‘There’s a swear jar?’ I glance around.
A tiny girl with pigtails points to an actual glass jar on the librarian’s desk. It’s empty now. Won’t be by the time I’m done.
‘Carry on, Mr MacRae,’ the librarian says tightly.
I open the book. The illustrations are bright and garish – a cartoon goat wearing goalkeeper gloves and scowling at everyone.
‘Once upon a time, there was a goalie named Gordon.’ I pause, staring at the picture. ‘Gordon, the goat, was the best goalkeeper in the league. He even thought he was the G.O.A.T. – the greatest of all time.’
Seriously, who writes this stuff? That’s insulting even for a six-year-old.
A small boy shuffles forward on his bum. ‘Like you?’
‘I’m not a goalkeeper in football, mate. I’m a rugby fly-half.’
His face scrunches in confusion.
‘I’m the one who tells everyone on my team what to do on the pitch,’ I explain.
‘My maw says you’re the one who shouts a lot,’ he replies.
A ripple of adult suppressed laughter circles the room. I glance back to see Charlie biting her lip, shoulders shaking.
‘Gordon, the goat, was very good at stopping goals,’ I continue, ignoring them all. ‘But he wasn’t very good at sharing and making friends.’
Christ, this is brutal. I shift on the bean bag, which makes a loud farting noise. The children erupt in giggles.
Let them have their fun.
‘Gordon liked to win,’ I read, ‘but he didn’t like it when others scored goals against him. He would stamp his hooves and kick the ball away and say mean things.’
I look up at the children. ‘Oi, don’t be like Gordon, awright? Nobody likes a sore loser.’
Some of them nod.
Charlie coughs into her hand. I swear I hear her mutter ‘ironic’ under her breath.
‘Or a smug winner,’ I add pointedly in her direction.
The story drags like a muddy scrum. A small girl with rainbow hair clips clambers onto my leg without warning, her tiny hands gripping my jeans for stability. Before I can react, another one – this one with missing front teeth and glitter smeared across her cheeks – scales my other thigh like I’m Mount Everest.
‘You’re bigger than my da,’ Rainbow Clips announces, bouncing slightly on my quadriceps.
‘And louder,’ adds Glitter Face, settling in like she’s found her new favourite chair.
I go statue-still. What the fuck am I supposed to do with them? Push them off? Pat their heads like puppies?
‘Story,’ Rainbow Clips demands, jabbing a sticky finger at the page.
Why do they always have fucking sticky fingers?
The librarian watches with barely concealed amusement.
‘Right. Where were we?’ I balance the book between their heads. ‘Gordon learns to…something.’
‘Share!’ they shout in unison, directly into my eardrums. And they calledmeloud.
Then a boy hauls himself onto what’s left of my lap. Then another.
