Gymboree, Whiteleys

Surely that's a cynical look in Cosmo's eye?

My twin sister recently made an 'observation' that I project my own feelings onto Cosmo. So, her theory goes, when I say "Cosmo's tired" what I really mean is "I'm tired". Naturally I told her "Cosmo's sick of you talking nonsense and wants a cup of tea". However, I was forced to reconsider my sister's theory when I found myself telling my partner that Cosmo was skeptical of Gymboree.

Gymboree, for the uninitiated, is a nationwide organization that offers "Sensory Baby Play classes".  Using song, movement, infant signing, puppets, fibre optics, bubbles, musical instruments, their website promises "endless amusement for the babies – and adults too"!

Hmmmm... its not that I'm a killjoy (I really am) but anything that promises "endless amusement" is bound to either leave me shuddering with revulsion, crying with embarrassment, or dying of boredom. However they offer a free trial class. And just as I can't pass up free food (I've never refused a single slop of unidentifiable airline food), I can't pass up a free class. Thus it was I found myself in a Gymboree class in Whiteley's shopping centre trying desperately not to laugh. Someone should have warned me they sing so much. Like everything: "Lets put the toys awaaaaaay! Awaaaayyyy!!!" I'm not saying the girl had a bad voice... quite the opposite. But that made it even more funny.

A glance at Cosmo told me he was of a similar frame of mind. Incy wincy Spider? Meh. Round and Round the Garden? Yaaaawn. Like mother like son. He doesn't like this kinda forced jollity either, do you Cosmo? Cosmo..? Oh dear, I turned my gaze for one second and when I look back Cosmo was looking at - no, laughing hysterically at - a hideous puppet in the form of Gymboree's mascot, Gymbo the clown. What's going on? Surely he couldn't actually be enjoying this? And is that a look of wonder at the bubbles being blown around the room? Oh dear...

And as a hideously weak-willed mother, Cosmo's little chortles had me signing up for the whole course and forking out an extra fifteen quid or so for the hideous lump of garish fabric that is Gymbo, the Clown. Lets never speak of this again.