It seems that it is becoming increasingly impossible to write this blog. Piglet is either awake, in which case he is trying to grab the laptop and/or one of the many other things he is Not Allowed to Touch (TV remote, plug socket, anything that isn't one of his toys or my collection of books and DVDs, which I have long since sacrificed at the altar of Anything For A Quiet Life) and then shrieking, going all rigid and flinging himself around when they are taken away from him; or he is asleep, and I cannot leave him in case he wakes up and rolls off the bed.
He is, it goes without saying, never happy with anything, unless it involves ripping books to shreds and eating them, dragging my mobile phone along the floor while I am trying to speak to my mother on it, or physically attacking the television. He is currently doing the latter. I'm pretty sure all the guidelines for How to Bring Up an Emotionally Secure and Intellectually Stimulated Youngster say no TV before the age of two, but as my mother would say, it never did me any harm. At least I don't think it did. For all I know every single fault in my personality could be directly traced back to time spent watching Playschool in 1982.
Over the weekend I took Piglet to Bristol. Until now, I had never felt any desire to own a car and drive around in it, but after several journeys to Bristol and back on the train, the prospect of several hours driving down the M4 are beginning to look extremely appealing. This is because I would then not have to endure any of the following:
Piglet doing a poo on the train.
The dreaded journey down the escalator at Paddington with the pushchair (yesterday I was bold enough to ask a member of TfL staff for help, and practically got shouted at for my trouble-"I'M ON MY OWN HERE!" I thought I was going to be lynched by angry commuters after being held single-handedly responsible for the next tube workers' strike).
A man walking past while I was breastfeeding Piglet and remarking "aww how sweet," followed by "you're making me hungry now!"
A full scale battle with the pushchair involving several passers by, trying to fold it down and squeeze it into a luggage rack before abandoning the whole idea and leaving it in the buffet car to act as a makeshift table for yokels drinking cider out of cans.
Well, at least it gives me something to write about.
Showing posts with label Trials of the tube. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Trials of the tube. Show all posts
Monday, 22 June 2015
Tuesday, 5 May 2015
I appear to have accidentally told someone I hate being a parent.* I am going to Hell in a Handcart.
Sorry. I just really wanted to use the phrase "going to hell in a handcart." It is surely the best thing anyone has ever said, ever. I mean, THE IMAGES.
Anyway, back to the point, I am talking about how, as a parent, you become endlessly obsessed with how good or otherwise a parent you appear to others.
Comments like "ooh you've got your figure back OK then" suddenly turn into conclusive proof of one's motherly virtue, rather than the result of random chance and genetic good fortune; but on the flip side, any recognition of such on the part of self, such as my sheer unbridled joy at being able to fit into an American Apparel bodycon dress three weeks after the birth, are swiftly turned into evidence for the prosecution at the trial of Worst Mother Ever; defendant: Me ("HOW THE HELL ARE YOU GOING TO FEED HIM IN THAT????")
Today I left work at 3.30pm, such as has become the custom, and was happily bounding along towards the train station with a sleeping Piglet in his pram, when I bumped into someone from work. Now the only polite things to say to me at the train station are: a) "Well done! I heard you can now pick up that pushchair WITH THE BABY IN IT and carry it up an entire flight of stairs! You are surely the world's most accomplished mother. And a seasoned traveller of the London Underground, at that! You are a LEGEND in these parts!" and b) "Would you like a hand getting that pushchair up the steps?" However, given that this was somebody from work who I don't know all that well, the conversation was far more likely to take a turn along the lines of, (*peers into pram, feigning interest*) "Ooh what a cute baby. Are you enjoying being back at work?"
The only acceptable answer to the above question, of course, is no.
It is sometimes acceptable to admit that it is rather nice to have the pleasure of conversing with actual adults once in a while, and that it is still a pleasing novelty to be getting dressed in the morning into something other than a pair of ill-fitting and tragically see-through Primark leggings, but let's face it, if I turned around and answered that I was LOVING being back at work and pursuing my career like a wanton career-bitch superwoman in a shoulder-padded power suit, I would almost certainly be cast out forever from the motherly fold.
And so it was that I decided to sit on the fence and answer, "well, er, it's OK."
"Ha! That means NO!" cackled Person From Work, as she walked off.
It was at that point that I realised that she had not actually asked me how I was finding being back at work, but how I was finding "it" in general.
So maybe by "it" she meant, like, MOTHERHOOD.
