Buses

PostingBack on the buses

When I was a childless Londoner I used to sneer at  bureaucrats who wanted to take our beloved  Routemaster buses off the streets. Those open platforms. Too dangerous, they said. Dangerous? Hardly, I would think, hanging off the edge of the 19 as we travelled along the King's Road, a barrage of rain, wind and grime blowing in my face.

150pxRootmasterCafe2_Small.jpgToday whenever I see a Routemaster (the one pictured left has been turned into a cafe) it reminds me of a vanished era of first jobs, flatsharing, overdrafts, friendships and early love affairs, of a time when I was unafraid of life. Of my first, often bungled steps towards becoming a grown-up. Standing on the open platforms, holding on with one hand, I felt, well, I felt free. Almost as free as the occasional bedraggled pigeon that used to fly on board  to join us. Arriving in London from provincial 1980s Edinburgh, there was a thrill to standing on the open platforms, careering through the streets of the metropolis. Able to hop on and off at will. No need to wait for officialdom to release us at a bus stop.

They phased out the final Routemasters a few months after I got married, left London for good and became pregnant. It was Ken Livingstone who got rid of them. The same Ken who once said, "Only a dehumanised moron would get rid of the Routemaster".

This weekend my husband Va-vay was in London and brought back a wooden Routemaster bus (No 43 to London Bridge) for Beanie. To her father's dismay, she was more interested in the body lotion he brought back for me, discarding the bus after a cursory inspection and spending half an hour annointing her cheeks and arms with jasmine and ylang ylang cream. As well as her eyes, mouth, hair and tongue. She gave me a pitying smile when I pointed out to her that her two-year-old skin didn't require hydrating. The same way I ignored my mother when she told me I didn't need full make-up, aged 13.

As for me, all I could think of as I looked at the bus was how hard it would be get a buggy on board one of them (an issue close to my heart). How frightening it would be if the buggy rolled back off the bus onto the road. Whether the brake would be strong enough to keep baby and buggy safe. Spiritually, you see, I have become as one with those bureaucrats.

Posted 10 March 2008 11:01 | Number of comments: 6 | Comments

Buses Edinburgh Out and about

PostingDon't let the baby drive the bus

250pxLothianBusesNumber25_Small.jpg When I posted about my parking nightmare a couple of weeks ago some bright spark said in the comments thread I had no 'need' to drive, since I am lucky enough to live in a city centre. I decided to put this to the test by leaving the car at home and taking Beanie by bus to a Tiara Party at the Children's Bookshop here in Edinburgh. I am five months pregnant at the time of this experiment.

The 23 bus pulled up a few minutes after we got to the bus stop. Unfortunately for us, it was one of the many old-fashioned buses (unlike the one pictured) still in use, with steep steps at the entrance, bisected by a large handrail. Not very buggy-friendly.

I took Beanie out of the buggy, a big three-wheeler all-terrain (while holding Beanie's tiny hand firmly in case she tried to run into the road), folded it, then looked around for help with getting the buggy onto the bus. Only the driver looked like a possible. Everyone else looked like they'd give themselves a hernia trying a stunt like that.

The driver pulled on the handbrake, got out of his cabin, grabbed hold of the pram and lifted it high enough to clear the handrail, grappled with it a few moments, twisting and turning it above his head, then dumped it down in the passageway of the bus. I thought I heard a 'tsking' sound from some quarters at the delay. I clambered up the steps behind the driver, holding Beanie, (nearly two) thinking of my first pregnancy when I followed all the rules about not lifting heavy objects.

Edinburgh buses have strict rules about not leaving buggies obstructing passageways, so I knew I needed to get the buggy into an official storage space. I wouldn't be able to do this while holding Beanie. I shouldn't really have been doing it at all, being pregnant, but didn't feel I had much choice (getting off the bus wasn't much of an option by then). So I gave Beanie to the driver to hold. He looked a bit put out. "It's 20 years since I've looked after a wee one," he said. "I'm sure it'll all come back to you," I said sweetly. Then I turned to the buggy. It looked very big there on the floor. "Please don't move off yet," I called to the driver, who was sitting in his cabin with Beanie, as I was frightened of falling over if he moved away suddenly while I wasn't holding a handrail. Beanie looked delighted, like she might have a chance to drive the bus. She was pushing at buttons and levers with great enthusiasm.

