When will you smack him?

Dee's husband pushed the pram into the pretty crowded food court. He tried to get through the seats and to an empty table. Few knew that the brat in the pram was already old enough to walk by himself. Yet, he preferred to be pushed in the pram and let his father try to navigate the unwieldly pram through the snaky path between the chairs.

The stupid man knocked into my chair and I straightened my back. Thinking that his brat of a son had kicked me, the henpecked husband chided the child and warned him not to kick anyone.

Upon hearing that, I shot him a deadly look and moved my chair a little to let the retarded duo pass.

The hopeless man walked towards an empty table and soon, Dee, several months' pregnant, moved towards the table. Brat tried to get out of the pram and hoist himself up on the seats.

Turning to take a look at him, I realised that brat was almost 4 or 5. Brat. Bastard.

Then when I looked at Mr Henpecked and Dee, it dawned upon me that the poor man had no choice.

He had chosen a firebrand and needs to live with her. He has also produced a little tyrant with her.

She's carry another tyrant, I suppose. In my mind, the images of the production machine in Alien flashed past. I shuddered as I watched at the brat trying to sit and get off the seat.

Dee sighed inwardly at the sight of her ill-behaved son and her hopeless man whom she felt had not done a proper job of bringing the young boy up. But how could anyone who could not behave himself be expected to teach another to behave?

But Dee never took a look at herself. She was about the most caring and dutiful wife there can ever be. Or so she thought. In the world's eyes, Dee is the embodiment of tyranny, a temperamental bitch.

Hubby asked Dee what she wanted for dinner, only to be howled to get whatever he wanted to eat. I suppose Dee would want to keep the final word to criticise whatever food her hubby bought.

The dutiful husband walked towards the food stalls and disappeared in the crowd. Alone with Dee, brat begins his antics. He climbed onto the bench and tried to balance himself on the thing, dirtying it with his oily shoe soles.

"Sit down!" Dee's shrilly shout pierced through the din of the food centre.

Brat tried something else. He sat down and tried to get off the bench and run away.

"You better get right up or I'll smack you!" Dee shouted again. Brat was finding it hard to get off the bench as he was not tall enough for his feet to reach the ground.

He then turned around and rested on his knee caps, hoping to do a quick drop, only to have Dee tug on his shirt.

"When we go back, you are going to get it." Just about the most commonly heard threat that any parent would use.

Hardly a second of peace passed by before the brat tried to climb onto the table again. Halfway through, he aborted the attempt and tried to get off again to look for his father.

Hubby came back with a piping hot bowl of fish soup. Brat tried to push in only to be sternly ticked off by Dee.

"It's hot. Sit down before I smack you."

Looking on, I've decided I've quite had enough. I've craned my neck in anticipation for the lovely tight slap of flesh together. I've forgotten the taste of my food, lost all interest in the food, just to wait for the lovely sound of a brat being smacked.

I'm not sick in the mind but I really, really want to see some discipline being meted out.

When will Dee smack him?

I never got to see it because I've decided to take my leave.

After all, watching the antics of a dysfunctional family is like watching a long drawn drama serial without a satisfactory conclusion. As I walked out, I yearned to hear the smack or a scream or some cries.

I was disappointed.