Rustle.

I've decided to become a good person. Not just nice or sweet but completely good. I guess it happens sooner or later to everyone (nearly) but I saw something that just made me want to better myself. We live in a cold and cruel world, full of unfeeling and spiteful insecure people but even amongst all that we can see cracks that let the sunshine through. Moments when we finally feel sober and clean. A time when something small and, to some, insignificant happens that just makes you want to open your heart to beauty. I mean it. I really don't think I want to whine or complain or hate ever again because I now see that perfection exists. Perfection rose up in front of me just minutes ago and it changed my life forever.

Of course, I've had perfect moments before in my life but never one that made me feel that good will definitely triumph. Yes, I was angrier than I've ever been in my life last year and that's when I saw Jamelia fall off a chair, making me feel so much better, but I never felt the warmth of positivity and possibility from that. Yes, I once thought I was going to get punched in the face in a bar in Edinburgh and, from out of nowhere, Hunter from Gladiators appeared and rescued me. That was good but I never thought that my life could change for the better. Especially when he offered me tickets to see the play he was in with Abi Titmuss. Out of the frying pan and all that. But today was different. It was beautiful, simple and perfect.

I walked Jerk in the park and from a distance I could see a little boy out with his mum. He was on a bench dangling his little legs while his mum leaned up against the nearby railings. Jerk was off on her own, sniffing about, and she'd caught the eye of the little boy. I'm used to this, of course. Little kids like dogs and they often have lots of questions. "Can your dog run faster than a car?", "Can I give your dog some Fanta?" and "Does your dog stink?" are just some of the questions I've genuinely had from little kids. I think it's very sweet. Mainly, they want to ask if they can pet her but also they want to know how old she is, what she eats and what her name is (I'm normally a bit embarrassed about that one). It's cute and seeing the way this little boy was adoring Jerk from afar, I knew he'd have something to ask.

As I got closer, he turned to his mum and said "Who's fucking dog is that?"

It was pretty much then that I'd decided not to engage in banter. I don't like 5 year olds at the best of times but one that was disrespectful enough to swear in front of his mother, the woman who carried him in her womb for nine months and brought him into this world, just seemed like a little cherub to avoid. His mum was clearly upset by what the boy said. That's probably why she shouted at him: "None of your fucking business".

I'll be honest with you, I hate that woman. I hate her so much that I hope she's dead. Right now. You might think that's extreme but that's why the world will never be a nice place. Not enough of us wish that woman was dead. Surely the power of positive thinking, or a bomb planted in her neck, would be enough to get rid of her and this planet would just be a little bit better. And it's not because she swears at her child. I don't think she should but that's up to her. And it's not because she replies to her child's questions with "None of your fucking business" although it should be because that poor little cunt will have that FOREVER. He'll ask questions like "Is Santa real?" or "What's 2 plus 2?" and the answer from his Hutt of a mother will always be "None of your fucking business". That's right, son of mine who I am in full charge of raising and caring for, sums and joy are none of your fucking business and then one day he'll just stop asking anything and in years to come we can all place him neatly on the pile of the barely moving who feed of the colours and noise of The Voice instead of thinking. No, it's not that. The swearing and the telling your child not to think are both things I can handle but the reason I hope this woman is dead is because of the bag of Wotsits she was eating. She was telling her son to shut up while eating a BIG bag of Wotsits. Admit it, that's the most offensive thing you've ever heard in your life. It was "a shame" before, wasn't it? But now somehow with the addition of a big bag of Wotsits that woman has become a bastard that this planet is just too small to house. "None of your fucking business", she said with her orangey saveloy fingers gathering up more cheesey dried hell to shove between her orangey down-turned lips. Nom nom nom. "None of your fucking business, little boy". Nom nom nom.

Of course, I should be delighted about the big bag of Wotsits because they're probably helping her towards death but they were the hate symbol that boiled my blood. Hitler had the swastika and she had a big bag of Wotsits. They're exactly the same to me now and they will be to you from now on. Every time you see anyone with a bag of Wotsits from now on you will instantly hate them. They should all be tried for their crimes, the bastards. I walked past the three of them. Little boy, awful mum and big bag of Wotsits and I felt sad. I felt sad because I couldn't turn to this woman and ask her why she felt it was OK to swear in front of her child and tell him to not ask questions. I couldn't ask her anything like that because society has decided that it's none of my business. We have all decided that people can behave in any manner they choose and we all agree that the raising of children is no one's business but the parents. We don't get involved. We don't question. We are, after all, civilised human beings who shouldn't judge. We're not animals.

Then a crow knocked the big bag of Wotsits out of her hand.

I loudly honked with laughter and I still can't decide what's funnier: the Wotsits being knocked out of her hand by a crow or the woman calling the crow a "black fucker". Yeah, I bet she wouldn't say that about Muslim birds, or something.

The great thing was that the little boy found it funny, two crows ate the rest of the Wotsits and I got to hear a grown woman shout "Fucking crows" at least seven times. Isn't that beautiful? Of course, it is. It's beautiful because it reminds us that the worst thing about existence is other people. They're completely appalling. But it also reminds us of the power of nature. You're a cunt? Fine. But then a crow will take away all your snacks. Just be nice. Who knows? You might get a kiss from a squirrel. I want that.

Of course, it's easy for me to want to be a good and more positive person, I've seen perfection knock a bag of Wotsits out of a bastard's hand, but how do YOU begin being a better human being? Well, you could start by not betting on the Grand National on Saturday. It's a truly horrible thing to do. Horses die every year for no good reason. Why this is allowed to happen is baffling. Actually, it sadly isn't. Every single horse that exists or has existed is beautiful, athletic and hard working. So what do we do? We stick a satin foetus on them to beat them with a stick until they fall over a fence and break their necks. It's bullshit and, Wotsits eaters to one side, we are all above that. DO NOT BET ON THE GRAND NATIONAL. Here's a link to all the statistics you could need: http://horsedeathwatch.com/ and please feel free to tweet it to @clarebalding before Saturday and ask her what she's doing about it. I know I will. Thanks.



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