That's What Puddles Are For.

There was a boy holding his mother's hand. There was an ever so shallow pool of water on the train station platform. There was a group of fifty something year old adults chatting nearby. The boy was walking alongside his mother in his wonderfully waterproof shoes. He saw the puddle in his path. His eyes lit up. I could see it coming, and yes, he jumped high with a huge grin on his face. Both feet slammed into the puddle at the same time. Water sprayed. Not much at all, believe me, but the nearby adults got upset over the few drops that hit them. And this on a day of bucketing rain, people. The boy’s mother apologised. The adults kept moaning. The phrase ‘horrible boy’ was used. They were still muttering when the train pulled in.

Of course the boy was naughty, and sure he should have shown consideration for those nearby, but I submit that it is not reasonable to expect a child of under six to resist the siren call of a puddle. What boy or girl could possibly override the impulse to make a splash when a puddle so conveniently presents itself and practically invites you to jump into it?

And how sad that people who were once puddle-loving children themselves turn into a fusty old farts who mistake playful spontaneity for an act of premeditated evil.