OH MY GOD I HAVE BASICALLY JUST TOLD THIS WOMAN THAT I HATE BEING A MOTHER. I am surely now damned for eternity to burn in the deepest pit of Hell.
No matter how many times I tried to console myself with the true fact that it does not matter even one jot what someone from work thinks about my suitability or lack thereof to be a Holy Mother, I couldn't escape the image of other, more experienced mothers at work laughing and pointing behind my back about how they knew all along that I wasn't cut out to be a parent, much like I imagined my own mother did when she told me that she hadn't expected me to be a good mother as I was too concerned with "Going Out And Getting Dressed Up." In clothing from American Apparel, no less. THE SHAME!
I am now going to have to track down this woman at work tomorrow and do some sort of penance for my accidental apparent lack of glowing motherliness.
I'm pretty sure that the Duchess of Cambridge doesn't have this problem. And I bet she never has to carry a pushchair up a flight of stairs either.
*I don't really hate being a parent by the way. It's great, honestly.
Anyway, back to the point, I am talking about how, as a parent, you become endlessly obsessed with how good or otherwise a parent you appear to others.
Comments like "ooh you've got your figure back OK then" suddenly turn into conclusive proof of one's motherly virtue, rather than the result of random chance and genetic good fortune; but on the flip side, any recognition of such on the part of self, such as my sheer unbridled joy at being able to fit into an American Apparel bodycon dress three weeks after the birth, are swiftly turned into evidence for the prosecution at the trial of Worst Mother Ever; defendant: Me ("HOW THE HELL ARE YOU GOING TO FEED HIM IN THAT????")
Today I left work at 3.30pm, such as has become the custom, and was happily bounding along towards the train station with a sleeping Piglet in his pram, when I bumped into someone from work. Now the only polite things to say to me at the train station are: a) "Well done! I heard you can now pick up that pushchair WITH THE BABY IN IT and carry it up an entire flight of stairs! You are surely the world's most accomplished mother. And a seasoned traveller of the London Underground, at that! You are a LEGEND in these parts!" and b) "Would you like a hand getting that pushchair up the steps?" However, given that this was somebody from work who I don't know all that well, the conversation was far more likely to take a turn along the lines of, (*peers into pram, feigning interest*) "Ooh what a cute baby. Are you enjoying being back at work?"
The only acceptable answer to the above question, of course, is no.
It is sometimes acceptable to admit that it is rather nice to have the pleasure of conversing with actual adults once in a while, and that it is still a pleasing novelty to be getting dressed in the morning into something other than a pair of ill-fitting and tragically see-through Primark leggings, but let's face it, if I turned around and answered that I was LOVING being back at work and pursuing my career like a wanton career-bitch superwoman in a shoulder-padded power suit, I would almost certainly be cast out forever from the motherly fold.
And so it was that I decided to sit on the fence and answer, "well, er, it's OK."
"Ha! That means NO!" cackled Person From Work, as she walked off.
It was at that point that I realised that she had not actually asked me how I was finding being back at work, but how I was finding "it" in general.
So maybe by "it" she meant, like, MOTHERHOOD.
OH MY GOD I HAVE BASICALLY JUST TOLD THIS WOMAN THAT I HATE BEING A MOTHER. I am surely now damned for eternity to burn in the deepest pit of Hell.
No matter how many times I tried to console myself with the true fact that it does not matter even one jot what someone from work thinks about my suitability or lack thereof to be a Holy Mother, I couldn't escape the image of other, more experienced mothers at work laughing and pointing behind my back about how they knew all along that I wasn't cut out to be a parent, much like I imagined my own mother did when she told me that she hadn't expected me to be a good mother as I was too concerned with "Going Out And Getting Dressed Up." In clothing from American Apparel, no less. THE SHAME!
I am now going to have to track down this woman at work tomorrow and do some sort of penance for my accidental apparent lack of glowing motherliness.
I'm pretty sure that the Duchess of Cambridge doesn't have this problem. And I bet she never has to carry a pushchair up a flight of stairs either.
*I don't really hate being a parent by the way. It's great, honestly.
Tuesday, 20 January 2015
Huffing and Puffing with Huge Pram on Dreaded Steps. THANKS AGAIN TFL.
Most. Unproductive. Day. Ever.
