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playing but not paying

the journal of Michael Werneburg

twenty-seven years and one million words

Today I accidentally smuggled Kenny into a pay-for play area in a shopping mall.

We were shopping in the "Razona" mall at the bottom end of an afternoon-long cycle trip when Mari suggested that I keep Kenny entertained in a play area adjacent to a café. What neither of us knew is that we were supposed to buy tickets.

It was an interesting play area of the sort that I'm sure is illegal in Canada (or would at least be an invitation for law-suits). There was no ready access for parents to go in after their kids; in fact I deemed the routes in to the warren of tubes, crawl-ways and slides to be simply too tight for me to physically manage. But Kenny had a good time elbowing his way among the many hyperventilating children in the thing, and found his way to attractions such as the pool of plastic balls and the third-"storey" slide. He also enjoyed the little Flinstones-style push cars.

After we'd been playing for twenty minutes, it became apparent that something was amiss. There was an attendant crossing names off of a list. And she was reading something aloud. I'd heard the ramblings on the PA system, but being of course generally incapable in the language I didn't make a point of straining to listen and comprehend. Turns out that she'd been reading "it's time to leave" messages for the various children all along.

I sheepishly went to the counter and bought a ¥300 ticket.