If your child is screaming, the joke is over, bitch.

Sometimes adults just don’t get it.

Walking down Grafton Street today, there were the usual number of talentless hacks displaying their wares, with few to nobody watching. A trio of teenagers with instruments: the drumming looked so bad I didn’t dare take out my headphones for a soundbite. My personal favourite wastes-of-space, the statues, were not present – incidentally, I have challenged myself to provoke one of them into a Once-style chase around Grafton Street.

Today, the street played host to a man dancing his puppet. Not a nice fuzzy puppet like Elmo; not the rosy cheeks of Orville; no, this was a marionette, a cross between Punch and Pinocchio, the kind that give small children nightmares. The puppet’s hat jumped up and down on the strings as he danced grotesquely, head about two feet from the pavement – the perfect height to leer into passing prams.

As I passed, a woman with pram was laughing at the antics of this wooden freak, as the puppet-master performed for an unseen tot in the pram. My iPod blaring, I couldn’t hear the reaction of the child, but walking by I jerked my head around for the verdict – pure terror. How the mother was lapping it up! How hilarious! My one-year-old doesn’t understand it’s only a puppet! Let’s see how long before he shits himself!

Congratulations, your child will be freaked out by puppets for years to come. Hell, I saw bits of Child’s Play as a nipper and dolls still give me the heebie jeebies!

You will notice that my puppet picture is quite friendly looking. I didn’t want anything freaky adorning my blog.