Piglet woke up this morning at 7.30am, which I understand from my fellow parentals is usually described as "late." For me, this is obscenely early, and I spent over an hour whimpering "Go back to sleep" whilst being enthusiastically hit in the face by an increasingly perky baby. Once I finally did get up, I remembered that I had been planning to go to a childminder's drop in session in the vicinity of where I work, so I reluctantly put Piglet in the pram and headed off. One delayed train, five minutes of peering mournfully at the huge staircase I had to navigate with the pram at the other end before some knight in shining armour took pity on me and came to my aid, and one brisk walk later, I was at the children's centre, only to be informed that the childminder's session had ended ten minutes previously, and yes there is a nursery here if you're interested, but you should probably know that there's a two year waiting list.
TWO YEARS. WHAT IS THIS PLANET OF MADNESS UPON WHICH WE LIVE????
"I just got a place recently!" a young mother who happened to be sitting nearby piped up, with the pride of someone who's just been told that their toddler has just got a place at Oxbridge.
Newly enthused, I asked how old her daughter was.
"She's two. I put her name down at birth! Some parents put their babies' names down before they're even born!"
OH HELL. I am DOOMED. I am never going to be able to go back to work. I am going to have to put Piglet in the nursery up the road, which is called "The Honeypot." The HONEYPOT, I tell you. It sounds like a porn movie. This is HIDEOUS.
After a brief visit to work to show off how much baby has grown since last visit four months ago, I trudge wearily back to the station, only to spend ten minutes at the bottom of a set of stairs wondering how I am going to navigate them with a pram, wondering if it would be acceptable to ask someone who works there to help (I'm guessing no, based on previous experience with Transport for London. I'm surprised they haven't yet gone on strike about it), contemplating whether it would be highly dangerous to attempt to lift entire pram, complete with sleeping Piglet (answer: yes) and most of all, wondering how I am supposed to do this every day after a whole day toiling away at the coalface at work, in the not-too-distant future.
I finally resorted to folding the pram, which was not Piglet's most contented moment with as I had to lie him down on the manky station floor while I did so, then holding the now-wide-awake-and unimpressed-about-it Piglet with one arm whilst dragging the pram up the steps behind me with the other. I am not sure that the pram has fully recovered from the experience, and that thing was EXPENSIVE. And don't even get me started on the state of my shredded nerves. I am so going to have to bite the bullet and get one of those cheap things my mother had back in the '80s, which she used to expertly fold with her little finger whilst simultaneously hauling an armful of toddlers onto the bus. Some things really were better in the Olden Days.
Piglet woke up this morning at 7.30am, which I understand from my fellow parentals is usually described as "late." For me, this is obscenely early, and I spent over an hour whimpering "Go back to sleep" whilst being enthusiastically hit in the face by an increasingly perky baby. Once I finally did get up, I remembered that I had been planning to go to a childminder's drop in session in the vicinity of where I work, so I reluctantly put Piglet in the pram and headed off. One delayed train, five minutes of peering mournfully at the huge staircase I had to navigate with the pram at the other end before some knight in shining armour took pity on me and came to my aid, and one brisk walk later, I was at the children's centre, only to be informed that the childminder's session had ended ten minutes previously, and yes there is a nursery here if you're interested, but you should probably know that there's a two year waiting list.
TWO YEARS. WHAT IS THIS PLANET OF MADNESS UPON WHICH WE LIVE????
"I just got a place recently!" a young mother who happened to be sitting nearby piped up, with the pride of someone who's just been told that their toddler has just got a place at Oxbridge.
Newly enthused, I asked how old her daughter was.
"She's two. I put her name down at birth! Some parents put their babies' names down before they're even born!"
OH HELL. I am DOOMED. I am never going to be able to go back to work. I am going to have to put Piglet in the nursery up the road, which is called "The Honeypot." The HONEYPOT, I tell you. It sounds like a porn movie. This is HIDEOUS.
After a brief visit to work to show off how much baby has grown since last visit four months ago, I trudge wearily back to the station, only to spend ten minutes at the bottom of a set of stairs wondering how I am going to navigate them with a pram, wondering if it would be acceptable to ask someone who works there to help (I'm guessing no, based on previous experience with Transport for London. I'm surprised they haven't yet gone on strike about it), contemplating whether it would be highly dangerous to attempt to lift entire pram, complete with sleeping Piglet (answer: yes) and most of all, wondering how I am supposed to do this every day after a whole day toiling away at the coalface at work, in the not-too-distant future.
