They were at it again this morning, which makes it every single day this week. I refer to those parents who place their small children on separate seats on the Tube next to them while grown ups, longing to sit down and read their book, have to stand and look at them. If it weren’t for the no-speech rule on London Underground, I would tell them exactly what I think of this reversal of the natural order of things and if I did, there’d probably be a nasty scene.
There was a maddening man this week who was unquestionably middle class – because, like aardvarks or yeti, we of the middle class recognise each other on sight – who had an adorable little blond son who was sitting next to him in his own seat. He could perfectly easily have sat on his father’s lap, but no, the father preferred to converse with him in comfort. He knew he was surrounded by standing adults, not least because I was fixing him with a glare that should have burnt his flesh, but he chose to ignore us all – not just me, but older women.
