Dinky Parasol

I have bought Harry a new lightweight pushchair today, in place of the behemoth John picked out when I was 32 weeks pregnant.


It was the one baby-purchase that I forced myself to delegate and include him over; I nearly regretted it when the girls in Mothercare were all peering nervously around the display stands whilst he advanced down the rows of Bugaboos, Quinnys, Phil & Teds, Gracos, Maclarens, Chiccos and Brittaxes, testing them all to near-destruction. He sneered at the flimsy builds; apparently none of them were up to farm specification. Quel surprise. He eventually picked the heaviest, so I am further destroying my beleaguered back (if you’re lucky I may tell you one day all about the epidural that went horribly Pete Tong) lifting this mastodonic contraption into my boot several times a day. Plus the rotten bastard thing took the skin off my thumb when I forced it into submission yesterday. So, I popped out and came back with a 6kg featherweight. Hairy hubby took one aghast look and reminded me vehemently that we have a boy baby. Furthermore, he himself will not be seen dead with ‘The Camp Mobile’, apparently.

I think it’s rather nifty, n’est-ce pas?

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