I finally resorted to folding the pram, which was not Piglet's most contented moment with as I had to lie him down on the manky station floor while I did so, then holding the now-wide-awake-and unimpressed-about-it Piglet with one arm whilst dragging the pram up the steps behind me with the other. I am not sure that the pram has fully recovered from the experience, and that thing was EXPENSIVE. And don't even get me started on the state of my shredded nerves. I am so going to have to bite the bullet and get one of those cheap things my mother had back in the '80s, which she used to expertly fold with her little finger whilst simultaneously hauling an armful of toddlers onto the bus. Some things really were better in the Olden Days.
Sunday, 4 January 2015
More Hair-Raising Adventures on the London Underground
Travelling anywhere with a baby has begun to resemble a particularly farcical episode of Miranda.
Today, for example, Piglet and I (plus my mother) travelled from Bristol to London on the train (Piglet's first trip on the "big train." He was fairly non-plussed, despite my mother's running commentary on the journey with all vehicles played by characters from Thomas the Tank Engine). All started well, although there was a brief moment of panic when we got the pram out of the boot of my mother's friend's car at the station only to discover that whoever had packed the pram in the car had disassembled it completely. The last time the pram was taken apart Mother and I spent twenty minutes shrieking in the kitchen and cursing the makers of Bugaboo, watching Youtube videos on "how to assemble your pram" and yelling "it wasn't like this in my day! I used to be able to fold a double buggy in seconds whilst running for the bus!" whilst unsuccessfully trying to fit all the bits back together, before giving up and taking Piglet out in the sling. This time however, due in no small part to the somewhat calmer influence of my mother's friend, we managed to put the pram back together, and the journey to London passed uneventfully.
Until we got to Paddington.
"Look!" said my mother smugly as we wandered across the station concourse having successfully folded the pram, stowed it upon the train, removed it from said train and reassembled without incident, "I told you there was a lift!"
One lift. That doesn't go all the way to the actual tube. POINTLESS.
Needless to say, before long we found ourselves faced with the prospect of a perilous journey on an escalator; Mother with a large suitcase, and me with an empty pram and Piglet in the sling.
Mother panics. "You're not allowed to take buggies on the escalator! It's not allowed! It's too dangerous!" It'll be fine, I thought. I've been on an escalator with the pram before, admittedly not without help, but IT'LL BE FINE. Anyway, there is no other way of getting to the tube, unless buggies are suddenly banned from that too, which is entirely possible.
Seconds later, Piglet and I are on the escalator. The pram has toppled over and is veering off to one side (THANK GOD FOR SLINGS), and the escalator has come to some sort of emergency stop. Piglet is thankfully unharmed, and is gazing at me beatifically from the sling, blissfully oblivious to the fact that his hapless mother has just brought the entire Bakerloo Line to a standstill. Mother and I tiptoe off the escalator, hanging our heads in shame, and wait for it to be repaired while a long line of fellow travellers gather at the top, looking annoyed. It is even worse than that time I tried to get the pram-this time complete with Piglet in it-off a crowded London Overground train at Willesden Junction and the front wheels of the pram FELL DOWN THE GAP and had to be rescued by a crowd of quick-thinking commuters.
And there was me thinking the mass exodus of parents out of London had something to do with the house prices.
Today, for example, Piglet and I (plus my mother) travelled from Bristol to London on the train (Piglet's first trip on the "big train." He was fairly non-plussed, despite my mother's running commentary on the journey with all vehicles played by characters from Thomas the Tank Engine). All started well, although there was a brief moment of panic when we got the pram out of the boot of my mother's friend's car at the station only to discover that whoever had packed the pram in the car had disassembled it completely. The last time the pram was taken apart Mother and I spent twenty minutes shrieking in the kitchen and cursing the makers of Bugaboo, watching Youtube videos on "how to assemble your pram" and yelling "it wasn't like this in my day! I used to be able to fold a double buggy in seconds whilst running for the bus!" whilst unsuccessfully trying to fit all the bits back together, before giving up and taking Piglet out in the sling. This time however, due in no small part to the somewhat calmer influence of my mother's friend, we managed to put the pram back together, and the journey to London passed uneventfully.
Until we got to Paddington.
"Look!" said my mother smugly as we wandered across the station concourse having successfully folded the pram, stowed it upon the train, removed it from said train and reassembled without incident, "I told you there was a lift!"
One lift. That doesn't go all the way to the actual tube. POINTLESS.
Needless to say, before long we found ourselves faced with the prospect of a perilous journey on an escalator; Mother with a large suitcase, and me with an empty pram and Piglet in the sling.
