Granny State: When did it become normal to be rude to women with buggies?

'Watch out!” I squeal, as a woman – surely old enough to know better – steps out right in front of us. It’s 10.30am on a Wednesday morning and we’re encountering peak pavement traffic in our seaside town.

Rose and I have just emerged from the library bounce-and rhyme session feeling quite perky after our sing-song. But The Wheels on the Bus now seems rather ironic in light of a real-life collision between buggy and a stranger’s shinbone. “What do you mean, watch out?” asks the woman, curtly. “It’s my right of way. You mums think you own the street.”

I am speechless. Not just because I’ve been mistaken for a mum (again).

But because there is no hint of an apology given she could have nudged my granddaughter into the road. She rubs her ankle, insinuating that we are at fault, and says, “Go steady, will you.” Rose lets out a string of babble which might be road rage. It certainly sounds angry. 

“We mustn’t let rude people get on top of us,” I say loudly, addressing Rose as though she were an adult, as mums alone all day often do. Yet I have the company of recently retired Newish Husband back at home, though he fails to show much sympathy.

“I’ve always thought there should be a separate pram lane,” he says. “You can see why people get a bit annoyed.” As punishment, I make NH come to the supermarket with us. Rose loves riding trolleys – they both have minds of their own. “Are you sure she’s safe?’ he asks.

“I think so,” I say, trying to reassure myself. “Great. I’ll nip off to the music section then. See you at the check-out.” We weave our way down the first aisle only to find it blocked by a very young assistant, trying to unload tinned soups.

“Do you think you could move please,” we inquire, politely. He doesn’t seem to hear.

I’m taken back about 30 years to when I was commissioned by a woman’s magazine to take my then-toddler around three different supermarket chains and report on how “child-friendly” they were. The results were mixed.

“Could you please move” I snap. Still no response. “Young man,” booms a voice, “can’t you see that a mother and baby are trying to get past?”

Instantly the very young assistant pushes his wares aside. “Thank you,” I say. My rescuer tips his hat. “Not at all, my dear.”

Then he peers closely. “Don’t I know you from church? This is actually your granddaughter, isn’t it?”

Uh oh. I’ve been caught out. Not with the grannie bit but the show of temper. After stocking up on nappies, I start to head for the tills. Rose beats her little fists on the safety bar. “Quick,” she seems to say. “You might just get in first at the express queue.”

A man then nips in before us. “So much for manners,” I whisper before NH turns around and says, “Dear me, Rose. Shopping always brings out the worst in Granny, doesn’t it?”

“Nonsense,” I retort. 'It’s just that you’re as bad as the rest of them. Now can we go home?”

“Her place or ours?” he enquires. I know what he’s thinking. If he drops us off at daughter’s, he can go home and play loud music in blissful solitude.  “Ours,” I say. “You can amuse her while I cook lunch.”

I’m half-way through the sauce for the cauliflower cheese when there’s a yelp. NH comes hopping in, clutching his calf. “I fell over this,” he says, holding up a red miniature van. Rose toddles in, a grin all over her face.

“Give me that,” I say. Rose bursts into tears.

“I think,” says NH, eyeing us with equal distrust, “I ought to keep out of your way for a bit. You’re not safe.  “Either of you.”

Next time: A new member joins the Granny Mafia.