The little boy clamoured. His hands reached out and flailed helplessly in the air while his legs kicked about impotently. The boy wanted to throw a fuss but the clear silicone pacifier was in his mouth. All he could do was to let out a bristling garble.
He wanted to be off his pram, to clutch his latest toy - a battery-powered train which, with its packaging, is about it's new owner's size.
There was a certain irony, one he couldn't really place. A boy clamouring for a toy train on a real, underground train. A potent lyricism.
And there was something painfully banal about this scene. The parents who sat apart from each other. The noisy, self-absorbed boy. The bright riots of green-yellow-blue mass-manufactured toy.
It was a scene that should be poignant. That should raise eyebrows and draw curious looks. But it didn't. For such scenes are far too common.
He wanted to be off his pram, to clutch his latest toy - a battery-powered train which, with its packaging, is about it's new owner's size.
There was a certain irony, one he couldn't really place. A boy clamouring for a toy train on a real, underground train. A potent lyricism.
And there was something painfully banal about this scene. The parents who sat apart from each other. The noisy, self-absorbed boy. The bright riots of green-yellow-blue mass-manufactured toy.
It was a scene that should be poignant. That should raise eyebrows and draw curious looks. But it didn't. For such scenes are far too common.
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