Mother panics. "You're not allowed to take buggies on the escalator! It's not allowed! It's too dangerous!" It'll be fine, I thought. I've been on an escalator with the pram before, admittedly not without help, but IT'LL BE FINE. Anyway, there is no other way of getting to the tube, unless buggies are suddenly banned from that too, which is entirely possible.
Seconds later, Piglet and I are on the escalator. The pram has toppled over and is veering off to one side (THANK GOD FOR SLINGS), and the escalator has come to some sort of emergency stop. Piglet is thankfully unharmed, and is gazing at me beatifically from the sling, blissfully oblivious to the fact that his hapless mother has just brought the entire Bakerloo Line to a standstill. Mother and I tiptoe off the escalator, hanging our heads in shame, and wait for it to be repaired while a long line of fellow travellers gather at the top, looking annoyed. It is even worse than that time I tried to get the pram-this time complete with Piglet in it-off a crowded London Overground train at Willesden Junction and the front wheels of the pram FELL DOWN THE GAP and had to be rescued by a crowd of quick-thinking commuters.
And there was me thinking the mass exodus of parents out of London had something to do with the house prices.
Friday, 3 October 2014
Why Middle Aged Women Should Rule the World
For the last two days I have managed to get Piglet to bed at *around* the 9pm mark. This is an immeasurable improvement on midnight, which was his previous bedtime. It may in fact now be the case that Piglet will grow into a creature of reasonable nocturnal habits, and will not be staying up all night to play on his Playstation (are they still a thing?) all night by the age of two.
To celebrate this irrefutable evidence that I am now an uber-mother, and should definitely be crowned Mother of the Year by Mumsnet, the Pride of Britain Awards and OK! magazine (whichever of those venerable institutions has such an award), I decided to do two things.
1.) Take Piglet to Time for Rhymes at the local children's centre, and
2.) Stand up for mothers everywhere-and the disabled and mobility challenged-by taking both Chiltern Rail and London Underground to task for failing to provide a place to swipe one's oyster card at the step-free entrance at my local station, which for reasons of protecting the guilty, shall remain nameless (Wembley Stadium).
Neither of these were entirely successful.
Time for Rhymes was actually brilliant. I loved the songs and toys (tambourines! Drums! Every bit of the percussion section at the back of the hall that we weren't allowed to touch when I was at infants' school!) more than Piglet, who mostly just sat on my lap staring into space while other, bigger babies toddled up and tried to poke him and their parents cooed "ooh, look at that tiny baby! I'd forgotten how small they were!" I also liked the fact that the staff were so nice and informative. And then, upon lifting Piglet from my lap as I told a member of staff that I thought he needed changing and asked where the baby change facilities were, I discovered that not only did he need changing, but I did too, as the poo had seeped right through his nappy, covering the stylish dungarees (very Prince George) that I had lovingly dressed him in that morning, thinking that such an occasion merited proper big-boy clothes, rather than the usual daily babygro, and the stylish dress that I had lovingly clothed myself in, thinking that I was going to be a trendy yummy mummy and the envy of all the other mothers at Time for Rhymes, rather than my usual daytime uniform of milk-stained pyjamas.
"This doesn't usually happen!" I squealed at the member of staff, terrified that she was going to think I was an unfit mother and ignoramus who couldn't put a nappy on properly. I then spent ten minutes running back and forth to the pram, which had been left in the buggy park outside (thankfully hadn't been stolen. The amount of time I spend worrying that the pram will be stolen is ridiculous. I love that Bugaboo almost as much as the baby) fetching the spare babygro and nappy bags, and dealing with a screaming, poo-covered Piglet. Sadly, although I had the facilities to clean the baby, my organisation did not stretch to cleaning myself, and I spent the remainder of Time for Rhymes, and the not-inconsiderable journey home, with three huge poo stains on the front of my dress.
Could have been worse I suppose. At least it wasn't the back.
My second fail of the day came when I ventured into Central London (always a test of endurance) to meet a friend and fellow mother (look at me, drinking coffees in Regent's Park with my fellow mothers and talking about motherhood!). I had decided to take the train rather than the tube, as the nearest tube station to where I was going (Baker Street) was not step-free, and being a caring, sharing sort, I didn't want to lumber the great British public-who already largely despise me for procreating if the number of people who moved seats to get away from a squawking Piglet and I on the Jubilee Line yesterday is anything to go by-with the headache of feeling obliged to assist me on the stairs with a lumbering pushchair.
