So here I am writing this at the yoga studio, while Dr T and Kitty do whatever it is mums and babies do at Mums and Babies Yoga upstairs. So far it sounds like they gurgle and gossip, although it’s hard to tell which is the mums and which the babies amidst the mellow hubbub drifting down to me.
Not that I’m mellow, because I’m fenced in by a silent guard of GIANT BASTARD STROLLERS. Look at the size of a baby. Then look at the size of these things. They have the grace, subtlety and turning circle of tanks and are about as easy to put in your car. And now they’re watching me in steady, coolly malevolent silence. It’s like being kept company by HAL, if he were fitted with an isofix base.
Which makes me wonder if these things have a plan. You need only spend about nine and a half seconds with one to understand that there is no earthly reason for them to be this big, unless we were somehow using them to confer status, and we wouldn’t do that, would we? That would be like making needlessly big cars in order to project a hefty sense of self worth into the world. Madness.
Even if there was something as horrifyingly shallow as self-validation to strollers (ours has lovely chunky tyres and a red seat, BTW), this wouldn’t explain their basic impracticality. They disguise themselves as useful with enabling terms such as ‘system’, ‘interchangeable’ and ‘collapsible’, but what they really want is to snap your wrists, or your will, or both, which they can do in seconds. Plus, they come to us via advertising campaigns so truly monstrous in their emotional manipulations (I saw one sunlit stroller billboard with the loathsome tagline ‘Perfect Family,’ making it clear that to choose a different option was to effectively admit you intend to punt your firstborn into a lake) that they can only, surely, be agents of a dark power sent here to destroy us.
They’re doing it through psychological warfare. Consider any parenting situation involving leaving the house. Shall we go to the coffee shop? Or the supermarket? It’ll be OK, we can put baby in the stroller and use the hammock underneath for storage. Except that will render it non-collapsible, heavy and awaken its innate desire to crash headlong into things. The certain knowledge that – even if you put it together without succumbing to the seductive longing for death as you wrestle with the grey buttons for the sixty-third attempt – your trip will be accompanied by an uncooperative leviathan that will be difficult to park and impossible to leave anywhere (it’s bad enough with just the baby) fills you with a kind of creeping existential dread until you drift into silence, staring at the front door, unable to go outside.
Should you make it across the threshold, they infect the driver with a false sense of virtue and self-importance. I find myself swooshing along the pavement with the Imperial March playing in my head, almost daring people to get in my way so I can toss out a vituperative ‘EXCUSE ME’ as the cattle-ram-like front of the Quinny Destructor (or whatever the hell it’s called) nerfs them into the traffic. Jesus, I wonder, is this what driving an Audi is like? It’s exhausting. I lost hours last week in a battle of wills with another stroller-driving dad coming the other way on the pavement, butting into each other like mountain goats.
Mentally weakened, the next stage is to physically chasten us. Think you’re strong? Able? Effective? Now lift this seat off the base of your Cruz Apocalypto. What’s the matter? Can’t press a few buttons and defy your own centre of gravity, you maggot? GET DOWN AND GIVE ME FIFTY.
Oh, sure, they’re safe, stable, secure. They said that about the banks. But alone in a room with twenty of them it’s clear: these are our overlords-in-waiting. They’re on a slow, silent mission to subjugate us. Lots of them have three wheels now and, well, you remember how splendidly the tripods worked out for humanity, right? Slowly, surely, they’re drawing their plans against us, one despairingly full car boot at a time.