ‘About Me’ page of the blog, you may be a bit confused that I was apparently ‘nearly kidnapped twice’. Yup, it’s true. But I endeavour to both apprise you and make light of my misfortune!
If you were to predict my family’s whereabouts on a sticky-hot summer Sunday afternoon back in 2004, you’d be correct to say at Grovelands, the local park. It was a ritualistic trip two minutes down the road to ‘walk off the Sunday roast’ Mum had spent the morning preparing. And upon such a Sunday was when my first encounter with a kidnapper took place.
Imaginary reins kept me and my little sister Amy within range of the supposedly watchful eyes of my parents, but being speedy little girls whizzing ahead on our pink Barbie bikes, we enjoyed to maximise our distance. So when my parents bumped into Caroline and Tim and obviously stopped to immerse in deep conversation, youthful oblivion powered our pedalling anyway. And that’s when he stopped us.
“Hello,” he greeted, grinning gaudily to show off his yellow teeth. “Would you like to come and feed the ducks with me? I have plenty of bread”. He nodded towards the white carrier bag in his hand.
“No.” My firm rejection cued him to turn back to the gates and exit. Before I could scream ‘KIDNAPPER’, I steered myself and three-year old Amy back around and we cycled back to my parents who were still at a halt with Caroline and Tim.
“Oh! Haven’t the kids grown!” I had not grown since you saw me last week, Caroline.
“Isn’t it such beautiful weather!” I was starting to grow impatient.
“I heard it’s going to rain tomorrow though. How awful.” I was about to climb past my impatience threshold.
It was an agonising wait for the convo to cease. Eventually I commenced to confide in Mummy, detailing the slimy black hair stuck to his head and those nightmarish gnashers. But her response didn’t seem to resonate my avid fear, suggesting Mummy’s attention was planted elsewhere (probably on the parakeets that she hasn’t bored of to this day!). It wasn’t until bath time three hours later that I managed – with hair covered in shampoo – to successfully explain.
Maybe he genuinely did want to feed the ducks with Amy and I. And he would subsequently let us return home when the mallard and moorhens’ tummies were full. Regardless, I am still happy – very happy – with my hasty decision of no. I hope the lonely man someone else of his own size to accompany him to feed the ducks. And only to feed the ducks.
Evidently since this incident I have continued to dodge the lurking clutches of child catchers and their enticing sweeties or, in my case, bread. But only just about.
To be continued…