Now, let’s get something straight: I have a rubbish car.
It’s got old carpet instead of car mats, is more than ten years old and doesn’t go very fast. It’s the kind of car you park at the other end of the car park just so no one can see you get out of it.
But I don’t care. In fact, I’ve always been perversely proud of my little banger. It’s served me well (kind of) and has been pretty dependable. I like the fact it hardly costs me anything to run and is so small I can park it almost anywhere.
I’ve never understood the snobbery that comes with owning a certain type of car and have always pitied others who make judgments about people with rubbish cars like mine. Surely a car just needs to get you from A to B safely?
Aren’t I an enlightened person? A car socialist, if you will. I don’t make assumptions about people based on their material possessions. Oh no, not me.
Except for buggies.
Shoot me now. I’ve become one of them. A fully fledged member of the Buggy Snob Brigade. And I have no idea how or when this happened.
It first occurred to me on my way to a real life meeting with Northern Mummy with Southern Children. As she lives just down the road, we’d agreed to meet up for a cup of tea. Much to the trepidation of NLM, who thought she may either be a pervy old man or a swinger (yep, I have no idea), I merrily set off.
And then the fear set in.
Frog’s recently grown out of her old car seat, you see. Meaning we can’t use the big buggy for the car anymore, because the new car seat won’t clip into it. Gone is the flash, handle-adjusting, reclining, four-wheel drive fancy pants Mama’s & Papa’s buggy. In its place is a fold-up freebie kindly donated to us by our next door neighbours. And it’s not fancy at all.
Don’t get me wrong, it does the job. It’s convenient and easy to fold away. It doesn’t require a PHD in Buggy Handling to maneuver. But it’s oh so plain.
I never thought I would be one of these people. The type to worry about what others thought of me because of the type of
car buggy I’m driving. I thought I was better than that.
As I was walking to my rendezvous point with Northern Mum I started to wonder if she’d judge me poorly for my plain buggy. Should I explain my “proper” buggy’s at home, resting it’s huge fancy wheels and adjusting handle-bars? Is she going to mistakenly assume I don’t belong to the Buggy Elite? Will she have turned up in the Porsche of the buggy world, the Bugaboo. Or even worse, the Quinny. Should I park my buggy round the corner and simply carry Frog, to save all embarrassment?
I needn’t have worried. On leaving the café, I looked around for Northern Mum’s buggy. It was nowhere to be seen. “Oh I don’t bother with the buggy most of the time” she said. “I prefer to use the sling”.