This would be fine if it were not for the fact that the train station in question (Wembley Stadium) has no oyster card reader at the step-free entrance which, I might add, is some distance away from the main entrance with the card readers. This led to a particularly fraught journey with a screaming Piglet last week when I had to walk all the way around from the step-free exit to the main exit just to swipe my oyster card to avoid being charged a million pounds. Thanks Transport for London. Thanks a bunch.
I'd just like to take a moment to point out to my fellow Londoners here that if Transport for London do cut the vast numbers of jobs they've been threatening, other stations will go the way of the wretched Wembley Stadium, as being an unmanned station there is a) never anybody there who can help you with anything and b) nobody at any other stations ever understands why you were unable to swipe your oyster card/purchase a ticket as they just assume it's a normal station, with a kiosk and turnstiles and everything, instead of just a random unmanned and un-gated platform which happens to have a few trains stop there occasionally, and have a go at you and imply you are a moron for being unable to see where to swipe oyster card/purchase ticket despite the fact the ticket machine is not working and there is nowhere to swipe oyster card. Angry point made. I shall continue.
Anyway, last time I used this station I had to leave Piglet with a random middle aged woman (risk assessed as being of the demographic least likely to kidnap Piglet or allow him to have some terrible accident in my absence) so that I could run up a huge flight of stairs to swipe my oyster card. Today, however, the only other people at the station were middle aged men, which I considered a less favourable demographic and so decided to press the little button on the platform for information. This led to a long conversation where it took ten minutes to explain what the exact issue was and then the man on the other end of the line had to go and speak to his supervisor to see if he could find out if anyone knew if there was somewhere to swipe the oyster card that did not involve walking up a flight of stairs. At that point, the train came.
I then had to explain to someone at Marylebone why I had not swiped said oyster card, which met with the inspired response "you need to swipe your oyster card. Now you're going to be charged loads when you swipe your card here", although he did at least let me through the barrier, saying I should speak to someone in the tube station about it as oyster card readers were Transport for London's business and not theirs. I then went to the tube station to explain the situation and to politely request that they install a card reader at the step-free entrance at Wembley Stadium, only to be told again that I should have swiped my oyster card, despite the fact that I'd already explained multiple times why I was unable to do this, and that this was Chiltern Rail's problem and not theirs (why was the rail service ever privatised? WHY? Not only this, but the logo was much better in the old days) When I explained that I had already spoken to Chiltern Rail and been told to speak to London Underground as they are the ones with the oyster card readers, I was accused of being, and I quote, "ignorant."
On the way home, I was still so angry that I couldn't face Marylebone or Wembley Stadium or the whole situation, and got on the tube at Baker Street instead-the station I had been trying to avoid due to its many steps. I was immediately asked by a middle aged woman who reminisced about when she used to have a double buggy and couldn't go anywhere if I needed assistance with the pram. Moral of the story: middle aged women rule. Men who work at stations do not.
To celebrate this irrefutable evidence that I am now an uber-mother, and should definitely be crowned Mother of the Year by Mumsnet, the Pride of Britain Awards and OK! magazine (whichever of those venerable institutions has such an award), I decided to do two things.
1.) Take Piglet to Time for Rhymes at the local children's centre, and
2.) Stand up for mothers everywhere-and the disabled and mobility challenged-by taking both Chiltern Rail and London Underground to task for failing to provide a place to swipe one's oyster card at the step-free entrance at my local station, which for reasons of protecting the guilty, shall remain nameless (Wembley Stadium).
Neither of these were entirely successful.
Time for Rhymes was actually brilliant. I loved the songs and toys (tambourines! Drums! Every bit of the percussion section at the back of the hall that we weren't allowed to touch when I was at infants' school!) more than Piglet, who mostly just sat on my lap staring into space while other, bigger babies toddled up and tried to poke him and their parents cooed "ooh, look at that tiny baby! I'd forgotten how small they were!" I also liked the fact that the staff were so nice and informative. And then, upon lifting Piglet from my lap as I told a member of staff that I thought he needed changing and asked where the baby change facilities were, I discovered that not only did he need changing, but I did too, as the poo had seeped right through his nappy, covering the stylish dungarees (very Prince George) that I had lovingly dressed him in that morning, thinking that such an occasion merited proper big-boy clothes, rather than the usual daily babygro, and the stylish dress that I had lovingly clothed myself in, thinking that I was going to be a trendy yummy mummy and the envy of all the other mothers at Time for Rhymes, rather than my usual daytime uniform of milk-stained pyjamas.
