Enough navel-gazing for now. Let’s get back to some good old fashioned silliness shall we.
Despite the literary allusion (can it be literary if abstracted from an aural medium I wonder—perhaps it should be “broadcasterary allusion”—or perhaps not….) my own version of Ambridge is in fact far from the rural idyll broadcast daily by Auntie for our listening pleasure. Dormitory Town sub-urban is more the thing if I’m honest. The strange thing is, this does not appear to have impinged on the Mums and Dads of the latest generation of tiny Borcestrians.
There’s been a “bit of a cough” doing the rounds in these parts lately. The sort of cough that leaves tinies choking, gasping, purple and cross. And it’s going on for days on end. Unsurprisingly Mums and a few Dads (you know they’re worried when a sheepish looking Dad is in tow to insist that “something’s got to be done Doc”) have been thronging the waiting room with their wheezing, hacking, retching, puce offspring. The good news is that despite the graphic presentations most are just suffering with the aforementioned “bit of a cough” and some reassurance and symptomatic treatment will pull them through just fine.
Our problem is the traffic management their attendances are occasioning. It seems babies these days are much too precious and fragile to be brought the full fifty yards from car park to consulting room in anything smaller or more dainty than a Sherman tank. Buggies have clearly come on a long way in the umpteen years since the Jests were in the market for one. Gone are the teetering gossamer constructs of yore with their two inch diameter Lego wheels and all the stability and traction of an inebriate hippo on ice.
Nowadays we get mammoth constructs with wheels bigger than a mountain bike, sporting off road tyres, brush cutters and bull bars. The tiny occupants are strapped in tight enough for Saturn V style take-off and re-entry. I’m sure the ones imported by our own share of the Polish Diaspora are in fact just T72s with the turrets removed a few teddy bear stickers applied for that homely touch. More than once I’ve found myself having to strenuously resist the urge to duck and cover as one of these monsters fills the doorframe of the consulting room.
Does anyone have the number for M. Maginot I wonder?
*Hob nob on offer for the correct next line.