In the same vein as Little Gordon Ramsay, we now present a tiny tinpot tyrant whose subsequent showbusiness career will never allow him as much unfettered scenery-chewing as he has here been afforded at the tender age of, what, eight? Barring William Shatner biopics, of course.

I don’t know if you’ve garnered enough information about me to know that I’m a bit, er, picky. I know, you are aghast with shock. Whenever we plan a day trip somewhere, I am the type of person who must come prepared with every single thing we might need. Most of the time the Scarecrow’s needs are taken into account as well, but sometimes I am in a hurry and would like to spend at least a bit more time at our destination than I have packing.

We were walking to the entrance of our travel objective, and my husband was complaining that I had forgotten to pack his hat.

There is something completely wrong with that above sentence, and I’m guessing you will be able to spot it a mile away. Why is that men, who have important jobs and assure us that they do important things all day at work, turn into whining incompetents the second they walk through the door of the house? Or maybe it’s just mine.

Anyhoo, after his complaint about my abject failure to anticipate his every need, I exasperatedly replied, “Why am I responsible for every single thing? Why can’t you be responsible for your own stuff sometimes?”

To which some random man standing a few feet away called out to me, “Because you’re the mom, that’s why!”

My friends, even though I know nothing of martial arts, I had a very strong desire to perform some sort of fluid, graceful movement that would set this impudent person’s knees a-buckling and his body to the pavement, with nary a hair on my head displaced.

But propriety reigned, and I instead laughed. A very fake laugh, it must be noted.

I hope he could tell.

Children in Siliguri, India, waiting their chance to take the stage in a Gandhi lookalike contest celebrating the 139th anniversary of his birth.