"This doesn't usually happen!" I squealed at the member of staff, terrified that she was going to think I was an unfit mother and ignoramus who couldn't put a nappy on properly. I then spent ten minutes running back and forth to the pram, which had been left in the buggy park outside (thankfully hadn't been stolen. The amount of time I spend worrying that the pram will be stolen is ridiculous. I love that Bugaboo almost as much as the baby) fetching the spare babygro and nappy bags, and dealing with a screaming, poo-covered Piglet. Sadly, although I had the facilities to clean the baby, my organisation did not stretch to cleaning myself, and I spent the remainder of Time for Rhymes, and the not-inconsiderable journey home, with three huge poo stains on the front of my dress.
Could have been worse I suppose. At least it wasn't the back.
My second fail of the day came when I ventured into Central London (always a test of endurance) to meet a friend and fellow mother (look at me, drinking coffees in Regent's Park with my fellow mothers and talking about motherhood!). I had decided to take the train rather than the tube, as the nearest tube station to where I was going (Baker Street) was not step-free, and being a caring, sharing sort, I didn't want to lumber the great British public-who already largely despise me for procreating if the number of people who moved seats to get away from a squawking Piglet and I on the Jubilee Line yesterday is anything to go by-with the headache of feeling obliged to assist me on the stairs with a lumbering pushchair.
This would be fine if it were not for the fact that the train station in question (Wembley Stadium) has no oyster card reader at the step-free entrance which, I might add, is some distance away from the main entrance with the card readers. This led to a particularly fraught journey with a screaming Piglet last week when I had to walk all the way around from the step-free exit to the main exit just to swipe my oyster card to avoid being charged a million pounds. Thanks Transport for London. Thanks a bunch.
I'd just like to take a moment to point out to my fellow Londoners here that if Transport for London do cut the vast numbers of jobs they've been threatening, other stations will go the way of the wretched Wembley Stadium, as being an unmanned station there is a) never anybody there who can help you with anything and b) nobody at any other stations ever understands why you were unable to swipe your oyster card/purchase a ticket as they just assume it's a normal station, with a kiosk and turnstiles and everything, instead of just a random unmanned and un-gated platform which happens to have a few trains stop there occasionally, and have a go at you and imply you are a moron for being unable to see where to swipe oyster card/purchase ticket despite the fact the ticket machine is not working and there is nowhere to swipe oyster card. Angry point made. I shall continue.
Anyway, last time I used this station I had to leave Piglet with a random middle aged woman (risk assessed as being of the demographic least likely to kidnap Piglet or allow him to have some terrible accident in my absence) so that I could run up a huge flight of stairs to swipe my oyster card. Today, however, the only other people at the station were middle aged men, which I considered a less favourable demographic and so decided to press the little button on the platform for information. This led to a long conversation where it took ten minutes to explain what the exact issue was and then the man on the other end of the line had to go and speak to his supervisor to see if he could find out if anyone knew if there was somewhere to swipe the oyster card that did not involve walking up a flight of stairs. At that point, the train came.
I then had to explain to someone at Marylebone why I had not swiped said oyster card, which met with the inspired response "you need to swipe your oyster card. Now you're going to be charged loads when you swipe your card here", although he did at least let me through the barrier, saying I should speak to someone in the tube station about it as oyster card readers were Transport for London's business and not theirs. I then went to the tube station to explain the situation and to politely request that they install a card reader at the step-free entrance at Wembley Stadium, only to be told again that I should have swiped my oyster card, despite the fact that I'd already explained multiple times why I was unable to do this, and that this was Chiltern Rail's problem and not theirs (why was the rail service ever privatised? WHY? Not only this, but the logo was much better in the old days) When I explained that I had already spoken to Chiltern Rail and been told to speak to London Underground as they are the ones with the oyster card readers, I was accused of being, and I quote, "ignorant."
On the way home, I was still so angry that I couldn't face Marylebone or Wembley Stadium or the whole situation, and got on the tube at Baker Street instead-the station I had been trying to avoid due to its many steps. I was immediately asked by a middle aged woman who reminisced about when she used to have a double buggy and couldn't go anywhere if I needed assistance with the pram. Moral of the story: middle aged women rule. Men who work at stations do not.
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