livened up the proceedings

with a picture of food.

I'm supposed to trawl the web, to read the opinion pages of news papers but I don't have a signal in the cafeteria. I can't check Twitter. I can't read anything. Tomorrow, in another day of marching to the Nursery, I'll bring my magazine, although my copy of Vanity Fair is heavy, I'm strapping my toddler, instead of using the pram.

In this day and age, it's a nightmare to drag small children across zones in London without a car. We're car-less, without a private mode of carriage, on the edge of poverty. Can't drive. Can't manoeuvre past walking distances without utilising public transport. When our child screams in the trains or buses, people look in disdain. I was trying to dig deep and remember if I was ever scornful towards buggies in buses and I reckon it's the other way around, those pram-pushing mothers behave with a sense of entitlement. That's my space, get out. From within, they scream, "I breed, therefore I am."

Being such old hag, I feel the opposite. That is why these days, if I can manage, I seldom use a buggy. Imagine tube stations without lifts? How to navigate the stairs with a stroller? Wait for a stranger to help? I find that awkward, both ways.