The hypnobirthing craze continues.
I have just purchased a set of five hypnobirthing classes. They are in Hounslow, which is not the best location, but pretty much all the classes I could find were based in the so-called “Nappy Valley” area of South West London which stretches roughly from Herne Hill to somewhere just short of Kingston, and the one in Hounslow was the closest I could find to a normal-read, “dreary”-place. And even that had to boast about its close proximity to Twickenham.
I fully expect the class to be full of middle class marrieds and I shall be cast out like a hopeless singleton. Or worse, given pitying looks by smug marrieds who think I have been tragically abandoned by the baby’s father.
I’d better start perfecting my early nineties Princess Diana tragic-yet-brave wronged wife face.
Anyway, speaking of abandonment, today I was astonished-nay, flabbergasted (the very highest form of astonishment. The longer the word, the greater the shock) to be chatted up by an idiot outside Wembley Park tube station.
I could tell that he was about to start berating me for simply looking awkward and not wanting to answer his questions, rather than coming across all coy and flattered that he had deemed me worthy of being approached, as these idiots who chat up women in the street invariably seem to think we will all react, when I pulled out my trump card; “Er, I’m six months pregnant.”
I had never seen someone disappear so fast. It was AMAZING.
Admittedly this was after I’d had to endure the usual idiotic questions, which invariably start with “Where are you from?”
I really do not understand this question. I mean, what are they expecting me to say? That I just landed from the planet Zyborg 300 and are there any good bars round here?
Also, how is one supposed to answer, with a full life story outlining all the places one has ever lived? Or does one simply answer with the obvious, the obvious being “England.” I chose the latter, which for some unknown reason seemed to be a surprise, despite the fact that we were most definitely in England at the time, and I do not look remotely foreign, nor speak with an accent that could be described as in any way exotic or unusual for the location we were in.
The fool commented that he was surprised by this, as I apparently look like I am from “Australia or New Zealand.”
Meaning what, exactly? That I am white (as are roughly 90 per cent of the population of the UK, so not sure how this was such a shock)? That I look like I’ve just stepped off a surfboard on Bondi Beach? Unlikely, given that I was wearing a fur coat at the time. That I look like I’m about to throw another shrimp on the barbie? Also unlikely, given fur coat situation. In fact, having just whizzed through every stereotype of a person from the continent of Oceania, I’d say I don’t fit any of them at all. Least of all the ones that involve liking rugby, being a bit outdoorsy or wearing a hat with corks attached.
Honestly, I cannot believe that anyone seriously thinks that a) hanging around outside a tube station hoping to pull is likely to succeed or b) that “where are you from?” is a decent chat up line. Nor do I understand how these fools think that us women are going to be flattered by someone walking up to us when we are trying to get home and giving us unwanted and frankly intimidating attention on the street.
When my boy is born I think this may be the very first fact of life I need to teach him.