I accosted a young schoolboy and asked him to help me with the buggy. Motherhood has made me so bosssy. He did as requested. Then I turned back to retrieve Beanie. To my horror, the bus driver's arms were empty. A woman passenger said: "Don't worry, dear, she's right here." I picked up Beanie from her, gave Beanie a kiss, and we sat down side by side in two seats that an old lady vacated for us, tottering down the passageway so we could sit down more easily.

The Tiara Party was worth every moment of hassle. Author Vivian French entertained a crowd of little girls with stories of the school for princesses. Even though Beanie was easily the youngest there, Vivian French and bookshop owner Vanessa Robertson (you can read her blog here) made a big fuss of her and welcomed us both. The girls made their own tiaras with a glorious array of stickers, colouring pens and glitter and invented princess stories with help from Vivian. It was a great success. Other author events coming up at the bookshop include children's author Cathy Cassidy, (tomorrow, 4 March at 5pm, some tickets still available). Beanie and I plan to be regulars at as many of them as possible. That said, transport-wise we chickened out and took a taxi home. Some battles are just not worth fighting.

Posted 03 March 2008 11:55 | Number of comments: 10 | Comments

Buses

PostingSomething in the air

One of the worst things about being an 'older' mum is the humiliation of being disabused of this fantasy that I am competent at the business of life. Having a daughter at the age of 38 has pushed me in new and uncomfortable directions. Take driving, for example. Before Beanie arrived I didn't drive. I never needed a car and I never much fancied having one. It didn't matter that I was a bad driver.

Now I need wheels to ferry Beanie around town. The problem is that I am still rubbish at driving. Actually, no, that's unfair, I'm being too hard on myself. I'm a reasonably good driver, though a bit slow. It's parking that's the problem. On the way home the other day I attempted to find a parking space in our street. No luck. So Beanie and I drove round in circles until I spied a small space in a lane next to a large stone wall. I tried and tried and tried and tried and tried and tried to park. Into reverse. Cue grinding of machinery. Back into first. Edge forward a few inches. Grind the gear back back down into reverse. And so on. The air stank of some vile mechanical malfunction.

As I craned my neck back to see where I was reversing I met Beanie's alarmed gaze. "Don't worry, Beanie, Mummy knows what she's doing," I lied. She wasn't fooled. I wedged the car so close to the wall the wing mirror was brushing against lichen and stone. I could feel the sweat trickling down my arms. Then a man appeared at my window. He seemed like a good guy, so I wound down the window. "Are you okay?" he asked. "Can I help?" You know that way when you've been holding tears at bay and a moment of unexpected kindness makes them flood out? Well, I started to cry. "I can't do this," I said. "Are you trying to park or to get out?" he asked. "To park," I snuffled, as I noticed for the first time a group of people standing around watching my parking, looks of concern on their faces. I was half in and half out but couldn't move either way. "That's my car behind you," he said, and I thought, "Oh my God, I really hope I haven't scratched it." He must have seen the look on my face because he said: "No, don't worry, it's fine. Would you like me to move my car? Would that make it easier?" So he moved his car, but somehow by then I'd lost all confidence so I still couldn't park. Then the man said: "Would you like me to park your car for you?" And I said "Yes, please. Would you mind? Thank you". As he got in the car it crossed my mind this might be some ploy to steal Beanie from me and I said: "You won't drive off with my daughter, will you?" He said: "Oh my goodness, I hadn't realised you had a baby in the back." But he came across as a nice, trustworthy chap, and the onlookers appeared to know him, so I decided it was okay to let him park the car.

I got out and chatted to a couple of other people who'd come out of their houses. In different circumstances it would have been quite nice to meet the neighbours, but my legs were still shaky and I felt at a bit of a disadvantage after the fiasco they'd just witnessed. "Quite a smell of clutch fluid, isn't there?" said one, conversationally. "Is the clutch slipping?" I wouldn't even have known that was the smell and didn't know what he meant by 'clutch slipping' but nodded and rolled my eyes. I haven't felt that helpless and girly since I was a teenager. Beanie looked completely unpeturbed in her throne in the back as the neighbour reversed out with her. She looked less hassled with him than when I was trying to park, in fact. And the job was done in a couple of minutes. The next day, though, when I went back to check on the car there was still a smell of clutch fluid in the air.

Posted 19 February 2008 16:36 | Number of comments: 30 | Comments

Angst Car Daughter Home Older mother Buses