To the small girl in the red cart...

The USA has a very successful website called "craigslist". Divided city by city, people post here to advertise as diverse objects as furniture, guitar lessons and, indeed, themselves. Within the "personal" section of the site, there is a category called "missed connections". Largely devoted to love interests, people post here when they wish to contact someone they briefly saw at a party / on the subway / the-neighbour-upstairs-with-the-annoying-dog whose name they never got the opportunity to discover. In this vein, I have drafted the following letter to the small girl I met yesterday on the way back from the Hogtown Medieval Faire.

To the small girl being pulled in a red cart on her way back from the Hogtown Faire,

It is true that you did have a better deal than me last evening. You, sitting there in your shiny red cart, while your brother towed it along the road for the hour-long trek back to the car park. I had to walk, clutching the giant soda bottle I hadn't been able to contemplate a free refill on. And yes, I was tired and maybe slightly envious of your cushy deal. Indeed, you might have felt that, given I had no shiny cart, I should have left the Faire earlier, enabling me to catch one of the buses to the car park before the line got too long to make it practical. You may even have felt that, given my situation, I should have arrived at the Faire early enough in the morning to park my car close to the Faire entrance and not in the overflow car park a few miles away. I don't know, we didn't get a chance to exchange thoughts.

That aside, I feel you labelling me a 'loser', as you so clearly did by making the "L" sign on your forehead, was uncalled for. You may be only 3, but there was clear consideration as you gazed up at my face before lifting your right hand in that premeditated gesture.

I feel obliged to point out that your situation was not as secure as you so clearly seemed to believe. I could, for instance, have reached down and tossed you from your cart and taken your place. Then, not only would you have had to walk, but your brother, who was likely no more than 10, would have been left pulling me; a 28 year old woman full to the brim with soda and a giant cinnamon bun roughly the size of your head. As it was, I noted with some satisfaction, your brother got board of his burden (perhaps you too, had partaken in a cinnamon bun) and dropped the cart handle without warning, and it was only your parents quick action that prevented it from rolling down the road into a bush.

So next time you're out there, in your shiny red cart, you just remember that you're not so big yet, nor able to consume nearly enough cinnamon goodness to make a difference, that you can call any person you see a loser. They might just extract revenge. As it was, the humiliation you caused me resulted in my sharp exit (accompanied by friends in mild hysterics). But next time, NEXT TIME, I will take your cart and force you to carry my soda bottle.