3 minutes to read

Well, I’ve been blogging for a month now which in my book makes me a pretty experienced market trader, a key stakeholder if you will. I’m joking of course – I’m still very much small fry in this world, but I’ve decided to spruce things up with a little featurette called “MelodramRant”. The idea being that I can publish short, sharp, moany little posts on a variety of subjects that have irked me at any one time. It’ll be lovely and cathartic for all, and might save me from a grey hair or two. Frequency of posts – undecided. Let’s just see how this one flies. 

The maiden voyage, then, covers pavements. Advance sorries to Southampton City Council because I’m going to slag you off when it’s actually (possibly) not your fault and all down to budgets and Brexit (both of which have a hell of a lot to answer for, frankly).

My chagrin is two-fold. First off, when Mouse was a baby I had many a grumble about the appalling state of the pavements in my neck of the woods. They were riddled with potholes, lose chippings, glass, stray bracken, lifted slabs, and the shards of a million mariner’s broken hearts. We naively purchased a travel system with rubber tyres and I almost took to carrying the footpump in my waistband like a policeman’s baton, so often was it called upon. I renounced puncture repair kits “a load of effing shite” on several occasions as I hovered over a kitchen sink looking for bubbles emanating from inner tubes. I could have wept when, as we sold the pram two years later, the new owners told me about this great invention called Slime.

Moo’s era in the pram world initially had me shitting myself with glee at my new plastic wheeled dreamwagon. “This glides like Elvis Presley’s bonce down a bowling alley!” I cried to my husband. “Feel how smooth!” It certainly was a smooth ride around the shiny Mothercare floor. Not so in the great outdoors, where we clatter and judder our way around and Moo looks perpetually a bit stunned and pissed off. Solid wheels, yes, but the trade off seems to be lack of suspension. Oh, the pram game is strong, but the pavement still has the royal flush.

Secondly – pavement blockages. If you’re home, and the bin men have been, will you please fucking MOVE your bin back onto your demise so that I don’t have to walk in the road, or stop at every other house to shunt a dirty wheelie out of the way. Likewise, I know double parking can be a necessity in this densely overpopulated port, but if you have to mount the kerb please leave more than a foot of clearance so that prams, wheelchairs, and persons of a larger build can pass through. Mouse is now quite proficient in spotting and issuing travel advisory warnings relating to “baddy cars” at 50 paces (she overheard us saying ‘bloody hell’ a little too frequently but misquoted it as ‘baddy el’ which is basically fine). For my part, I’m quite proficient in muttering “dick” under my breath at empty vehicles and tutting with such force you’d think I have troublesome dentures. If only the wilful obstruction of a highway was prohibited in some sort of legislative statute…ah yes, hello Section 137 of the Highways Act 1980. Grumble grumble.


If you’d like to guest write a MelodramRant, I would very shyly and gratefully court such a collaboration, so please get in touch via the usual means (I hope I don’t get laughed out of Twittertown for thinking that anyone would want to appear alongside me). I could even act like a boss and bespoke hashtag it…oh, the possibilities!

-SJW June 2016


A Cornish Mum
Life with Baby Kicks

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