These days there seem to be many names for the humble perambulator, whether it be push chair, buggy, stroller or pram. One term that I wouldn’t personally associate with the humble baby carriage is ‘Cow Catcher’. This however appears to be the preferred modus operandi of far too many delightful young mothers I come across. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure this is speciality of that particular breed of “shell suit donned, chavy teen baby factory benefit junky”™ which litter – both literally and figuratively – this town, rather than the preferred method of most parents.

It’s good to know that I’m not the only person frustrated by the army of zombie retirees that amble around the place on market day. I’m even a little jealous that I don’t have my own ‘snow plow’ so readily at hand, allowing me to forge ahead, leaving a trail of blue rinse, tartan and Werther’s Originals in my wake. But whilst modern prams tend to be over-engineered behemoths, costing more than the GDP of a small African nation and being roughly as manoeuvrable as a WWII Sherman tank. Designed for ploughing through traffic, they are not. So why, pray tell, do these mothers insist on pushing the thing out into traffic, like they’re the local lollipop lady with her stop sign and it’s their god given right of way?

That’s your child, you moron. Think of the benefits you’d lose for cripesake.

*grumble*, *grumble*