The Perils of Parenthood

The trouble with early parenthood is that everyone knows better than everyone else.

The Perils of Politeness

Recently, I was told that I was the rudest person that the person doing the telling had ever met. This was somewhat of a feat, as I dare say the teller must have met a great deal of people in her lengthy lifetime, not that I would dream of saying such a thing, I am far too polite for that. The situation arose upon my evening commute home from Bury Tram Station. There are two possible outgoing trams from Bury, an Altrincham Service and a Piccadilly Service. Because Bury is the end of the line, both services go the same way for a lot of the way. Having been well practised in gauging the trams over the previous two years, I was familiar with both the best, and more often, worst case scenarios when it came to Metrolink, or Metrostink as it often was, having passed through Radcliffe. What tended to be the case, was that there would be one service departing from Bury, on average every 20 minutes, (although it was not unheard of to wait for up to an hour). Therefore, whether this service was an Altrincham Service or a Piccadilly Service, it made sense just to jump on and get going. I learnt very quickly that if you waited for one of the services in particular, then you tended to get a run of three or four of the other service in a row first. Further, as I’ve already said, both services went the same way, only taking different directions upon reaching the Market Street stop at Piccadilly Gardens in the centre of Manchester, at which point, if you were on the incorrect service for the remainder of your journey, you could hop off and walk over to a stop on the other side of Piccadilly Gardens, taking approximately 30 seconds. You would then find yourself at a tram stop from which there were trams stopping bound for your final destination from two different directions instead of only one, thus doubling the frequency of potential trams you could catch for your final leg. Alternatively, if your final leg was to Piccadilly Station and you were on the Altrincham Service, (rather than the Piccadilly Service), then the other option would simply be to walk from the Market Street stop straight up the street to Piccadilly Station, taking in the region of 2-3 minutes. Don't worry if that doesn't make sense, just keep reading - you can trust me on this. So, there I was, sat waiting onboard an Altrincham Service and bound for Cornbrook in Castlefield, Cornbrook being on the Altrincham line, there was therefore no need for me to change at Market Street or anywhere else for that matter. As we all waited for the driver to arrive and the tram to depart, the carriages were gradually filling with passengers. There were already several older ladies seated, clutching handbags within their laps, shopping around their ankles. One lady was sat a row in front of me and to the left side of the carriage, I was on the right. I noted she had sat on the outside seat leaving the window seat empty, thus ensuring that nobody could sit next to her, and all those by now standing would have to remain as such, many of whom would be jerked off balance upon us setting off, something that very few Bury Line passengers seemed to learn from. A very smart gentleman then embarked in a suit, brogues, a cashmere scarf and a beige Mac, he was pulling a small wheelie case and would not have looked out of place on the Tube, on the Bury Met however, he did. The gentleman spoke out with a view to acquiring some friendly advice from the masses, addressing everyone in the carriage; the great unwashed of the JSA generation together with its pensioners. ‘Excuse me everyone, is this the right tram to get me to Piccadilly Station?’ He enquired. It was unheard of to strike up a line of communication quite so loudly and with anyone who cared to answer from the nearest thirty or so people, not only that, but disclosing details of your journey to the few unsavoury strangers no doubt in the midst, and much less with an American accent. The carriage went silent for several seconds, nobody wanted to put their head above the parapet, to do so might draw a share of this strange man’s attention and therefore the damning opinion of the shallows of ignorance. All around were stuck fast in their ways, because to become unstuck would be to strike out for something different that may upset, offend or be jeered at by the mob, and so, all of those individuals who remained in silence to please the mob, were actually inturn those who made up the mob. For to show no character, is better than to be a character; characters are the butt of the jokes, the scape goats and the talked about, they are the roofs short of slates, better to sneer than to take the risk sheltering a stranger. Not for me though, I was from the other end of the line, and my ferocious need to be friendly and helpful flowed out with similar depth and decibels as the enquiry had. I was as out of place on that damn tram as the American man, simply forced onboard by a driving ban. ‘You are actually on an Altrincham Service, so strictly speaking, not quite the right tram, however, you are as well to stay onboard because the Piccadilly Station Service will not be through for a while yet and you’ll have to wait for it out there.’ Bury tram station is particularly ugly, set down in the bowels of some strange concrete and rusted iron monstrosity, the tracks enter up through the middle acting as a funnel for the cold winds and the rain. This is not to mention the druggies and alchs who pass through from time to time threatening, bothering and intimidating. I explained to the gentleman that, ‘once you get into the centre of Manchester you can get off at the Market Street stop and walk a few hundred metres up the street to Piccadilly Station, or, you can change for a Piccadilly Service, they’re a lot more frequent in Manchester, I’ll point you in the right direction once we get there if you like?’ Just as the American gentleman was in the process of thanking me, an angry and condescending voice piped up in attack. ‘This is not the Piccadilly Service, you’ll have to get off and wait for one, it'll say Piccadilly on the front.’ It was the lady who was sat on the row in front hogging the two seats. I explained as passively as possible that, yes it was an option to wait at Bury, but he may be waiting some time and would certainly be waiting less time once in to Manchester, he would also then have the additional option of walking the short distance straight up to Piccadilly station if he wished, but that was entirely up to him. I wanted out of what was looking very likely to become a confrontation, I cannot stand confrontations, they make me so angry, usually because I will have tried everything I possibly can to defuse or avoid them, so to then become caught up in one blows my mind and upsets me greatly. 'You’re wrong,’ said the woman. I turned to the gentleman and said calmly and quietly, ‘I really am terribly sorry about this, but I’m not wrong.’ The woman turned towards me and replied with great abruptness and vigour, ‘you are the rudest man I have ever met.’ Several minutes later the tram set off and I didn’t say another word until Market Street, when I pointed out the Piccadilly tram stop and Piccadilly Station to the American gentleman and wished him a safe onward journey, apologising again for the uncomfortable and unpleasant situation we had found ourselves in. The gentlemen gave me a smile full of empathy and tipped his hat into the night.

