even more controlling
than he actually is. I have prepared a lasagne (Greg’s favourite) for all
three of them, and bought a pre-washed salad. I tell them all they had to do
was warm the lasagne through, open the salad and eat it; I will do the washing
up when I get home.
Emma is waiting outside the surgery promptly as agreed when I
finish work, greeting me with a bright smile and a wave. It’s nice to be
greeted so warmly, I reflect as I climb into the car. We drive slowly through
the rush hour traffic, filled with the crimson glow of brake lights, until we
get closer to the centre of town and the traffic lifts slightly. We are going
against the flow – with most people heading to their homes and families in
the darkening evening as autumn closes in. Emma easily finds a parking place,
and we make immediately for the maternity department of John Lewis – well,
really, a girl like Emma was never likely to buy things for her baby from
anywhere else, was she?
“Right, there’s only three things that really matter when
you’re buying a pram,” I intone in my most knowledgeable-sounding voice,
grabbing a large teddy bear and thrusting it into her slightly startled arms. “Firstly,
you have to be able to fold the buggy up single-handed while holding a baby,” I
say, nodding towards the teddy, which she adjusts until it’s perched on one
hip. She moves towards the first buggy she most likes the look of (also one of
the most expensive) and tries to shift the clasp to unlock it and fold it.
Several frustrated minutes and at least one broken nail later, even after the
assistant closes in on us (scenting the prospect of an easy sale) and
demonstrates the easy closing mechanism three times, the pram stands resolutely
upright.
“Well, bloody hell!” Emma exclaims, now disgruntled as she
discards her first choice and moves on to her second-favourite. The mechanism
on this one is marginally easier, and after only three attempts Emma folds the
contraption up with a flourish and steps back with a look of satisfaction on
her face.
“Okay, so what’s the second thing?” she asks.
“You need to be able to lift it, also while still holding a
baby.”
“Well, why would I need to do that?” she exclaims
indignantly. “Couldn’t I just pop the baby in his or her seat in the car?”
“Well, yes, if you are putting it in the car, but what about
if you’re getting on a bus? I had a caesarean; the only option for me for the
first six weeks was to go on the bus if I wanted to go out, and trust me,
sometimes you need to get out of the house. If you can’t carry it onto the bus,
the only alternative is handing your beloved child – or children, in my
case – to a complete stranger. Believe me, I know this from experience,
and it’s not ideal,” I add.
“Okay, Okay, you’re right again ‘oh wise one’,” she says with
resignation as she attempts to lift the buggy with one arm. The look of relief
on her face to know she can lift it is second only to the assistant’s, who has
already seen the value of her sale diminish.
“Okay, hit me with the final rule,” Emma says, slightly
nervous now.
“Well, this one’s easy, but again a common issue if not
thought about beforehand.” I pause for dramatic effect, ignoring the eye-rolling
assistant. “It needs to fit in the boot of your car. Again, this is one I
learnt firsthand, but some of these beasts are huge,” I say, looking
meaningfully at the contraption in front of her.
Emma looks down with a slightly wobbly lip as she weighs up
the size of the pram with the size of the car boot on her little KA. The
assistant is waffling about how deceptive these things could be and car boots
were made big enough to accommodate prams these days, but we both know the pram
is far bigger than her car could fit. The KA had been Emma’s pride and joy,
bought with her first proper pay packet on qualifying as a solicitor, but is now
sadly
than he actually is. I have prepared a lasagne (Greg’s favourite) for all
three of them, and bought a pre-washed salad. I tell them all they had to do
was warm the lasagne through, open the salad and eat it; I will do the washing
up when I get home.
Emma is waiting outside the surgery promptly as agreed when I
finish work, greeting me with a bright smile and a wave. It’s nice to be
greeted so warmly, I reflect as I climb into the car. We drive slowly through
the rush hour traffic, filled with the crimson glow of brake lights, until we
get closer to the centre of town and the traffic lifts slightly. We are going
against the flow – with most people heading to their homes and families in
the darkening evening as autumn closes in. Emma easily finds a parking place,
and we make immediately for the maternity department of John Lewis – well,
really, a girl like Emma was never likely to buy things for her baby from
anywhere else, was she?
“Right, there’s only three things that really matter when
you’re buying a pram,” I intone in my most knowledgeable-sounding voice,
grabbing a large teddy bear and thrusting it into her slightly startled arms. “Firstly,
you have to be able to fold the buggy up single-handed while holding a baby,” I
say, nodding towards the teddy, which she adjusts until it’s perched on one
hip. She moves towards the first buggy she most likes the look of (also one of
the most expensive) and tries to shift the clasp to unlock it and fold it.
Several frustrated minutes and at least one broken nail later, even after the
assistant closes in on us (scenting the prospect of an easy sale) and
demonstrates the easy closing mechanism three times, the pram stands resolutely
upright.
“Well, bloody hell!” Emma exclaims, now disgruntled as she
discards her first choice and moves on to her second-favourite. The mechanism
on this one is marginally easier, and after only three attempts Emma folds the
contraption up with a flourish and steps back with a look of satisfaction on
her face.
“Okay, so what’s the second thing?” she asks.
“You need to be able to lift it, also while still holding a
baby.”
“Well, why would I need to do that?” she exclaims
indignantly. “Couldn’t I just pop the baby in his or her seat in the car?”
“Well, yes, if you are putting it in the car, but what about
if you’re getting on a bus? I had a caesarean; the only option for me for the
first six weeks was to go on the bus if I wanted to go out, and trust me,
sometimes you need to get out of the house. If you can’t carry it onto the bus,
the only alternative is handing your beloved child – or children, in my
case – to a complete stranger. Believe me, I know this from experience,
and it’s not ideal,” I add.
“Okay, Okay, you’re right again ‘oh wise one’,” she says with
resignation as she attempts to lift the buggy with one arm. The look of relief
on her face to know she can lift it is second only to the assistant’s, who has
already seen the value of her sale diminish.
“Okay, hit me with the final rule,” Emma says, slightly
nervous now.
“Well, this one’s easy, but again a common issue if not
thought about beforehand.” I pause for dramatic effect, ignoring the eye-rolling
assistant. “It needs to fit in the boot of your car. Again, this is one I
learnt firsthand, but some of these beasts are huge,” I say, looking
meaningfully at the contraption in front of her.
Emma looks down with a slightly wobbly lip as she weighs up
the size of the pram with the size of the car boot on her little KA. The
assistant is waffling about how deceptive these things could be and car boots
were made big enough to accommodate prams these days, but we both know the pram
is far bigger than her car could fit. The KA had been Emma’s pride and joy,
bought with her first proper pay packet on qualifying as a solicitor, but is now
sadly
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