scary mums

I chose the worst possible time to go for a pot of mint tea in one of Crouch End's many eco-friendly, bio-sustainable, recycled-wood-bullshit-utensils cafes.

Taking two of my library books, and a pencil, I thought that the change of scene would wake me from my malaise and illicit some new ideas from my otherwise broken brain.

BUT, I went at 3pm, didn't I? What happens at 3pm in Crouch End? I'll tell you what. All the middle class mums pick up their Alonsos and Tabithas from Montessori school and swarm, en masse, to any cafe that doesn't sell food with additives. I was sandwiched between 3 buggies, 7 toddlers (I counted, it was hard because they kept running around), 2 breastfeeding mothers with enormous bags under their eyes and A LOT of bullshit.

A couple of the mums (no Dad', they were all at Moorgate or Bank getting premature heart disease) were discussing literacy, which made my ears prick up because I'm researching a project on it, one particularly obnoxious specimen, was holding court; 'yah, so, basically, you have to just read to them constantly until they're about six' (all the mothers around her nod sagely). Wow. I wonder how she came up with that nugget of vital child-rearing wisdom.

As you can imagine, I got very little done. There was one interesting episode. One tiny little boy skidded to a halt right in front of me, pointed to my head and said 'red'. I nodded and said 'yes, red'. He nodded back. Then we both resumed our activities. We had a moment, I think.

I don't ever want to have children. Or get married. Or grow up.