Something that I have heard plenty of times in my year here, "I wasn't scared of strollers before I moved to England" Now, before you ask - no, I do not now call them strollers. I have a friend of the Canuck variety (is Canuck racist for me to say? Seriously, I'm asking. Is it as offensive to call a Canadian a Canuck as it is to call an American a Yank?)
So my friend has on many an occassion when we have just, barely, escaped death by pramchair, and said, "I wasn't scared of strollers before I moved to England."
I can't remember prams being a death-wielding vehicle back home. This is not to say that they aren't - maybe the Australian variety of death-pram are hidden from view much better in Australia. We are much better at hiding our dirty little secrets - no red tops you see. We don't do scandal like the Brits do. They might say, 'chin chin' and pretend to have perfect manners, but inside their wee little heads they are screaming out for a good gossip. I guess it's why they drink so much tea. "Oh, Mrs Jones, would you like some *ahem* tea?" "Oh, yes Mrs Allen, I would love some *ahem* tea."
See what I did there? I used the word tea as code for gossip. Clever me, I really do deserve the G&T label.
Anyhoo... Again, I've completely veered off track. I guess that's what happens when you mark 30 books with less than 5 pages of the required writing in them. You go well mental.
So, where was I? Ah, yes, death-prams. These are prams wielded by both low socio-economic and high-socioeconomic mothers. They are wielded by both the teen mother and the mid 30s mother. They are wielded by both smoking and non-smoking mothers. They are wielded by both those mothers in tracksuits and those mothers in suits.
These are the prams that seem to be going into the exact space you were walking in. The prams that force you out into the middle of the road, because they couldn't just wait. These are the prams that walk into the backs of your legs while you are standing in line... or walking along minding your own business. These are the prams that are more unwieldy than those supermarket trollies (sp that doesn't look right, even though I followed the English rules. No, no more tangents this post!) with the incredibly dodgy wheels.
And these prams are always followed by mothers (and fathers. I understand that death-prams are directed by people of both genders) with extremely death-like glares. How dare you walk on the sidewalk? You want to go through that door? Well, you can hold the door open even though you got there first, 'cause I'm going through. You've got to let me - I reproduced!
Now, a deep and sincere apology for those parents, brothers, sisters, grandparents, uncles and aunts and friends who can and regulary do have control of their prams and don't turn them into death-machines. But man, I'm scared of prams now.