Nativity

If you’re not a member of the National Trust then there are a few locally known parking areas around the Lyme Park Estate where you can park up for free. One of which is around the back of the estate on the road side, just past the village of Poynton. The problem is that on a nice sunny day when a few folk have the same idea, there isn’t enough space for more than say, twelve cars. The next problem is that once you realise that there isn’t enough room, you have to continue making your way up the road until you find somewhere wide enough to turn and without a stream of traffic bearing down on you. We ended up following a small gravelly road off to the left which took us up towards a Church and further still, a farm with stables. The Church had a car park within its grounds, so we drove into the car park in order to turn around. The empty land was peppered with signs making it abundantly clear that strangers were far from welcome. Whilst Mary found reverse, an elderly lady approached my side of the car, the side nearest the Church. She could only be described as being on the rampage, I was quite astounded at her pace considering her age and build, her jowls thundering up and down, her face torn with anger right across its bridge and out to each ear. Three tiny dogs came yapping behind her. The woman was well dressed, too snooty looking to have been general dog’s body for the Parish, she was in-charge, she exuded her authority, worse still, she was a jobs worth. Somebody clearly unable to think outside of her own box, a stickler for the rules and a bureaucrat to the letter, a person without ease of access to the virtues of sense, patience, empathy and understanding. This lady was clearly void of compassion too; one only had to look at her stomping towards us in snarling distain, us being a quiet couple of whom she knew nothing, whom she had never met. She knew what we were instantly, we were exactly what she wanted us to be, and thus we were pigeon holed along with everybody else, she was as instantly judgmental as a guard dog’s instinct. As you will have gathered, was I. We would rule the day, but then so would she. ‘Okay Mary,’ I said, as if talking about the gentleness of the weather, ‘don’t look now, just pretend like this mad woman isn’t even there, find reverse and lets drive out of here without a care in the world, if you have to look in her direction, look right through her.’ We did just that, and observed the old lady’s winged arms flaying with rage in our rear view mirrors. We had left the ‘private property’ in less time than we would have done had she managed to stop us and tell us off. Clearly however, from her inflamed rage upon our exiting the empty ground, that was not what she had wanted. It would seem that the empty car park no longer belonged to God, there were others with fiercer claims, and just as those claimants pass through as tenants of their own lives, they pass over their lands, like a dog and her garden, the grounds remaining fundamentally unclaimed in longer terms. Having eventually been able to find some room further down the road, we had initially seen the funny side of the old lady’s behaviour, however, there was also some pity, and a little sorrow. Is there an excuse for the failure of a person to have grown in wisdom from a lengthy pilgrimage of experiences – abuse, loss of faculties and illness aside? Surely to do so is to have failed to take head of the lessons of a lifetime that allow us to evolve as human beings? That to me would be a waste, for there is a duty owed to thy neighbour, as well as thyself. Mary gave birth in the early hours of the next morning. *************************************************************