M. Beisenherz: Sorry, I’m here privately
Win, win, win!
© Illustration: Dieter Braun/stern
What to do when everything becomes too much and everyday life weighs on you? Going to the fair with the child, you feel yourself again. Sometimes too much.
By Mickey Beisenherz
A few days ago I walked over the Hamburg Cathedral with my daughter. If you live within sight of this fairground, you can’t help but visit it. The flashing lights, the illuminated Ferris wheel, people whooping with enthusiasm, all this can be seen and heard from afar.
The screams that I utter inwardly at the thought of having to go back there, however, are only heard by me. But what six-year-old girl doesn’t love to get intoxicated in the midst of bumper cars, halls of horrors and giant teddy bears? At the very least, I encourage myself, I’ll get a few pickles from some burly chain smoker’s mangy barrel. However, it seems doubtful whether that justifies investing almost 50 euros in playing with plastic scrap within minutes. The same sum is only spent faster if you fill up with Super.
With sheer superhuman strength, the little one drags me across the square. Maze, camel races, shark roller coaster for children. But better than the one for adults, because I’m always on the verge of panic diarrhea. Only the chain carousels, which screw themselves up to 10 meters “flying altitude”, are even worse. No way!
Although in the end, I have to admit, it’s not the rides that I fear the most. But rather the fact that the people who screwed them together did it under the influence of residual alcohol.
The child inspires, daddy a hero
In any case, my daughter was here with her mom a few days ago, but without any success at throwing cans, fishing for ducks, robotic robots. Now let the old man fix it. I skilfully steer the joystick towards one of these “Glubschi” animals. Gripper arm adjusted, claw extended, placed around the cat’s head: access! The stuffed animal moves up in the pincer grip, still trembles slightly (don’t fall down now!), is released over the removal bowl: done! The child inspires, daddy a hero. I admit that this rather banal act uplifts me inappropriately. If you, as a father, don’t really get a shit in all the madness of everyday life, beating a dumb machine is a pleasant exception. With the Glubschi cat in your arms and a bag of lard, you continue to the shooting gallery. I want that alpaca now too!
All I have to do is shoot a paper ring off the small copper tube. First horror: no patent ammunition, the gun loads with a cork. So be it. I orient myself to the left of the pillar for the target object instead of standing in the middle of the counter, which makes the shooting range owner visibly nervous. I load, shoot – miss. shot no. 2: nothing happened. I made the loading movement, but forgot to put the cork in the barrel. I’m catching up now to fire the second shot. Missed again. Cork in, load, shot three: miss. But the Budenmeister now suspects that it was shot no. 4, so I manage to swindle free shots. He barks what I’m doing there. I put his rifle down for him and recommend putting the corks where…
Yes, you guessed it. father of the year An inglorious end. We leave the hype, the plush trophy in tow. It’s the same with animals from the gripper arm as with my composure: sometimes difficult to hold. We’ll leave the cathedral in Kölle for the next few months.
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