Moving to The Suburbs
When we first found out that we were expecting Deep Thinker, of course, we did what any panicked, self respecting people did: Moved from a lovely bohemian area close to the city centre, where the people were normal, to a ridiculously overpriced pile of bricks in the suburbs, where the people are so far up their own arses, they surely must all be walking around with perforated rectums. All in the name of giving Deep Thinker a good school to go to. At the time I was delighted. We literally could just about afford the house by the most fragile, threadbare skin of our teeth, but we got there, and I was proud of our new postcode. I would’ve sold my body to a pregnant woman fetishist if I’d had to, that’s how determined I was to scrape the money together. Luckily it didn’t come to that, the mortgage company actually agreed to give us a little more, but meeting pregnant woman fetishists would’ve been really interesting. In fact, it could’ve been a whole new blog… If I have another baby, I’ll see what my husband thinks and maybe get on to that one!
However, as with most panic buys, and hormone induced decisions, we have since learnt that we don’t fit in up in the ‘burbs, (or Nappy Valley, as my friend referred to our new address as.) The old people in our area, are absolutely the worst offerings in elderly people, society has to offer. They are a bunch of rude, entitled mean bastards, and I will one day write a post on ‘things the elderly people of ********** have said and done to me which have caused me to burst into instant tears (and induce fear of leaving the house that is becoming a real problem.)’ They have no time for babies, children, or any associated noise or paraphernalia that comes with them. Of course, that means any time my children have been making any kind of noise in a shop/coffee shop, I have been severely reprimanded, and my double buggy is an endless source of huffing and puffing for them, as it clearly takes up too much space in what they seem to wish was totally child free territory, just for them and their dogs (who shit flippin everywhere I’d like to add.) I once got so upset after an incident involving one of them, that I wanted to send a petition to the government asking for a cull of all people in our area over the age of 65. But I’m not really a genocidal maniac, so moving somewhere else should really suffice I suppose.
The other mummies in the park are also slightly terrifying. There is a huddle of them in our local park, who have really bought into the stereotype of the Yummy Mummy. It took me a while to realise that they all had identikit features, such as highlighted, immaculate hair. They tend to favour Barbour and North Face (not sure if that’s all affluent mummies, or just my local ones?) and most seem to have dodged the baby weight curse, and sport aviators. I’ve also witnessed the school run in the BMW beast car type thing that seems to be the car of choice. Often, if a mum is walking up to the park gates, I will know she is headed to their group, by the way she is dressed. I have tried to make polite conversation, but always been rebuffed. They knew I was different. They knew I shouldn’t really be a resident in our area. It was the head to toe Primark clothing, and scraped back (sadly unhighlighted) hair scraped back in a messy bun that did it. They saw me and thought ‘this is a local park, for true local people. There’s no room for you and your stretch marks here.’ I will add however, that I have met some great people in that park, and had proper belly laughs, but most of them weren’t indigenous to the area.
Now to the schools, which is of course, the reason we are here… Yes, they get the best Ofsted reports, yada yada, but I don’t think my children will fit in there. The secondary school is right next to the park that we frequent far too often, and if I happen to be there at school kicking out time, the kids all come into the park. They come in, with their blazers and middle class accents, get out their phones and ipads, and start instagramming pictures of themselves making dicks of themselves on the toddler swings. I know that type of behaviour isn’t exclusive to posh kids, but again, it’s their presentation which gives the game away. Even without the blazers you’d know which school they came from. I’m already panicking that either Deep Thinker and Mini Assassin will be social outcasts, for not being posh enough, or horror of horrors, they might turn out like them. I’m not sure which is worse. And surely, if children go to a slightly poor performing school, they are going to be intelligent, they should still do well? (Although they were both bottle fed, so doesn’t that mean they will turn out thick as shit?!) Just making myself chuckle there, in relation to my last post! http://thismumslife.com/?p=13
So, moving to the suburbs is not all it’s cracked up to be! I miss my old stomping ground, and go back there at every opportunity. The charity shops sell normally priced things there (I found a coat I liked in our new local charity shop, and it was £100-I kid you not!) The people are kind, and the children speak with the local dialect! The bars and restaurants are normally priced and uber cool, not like our new generically decorated overpriced local stuff! Maybe I’m overthinking the school situation, but as a constant anxious worrier, I can’t stop thinking about it. And I can’t stop hearing the city centre calling me back to where I belong…..
Thanks for reading!
Moving to The Suburbs