All's well that ends well

If the tale of Rumpelstiltskin hadn't been penned several hundred years ago, I'd claim to know exactly who was the character's inspiration.  My son, the kicking, screaming psycho six-year-old, who I picked up from kindergarten an hour or so ago.  Such was his ire that I was forced to film a couple of scenes for posterity, or perhaps YouTube if I am feeling particularly mean later.  One of CG's regiments took a battering from a sofa cushion.  (Miniature tin bayonets are not much defence against ten kilograms of Ikea soft furnishings.)  Luckily no injuries were sustained and peace was restored among the ranks.  Not so in the real world, where Titus is still growling and gesticulating from one end of the dining table.  Gaia, Hedda and I have retreated to the other end, and a kind of impasse has been reached, except now I have to go to the supermarket - one of life's great pleasures - and leave him to Gaia, and I am still deciding whether this is a wise decision or not.  The police are most probably on their way by now, as the screams that pierced the air jolted Herr NN from his afternoon nap and it would be MOST unlike him not to act in a responsible manner and stick his nose in.  Oh dear, oh dear, and I'd thought we'd have a quiet afternoon baking cakes.  I blame the weather.  Lots of people do in Germany, and it comes in really handy as the weather is, as a rule, doing something that someone, somewhere, doesn't like and can then pinpoint as the reason for their adverse behaviour.  Another thunderstorm is brewing and the air is thick as peasoup fog in 1950s London.

(Some hours later - torrential rain falling)

Returned from exotic local supermarket - pah - to find apologetic psycho son on doorstep, dressed in German football kit.  He fell to his knees and begged for my forgiveness.  I handed him two cartons of apple juice and told him to stop being a drama king.  You might as well ask Michelle Obama to wear skinny jeans - it's just never going to happen.

Re: the supermarket.  Nobody from outside Germany, and possibly many from within, could find a trip to Penny Markt inspiring in any way.  Rather than let this get me down, I approach my trips there as I would a jumble sale.  You know - you expect little and usually that is all you get, but occasionally, if you rummage around enough, you find the odd treasure that makes the whole outing worthwhile.  Then you can boast to everyone where you found it (they will all say "No! Really?") and what a bargain it was.  One of my favourite products is the moist toilet paper, not for its soothing properties, but its name.  Happy End.  Does this refer to the fate of the paper, or to the part of the body for which it is intended?  Answers on a recycled postcard please.